[ Benue, July 2022. ]

Dear Aisha,

The pale-looking girl with coffee eyes.

Even though I recall your name, I have trouble recalling your face, which is funny because my challenge lies in ever remembering names. But I recognize you in the same way that a person who has lost sight will remember objects they touched or felt yet still see in their mind’s eyes.

Little kids were rushing home on their way back from school today because the weather was gloomy and it could rain any minute. Isn't it a wonder that children are now afraid of the rain?

At Betty Queen Schools in Kabala West, when we’re just little children in primary 2 or maybe 3. We were wild creatures, too enamored with our childlike playfulness and yet to mature in grown-up knowledge. We found balance somewhere within ourselves.

It started raining and a child in a hijab accidentally bumped into me. ‘I’m Sorry Sir’ she said. I replied ‘Stay Jiggy.’

There was something similar in her eyes, as with yours, and it wasn’t the warmth or the drooling darkness of those pupils. It was the dilemma of shared misconduct, of wondering what we were doing in school. What we were brought to learn exactly? All the learning is outside. On the playfield. In the vast world.

I thought of you Aisha, as I have often done in my reverie. At the point of writing this letter, I continue to ponder where life might have put you. If maybe you ever thought about me too. Do you recall how frustrated I was when you missed school? And I was to discover you were sick from my absence in school?

It is my utmost desire that you are living the life you always wanted. The life of artistry. Wherever you are, I could never forget you.

Your friend,

‘Gbolade.