The first day I saw you will stay etched in my memory.

I was wearing one of the worst dresses I owned, a voluminous, full-length Ankara gown. I had only ever worn that dress in front of my mirror the day I collected it from the seamstress before I discarded it at the bottom of my 'ghana must go.' 

That day, Mummy brought it out and forced me to wear it to church. All my protests were in vain because in less than an hour, I was wearing the said dress with a scowl on my face, standing as the congregation sang worship.

I was looking around when I caught you staring at me. I looked away quickly because I was too shy to hold eye contact. But when I looked again a few minutes later, your gaze was still on me. You managed to make me flustered, even though you sat several rows away, together with the church band. 

I wondered if you found my outfit ridiculous, if you were silently judging me. So I tried to keep you out of my head throughout the rest of the service. 

I tried and failed.

When it was time for offering and you picked up the microphone, my body erupted in goosebumps. You sang like an angel. And because you were engrossed in the praises you were singing, I had the liberty to properly look at you. You were breathtakingly handsome, and I found myself smiling a little.

Later that day as Mummy talked about the new Reverend that was posted to our church, I pretended to be interested. My attention was piqued when she mentioned that the boy who sang praises during offering was his son.

** 

The first day you spoke to me still feels like yesterday. 

We had spent every Sunday during my short holiday doing nothing but stealing glances at each other. When I got back to school, I wanted to tell all my friends about you, but I knew they would laugh at my giddiness. And I wouldn't even blame them. We hadn't even spoken a word to each other. So I only told my closest friend, Ify, mostly because I believed that she was an expert with boys. I believed she would give me tips on how to start a conversation with you, without making a complete fool of myself. 

I came back for our long holiday, determined that you would become my boyfriend by the time school resumed. I carried that determination to church the next Sunday. It was going to be the first time you saw me in a while, and I was going to start a conversation with you, so I wore my best church outfit. I even applied foundation and red lipstick. My eyes searched for you the moment I found where to sit, and when they met with your face, you were already looking at me. I smirked internally.

My victory soon turned to worry. What if you didn't like my makeup? Some guys preferred their girls bare-faced, what if you were one of those guys? What if my outfit was doing too much? Was it obvious that I was trying to impress you? My initial eagerness began to dwindle. And when I looked at you again, the rest of my resolve disappeared. You looked more stunning than the last time I saw you.

I didn't talk to you that Sunday. Or the next. I knew my time was running out. I had only five Sundays in our holiday and two had passed already.

It happened on the third Sunday. I was sitting by the church windows. Power had gone out during the sermon and you and two other boys rushed to turn on the generator. You didn't look at me when you passed my window. I knew because I was looking at you. There was a sinking feeling in my chest. Maybe you got tired of the silly glances we shot each other. Maybe you realized I wasn't that beautiful. Maybe you had seen someone else to look at.

The power had come back on and I could hear your father's voice on the microphone again. I saw the boys walk past my window again, returning to their seats. I was still nursing the pang in my chest when I heard a whisper by my ear.

"Smile," was all you said.

My lips broke into a huge grin as I watched your retreating figure.

Maybe you still liked me after all.

** 

I fell in love with you the first day we had a conversation.

You didn't talk to me on the fourth Sunday. But you looked. You always did.

The fifth Sunday was our church's First Fruit Harvest. There was a bazaar after the service. The Reverend's wife, your mother, had sent me to bring more plates from her kitchen in the parsonage. When I knocked, you opened the door and took your time to look me up and down. I fumbled over my words as I spoke, and I could see the smile you were trying to hide.

"Meet me at the children's church," you had said while I was leaving.

I hated being ordered around, but it was you. I quickly delivered the plates and snuck out to meet you. I was shy at first, but warmed up to you after a few minutes. I loved the way you spoke, I loved the deepness of your voice, I loved how you listened to me when I spoke, and I loved that we had the same opinions on most topics.

I finally began to understand what my friends would describe when they talked about their crushes and boyfriends. The butterflies in my belly, the fluttering in my chest. 

We talked for about two hours and I hadn't even realized it until my youngest brother screamed my name.

"Mummy is looking for you," he'd said and ran off. 

As I panicked and prepared to leave, you asked for my number. Embarrassed, I told you I didn't have a phone. You nodded like you understood, and then you brought out a pen from your pocket and took my hand. Before I could ask you what you were doing, you opened my palm and started writing your number on it. 

It was the first time we had any form of skin contact, and it was the hottest thing that had ever happened to me in my seventeen years of living. Even after I had left dreading the query I was going to receive from Mummy, my hand still tingled, and I had a big smile on my face.

I memorized your number.

Mummy was part of the Harvest Planning Committee, so we had to stay till the end of the harvest. We were leaving the church in her car when I saw you talking to a girl. Both of you stood outside the gate, maybe because she couldn't enter the compound wearing her short dress. Her hands were on your chest, I felt a pang in mine. Mummy was saying something about the girl's dressing, and how girls always came to visit the reverend's son whenever he was around. You looked at Mummy's car and saw me. I looked away.

