Do you still bleed from old wounds?

DO YOU STILL BLEED FROM OLD WOUNDS?

Now that you're not here anymore,

all I do is recycle the happiness

and peace you gave me

It's the closest to thinking

I could ever be with you again.

Ofem Ubi

"If you're not intelligent, you must be handsome. If you're not handsome, you must have money. If you don't have any of these, forget it! No girl will look at you twice in the university...", I was in SS2 when my physics teacher made this statement in class, and I was only fourteen. I had none of the things my physics teacher listed. I was short, skinny and a face that was ridden with pimples.

I won't say I wasn't intelligent, I happened to be one of the many intelligent pupils in my class, so at the time, it really didn't count.

The only thing I had to my name was a good sense of humour and a list of two girlfriends I'd broken up with in the space of two sessions— SS1 to SS2, that actually, was the ironic part of my life.

Nothing sensual happened in both relationships. We were simply high school students at the climax of adolescence with hormones we couldn't fully understand and so every kind gesture, humble remark and unusual favours were attributed to love.

Betty, whose wedding I attended last week was my first girlfriend. Amanda was the second. It's been almost two decades since we left high school.  

Last week, someone had called for a high school reunion on the class Facebook group.

If not for the reunion, I would not be sharing a table with Amanda, my high school girlfriend and I probably wouldn't have known that she'd been in two different marriages, three serious relationships after the last divorce and seven heartbreaks in the space of all these. I honestly wonder how that is even possible, though she kept swearing to God in between her story as though by swearing she had established that everything she said was true. She lamented on how confused she was about life.

I listened as though my ears were all I had to offer. She insisted that I send her a friend request on Facebook and follow her on Instagram. Her Facebook bio was,"single and searching...", Instagram,"..single as the word implies". 

She said she was currently engaged to a certain Alhaji and I couldn't help but wonder who was really getting confused among the both of us.

Amanda kept talking about finding one's true love and in the course of our discussion, narrated how her mom found her dad, "...the purest form of true love", she said. 

"Well, I don't know what that feels like or what it means...", I replied. And truly, I had no idea. The whole "One's true love" thing is really overrated. 

My mom conceived me during her secondary school education. I can't entirely say what was true about the love my father and her shared, the pain or the shame.

After my birth, she went ahead to further her education, right up to a Bachelor's degree. I was the only child.

My conversation with Amanda veered of a bit and I got to tell her about the number of novels, poems and short stories I'd published, the ones that were nominated as bestsellers, and others I never completed. 

She then asks about my relationship status, the very question I'd been trying to avoid all evening. 

"You're all fresh and round now oh, but you're still short sha...", she chuckled, "...imagine how you were back in secondary school, omoh! The only thing wey save you then na say you been dae funny and very caring".

"Very caring?", I muttered. "Care" is something she never mentioned to me back then. 

"Ehhh! Go ahead and rub it on my face... Like say I no know", I said. 

"...you no go let me catch cruise, I never see you for how many years now. So oya talk, is there a 'she' in your life?" , Amanda winked.

"Errrm.... Well, I've not been in any relationship for the past five years since my graduation from the university...".

"You've grown cynical", she said.

"...that's a wrong use of word, Amanda. Being cynical has nothing to do with this", I retorted. 

"Oh... Mr. Writer, but you sha got my point", she said. 

"Nope. I didn't...", I lied.

I'd not given much attention to certain aspects of my life for several years, marriage is one. Mom says it's the "writing thing" that is causing the problem. 

"I understand that you love writing, but how many women do you think would settle with a man whose money is dependent on sales of books... get a job. Probably an office job, you're smart so it shouldn't be hard for you. When you eventually get married, you'll need to build something tangible, stop building on shadows...", Mom would say.

I eventually grew weary of hearing her talk about the same issue each time we spoke on phone, some days I played the "bad network" trick and ended the call abruptly. Other days, I want to feel— remorse, something strong, or anything to wake me up from the life I've been building for myself, the kind of life I sold in my novels as fiction. On such days, I let her words pierce my chest, deep enough to wet my eyes. Then I wipe the tears away slowly, knowing she will never see them. Thank her for the talk, then go ahead to promise that I'll submit the résumé at the bank by morning, the bank where Felix, my childhood friend works as manager.

