You smell like all the things my mother said.
When I first arrived in Nsukka in 2019, I was so unprepared for it. I was in a terrible place; emotionally and psychologically. I often complained to you about the cold here as it was my first time experiencing such intense cold.
I remember wanting to shave off all my hair. There's something about the human state of mind and hair. The subtle desire to express how we feel inwardly through our hairstyle.
I remember chatting with you (we were still talking then), and you asked me not to cut off all my hair. Somehow, you helped me through that phase. Days later, we fell apart. Distance had its toll.
Today, I'm having my haircut. I watch my hair fall piece by piece like worn out leaves, and I am forced to remember bits of our conversation.
One would think that as we grow older, it becomes easier to hold on to people, to understand them better, and not be quick to let go. But that's a lie.
I was learning to let go during the time we spent together. In fact, the first day we met, you caught me digging a hole the size of my past.
You asked why I had so much dirt in my hands, "I spent half my life digging graves", I replied. "I've made my heart a cemetery of emotions and memories I wish to forget.", I added. But you walked up to me, and planted a peck on the graveyard of my cheeks.
I still wonder how we stopped talking, people change perhaps. I remember you every time Nsukka is cold, and every time I let my hair grow out.
With you, I had learned to find home in everything. I would often taste the sweetness of my mother's jollof in our conversations. I hum the tune to my father's favorite song on cold evenings. And I would tell you my sister's jokes like they were mine.
One day, I looked you in the eye and said "...you smell like all the things my mother said..."
Yours,Barnabas Ekpima...✍🏼
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