I didn't call you when I got back to school.

I was surprised when I called Mummy and she told me you asked her about me. She proceeded to warn me to stay away from you.

"Reverend Okwu's children are spoilt!"

She had said it seriously, but I couldn't care less. You were thinking about me, that was all that mattered. You were worried. You missed me as I missed you. The next day, I called you with Ify's phone. You knew the moment you heard my voice. You hung up and called back.

You asked how I was doing and asked if I had found a math tutor. I smiled because you remembered me telling you I wasn't good at math, and I was scared I was going to fail it in WAEC. You teased me when I told you I was using my friend's phone to talk to you. You called us senior girls since we were now sneaking phones into our hostels. 

We talked for about thirty minutes before another call came in. You asked me if you could call me later. I told you yes and gave you a time, after night prep so I wouldn't be caught. It became a regular thing; you calling every night at 10 pm, and us talking for hours. 

I learned new things about you every day. You were two years older than me, you were in your first year at Ebonyi State University, studying English and Literary Studies. Your favourite food was yam and egg sauce, your favourite colour was green, and your favourite artist was Giveon. 

You sang to me over the phone. It was corny and embarrassing, but I still loved it. You told me you had written poems for me, and couldn't wait for me to get back.

** 

We had our first kiss under the tangerine tree, behind the children's church.

Our whirlwind romance became stronger over the Christmas break. I started attending weekly church activities so I would see you more. We would sometimes sneak out of the Church premises just to find somewhere to talk. We had our inside jokes, we gossiped about some Church aunties and mums.

You wrote me poems in the Church. I would see you writing something down in the Sunday bulletin, and you would give it to my brother to give me. And later when you ask me what I thought about it, I tell you that Songs of Solomon has nothing on you. 

The Sunday before Christmas, we were at our spot behind the children's church. I could hear the sounds from the speaker at a distance. I was telling you how my parents wanted me to study law, but I wanted to study History.

"My parents don't like the fact that I'm studying English, but they can't do anything about it. I can't be forced into something that doesn't make me happy, something I do not want to do."

"Sometimes being selfish is the only way we can truly be happy in the end", you had said.

I was still pondering over your statement when I felt your soft lips on mine. I froze, not knowing what to do, but not wanting it to end either. My whole stomach was filled with butterflies. It was a chaste, beautiful kiss. I didn't mind that we were on the Church premises. I didn't mind that I could still hear your father's voice over the speakers. All I thought about was how good it felt, how right it felt.

There was no awkwardness after. We fell right back into an easy conversation. When I talked, you listened, when you talked I did the same. You spoke about your love for writing, and how you were going to change the world, word by word. You spoke so passionately that I almost envied you. You were so smart, and you were only two years older than me. I didn't even have a passion. I only liked History because it was the only subject I genuinely enjoyed.

After our kiss that day, it became impossible to not think about you. It got worse because I got a phone as a gift for Christmas, so we talked and texted all the time. My elder brother came back for the holiday, and he would always look at me weirdly whenever we texted.

"Kedụ onye na-asa gị isi?" He laughed as he saw me smiling at your text one day.

It was one of those poems you used to write to me. I had been standing at one spot and re-reading it over and over again with a shit-eating grin on my face, forgetting that my brother was in the same room with me. I rolled my eyes and ignored his question that day, but he kept teasing me about it. Sometimes he threatened to tell Mummy, but I knew he wouldn't, I knew too many of his secrets.

A day later, I realized I needed his help when I couldn't think of a perfect gift for you. Your birthday was on the 30th, I needed to get you something.

"As a boy now eh," I started, "what kind of gift would you like to receive from your girlfriend? Like, as a birthday gift…" 

"Who is your boyfriend?" he asked.

"He's not my boyfriend," I defended quickly.

"Oh, so you admit there's a he?" 

I hissed and left. I knew it was of no use.

I later got you a wristwatch and perfume. I thought it was basic, but you looked so happy when I gave it to you.

"Nobody has ever given me an actual birthday gift before," you had told me.

I found it weird that there were people who had never received gifts for their birthdays before.

"So how did you celebrate in the previous years?"

You chuckled.

"It's always like a mini church service. My dad preaches the same thing each year; dedicating your new age to serving the Lord. Then everybody prays for me, one by one. My dad comes last, his prayer the longest.”

You chuckled.

“He doesn’t believe in birthday gifts, my dad. According to him, God has already given us the biggest gift by adding a year to our lives.”

You laughed, so I laughed with you. I didn’t tell you that I found it quite sad.

"But the good part is that my mom always cooks an assortment of my favourite dishes, and she buys my favourite snacks as well. It's the routine for everyone's birthday." 

"I mean, it's kind of sweet…"

"Yes, it is. But I still hate it," you groaned.

“And because my birthday is during the festive period when everyone is at home, I can’t avoid being at home.”