I never got to submit the résumé. She knows I never will.

Truth is, I fear commitment, relationships and white collar jobs. The jobs are the worst, waking by 5a.m everyday to come home by 7pm, five days a week, four weeks a month, twelve months a year. I'd rather just go sign-up as a nutcase in an asylum. What's that Albert Einstein said about insanity, having to do the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.

"...so what do you do for a living?", Amanda's voice draws me back into reality.

"Errm... I'm a full time writer." I said.

"Okay, so what brings you money?", she asked. 

"My mother's voice is haunting me everywhere I go...", I thought to myself. 

"Writing is an actual job. It pays. My novels, they're on sale, in various bookshops."

"...okay oh", she said. 

I feel awkward every time I have to explain to non-readers how writing is an actual profession.

The party was almost coming to an end when Michael sends me a note, "I hope you've prepared a speech for the night like I'd asked you to, I'll be calling you up in few minutes..." 

I wasn't done reading the last sentence when I heard Michael's baritone voice through the speakers, "My people, lastly! Let's make welcome, Evans Etim. You all remember him, right? Some of you might not cause he doesn't have pimples on his face anymore...", the hall reverberated with laughter. 

Michael always had a way with the crowd, a skill he perfected as the social prefect in secondary school. Michael and Ukpono are the only friends that I'd stayed in touch with, even after our secondary school graduation. Michael particularly, got closer after the death of my father. My mom even regards him as a second son. He was appointed as the Master of Ceremony for this reunion. I didn't consider it offensive that he made a joke about my onetime pimples-stricken face, anything to save me from relationship conversations with Amanda.

Michael continued, "...Evans is now a renowned poet and writer in the country. Some of you already know that...".

Michael's last statement made Amanda turn her gaze from him back to me, in a way that made me feel fourteen again. I loved the attention her eyes gave me, it made my stomach burn.

Michael continued, "...he'll be doing a piece for us. So with a standing ovation, let's all welcome to the stage, Evans Etim", the crowd cheers. "...he's single too", he adds, as he hands me the mic, I could hear some girls giggle. I pinch him by the hand while getting the mic, he maintained his smile so well it wasn't obvious to the crowd that I pinched him.

As I fix the mic on its stand, I look up, and for once since I arrived the party, I realize the hall was packed full. I wonder how my mates were able to pull this off.

Friends and mates from school that were classes ahead of me and below me, my principal, a few staffs that worked during the time we schooled, my physics teacher, even married-betty was present.

I clear my throat, out of habit.

"Errm... Hi everybody!" They cheered as though they'd been waiting all evening to hear to what former "pimples boy" had to say. I continue, "...standing on all existing protocols, I'd like to acknowledge the presence of every dignitary seated in this hall. It's such an honour to be here, on this platform... So yes, the pimples are all gone", they laughed, as expected. 

"Sense of humour, checked!", I said in my mind.

From the door, I notice a familiar face being ushered in, my mom. I suddenly realize how parched my throat feels. She wasn't supposed to hear this piece.

I felt sweat trickle down my back. I can't remember when last I felt this tensed on stage. But who invited my mom? Michael.

I clear my throat, again.

"A wise man once said, if you're not intelligent, you must be handsome.

If you're not handsome, you must have money.

If you don't have any of these, forget it!

No girl will look at you twice in the university..."

Everyone in the hall burst into laughter, my physics teacher too.

 "...I'm thirty-two, and my mom says no girl would want to settle with a man who makes a living off books.

Though, my friend Michael once told me any man who knows what he's doing with his life, a girl would fall easily for him, like waterfall... He said.

Still, when I think of love; I think of a distant country surrounded by vast oceans with no boat to take me across.

The world too is an ocean of many voices, every voice rushing at you like the wind drowning you in depths of inadequacies;

reminding you that you'll always be too much and yet, never enough...

but know this, there's water on your inside.

To you, who is struggling to stay afloat, unable to swim against the tide;

Don't go chasing waterfalls, no matter how often they fall, they aren't falling because of you.

I say to you, there's an ocean on your inside.

If it takes drowning the whole of Atlantic to keep your dreams afloat.

Do it.

Let the world and every voice that comes with it know what drowning feels like too.

Thank you.

At the end of the last line, the whole hall had grown so quiet, you could drop a needle and it would echo. 

I became aware of everyone in the hall— every face, etched in my mind like a bad memory. 

My mom stared blankly at one spot on the stage even after I'd gone down. Michael had forgotten he was supposed to come up after me. 

Amanda didn't realize she had been crying until I sat back on my seat next to her and I offered her my handkerchief, laced with my favourite perfume. She pressed the handky firmly to her eyes, as though to bury a part of her life she'd dug out by accident.

"Thank you, Evans...", she muffled with her face still pressed on the kerchief, "...you're welcome, you don't have to return the kerchief", I said. 

She said nothing.

Michael led the benediction, after which a lot of people walked up to my seat, with one remark or the other about my piece. My principal said he didn't like the piece, I wasn't surprised, the man didn't have an eye for art. His outfit combination were off-coloured, like secondary school days. Right after him came my mom, she walked slowly down my table where Amanda and I sat, I thought it respectful to walk up to her while she approached but I couldn't bring myself to. 

I noticed the wrinkles on her face while she walked closer, she looked smaller.

"She's aging..." I thought to myself. She deserves a grandchild.

True love or not, my mom shared feelings with my father that were deeper than words. Deeper than love, maybe. 

She never recovered from his death. She'd slept in the hospital every night for three months while my father went through chemotherapy. 

He died on a Sunday night. 

The night of his demise, while he coughed and bled through his mouth and nose, the nurses reported that my mom stood like she'd seen a ghost, petrified at the gruesome sight. There was so much gloom hovering round her at the time of his death. My father and I share a keen physical resemblance, I had to leave to let her grief properly. 

Few months after his burial, I moved out. I knew I should have stayed.

It's been four years and the picture of my father's bleeding had never left my mother's mind. I could tell, with the way her eyes got wet each time she stared at me for so long.

I braced myself and walked up to her. "Ofonime...", only my father called me Ofonime. I felt weird, she had stopped calling me Ofonime after my father's death. 

I know she'd been thinking about him during my poem, and I suddenly felt sorry for making her remember so much. 

"Ofonime, I'm sorry for putting you under pressure... I'm... ", 

"It's okay mom, you only meant well...". 

We both went silent. 

"Come visit me by weekend, Ofonime. Is she the one?" 

"Who?" I turned to face the direction of her gaze, she was referring to Amanda. Mothers will always be mothers, I thought.

"Oh Amanda? No oh... She's just an old classmate.", I replied.

"It's fine. I love you, Ofonime. "

" I love you too, mom ". She bids me good night. I beckon on Michael to lead her to the door.

As I turned to walk back to my table, Amanda wasn't on her seat anymore. "...had she gone without at least saying goodbye?", I thought. 

As I approached the table, I noticed a white paper sticking out of the porcelain plate that was used in serving me food. It was folded in two and placed under the plate. I lifted up the plate while slowly trying to unwrap the paper. 

It was a note written by her.

"Evans, I wasn't thanking you for the handky. I was thanking you for the night, your speech, it made me feel, realize, and feel some more. I'm calling off my engagement with Alhaji.

Here's my number 08146062399, I'd love to see you again. My life is such a mess right now. If you won't want to see me again, it's fine. I won't hold it against you..."

I immediately took my seat, unlocked my phone and typed, "Hi Amanda, I got your note. I'd really love to meet you, again. Probably by weekend..."

I mailed my résumé to the bank later that night, one last favour for mom.

Felix offered me the post of a Human Resource Consultant. I didn't like the job. 

I don't like an office job. 

The previous day at work, I went to use the restroom. I glanced at the mirror only to notice the heavy eyebags glaring back at me— a reflection of how much weight I carry, just to stay afloat every single day.

After the get-together party, for several nights, I would read my reply to Amanda, and I would cry so hard, then wipe the tears away slowly, knowing she will never see the reply, she would never know how much of myself I let slip away the night I folded her note and placed it back under the porcelain without any attempt to copy out her number. 

I left it on the table, alongside several other feelings I couldn't commit to.

Alarm rings. It's 5 a.m, again.

© Barnabas Ekpima

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