"You can,” I said and you chuckled in disbelief.

“Maybe, but definitely when I’m older.”

“You are a good boy o,” I laughed.

“What’s there to just tell them you’re spending the day with your friends? And I don’t mean you should ask for permission. Tell them.”

You looked at me with a small smile, an emotion I couldn’t decipher dancing in your eyes.

"Maybe next year. Maybe I'll spend it with you instead."

I felt euphoric, but my mood dampened. The brief interaction I had with my brother about you made me realize I didn't even know what to call what we had. I was unsettled. We had to have the dreaded conversation, the 'what are we' conversation. And I had to initiate it because it didn't seem you were going to be doing so anytime soon.

I snuck my phone to school, so we called and texted very often. That day, I mustered the courage to ask you, on WhatsApp. You had called earlier and we had our normal conversation. I couldn’t seem to ask the question out loud, so when we said our good nights, I texted you.

‘How would you define our relationship? What we have…’

My heart pounded in my chest as I waited for your reply.

Your ‘I don't understand’ came two minutes later.

I knew you did, and it hurt me that you were trying to avoid the question. But I pressed on.

‘What would you introduce me as, to your friends?’

You read the message, and it took you fifteen minutes and three seconds to respond.

‘My best friend.’

I ignored your calls and texts for two weeks straight. You had broken my heart and didn't have the right to call or text as if nothing happened. Maybe it was nothing to you, the late-night calls and texts, the long conversations we had, conversations where I almost confessed my feelings to you. It would have been so embarrassing if I did, only for you to say something like, 'I love you, but as a friend.'

I didn’t want to be your friend, or your ‘best friend’ as you’d put it.

I wanted something more.

** 

The day you told me you loved me, I cried.

It was the first day of our mock exams. We had mathematics that day. It was that kind of exam you didn't need anyone to tell you that you were going to fail. I was sad, not because I was going to fail the mock exam, but because I could repeat WAEC with such a bad performance. I tried not to cry, it was silly to cry over mock, so I just drank cornflakes, played games on my phone, and slept.

I woke up when the dining bell for dinner rang. I didn't have an appetite for watery beans, so I drank garri. I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling when my phone started vibrating under my pillow. I grabbed it and saw your name on the caller ID. Maybe it was because of the bad day I had, maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was because I missed you, I answered the call.

You could almost immediately tell that I wasn't okay. You persuaded me to talk, and I started to cry. You listened as my voice shook, as I blew my nose into a tissue paper, as I let out my fears. You consoled me, with your perfectly articulated and calming words. You always knew what to say. We talked for a short time before I told you I was tired. We bid each other goodnight, and when you said those words which I had been yearning for, I started crying again.

You asked me why I was crying.

"I don't know if you're lying or saying what you think I want to hear, but it feels so good to hear you say it."

We went back to texting and calling regularly, and you would end each call or text with those words.

I love you.

I never said them back, I was scared. You told me I didn't have to say it back, you apologized for hurting my feelings, you said you had realised that you couldn't do without me, and you promised to make it up to me. Those were the words of affirmation I always wanted to hear. But for some reason, hearing you say them over the phone, with your voice cracking sometimes due to bad network, scared me.

It was easy to lie on a phone call or over a text. But those poems you started sending me again felt true and right. I decided to let go of my fear and just enjoy the moment. The first day I told you back, you asked me to repeat myself. When I did, you let out a cheer, similar to the one boys usually let out when their favourite football team scored a goal. I laughed and rolled my eyes, thinking you were being dramatic.

"I've been dying to hear you say that,” you eventually said.

You promised to visit me in school on our Inter-House Sports Day. Mummy wasn't going to come, so you said you'd come instead. I was happy and excited. I couldn't wait to show you off to my friends. I had seen all their boyfriends and they had nothing on you. Looks, brains, everything.

‘Everything will be official on that day.’

I wanted you to clarify, but I also wanted it to be a surprise. Was it a hint? Were you going to finally ask me to be your girlfriend? It looked pretty straightforward to me, but I was paranoid. I always second-guessed everything.

That day, I styled my hair with gel, wore eyeliner and painted my lips red. I had gone as far as ironing my sportswear in our matron's house the previous night. I painted my nails with transparent glitter nail polish. I wore a mixture of random perfumes I borrowed from my hostel girls. I slipped my phone into my fancy bag which I hardly wore. It was risky to take my phone outside the hostel, but I needed to keep up with you. After several minutes, I was finally ready.

‘Are you still coming today?’

I had texted that morning because I wanted the last-minute assurance.

‘Of course. I'll soon leave my lodge.’

Two hours had passed and I called to know where you were. You didn't pick up. I watched the houses perform their march past under the scorching sun.

“Go Yellow House, go Yellow House, go!” We cheered for our girls. 

I looked around to see if any teacher was paying attention, then checked my phone for any texts or missed calls. I didn't see any. Another hour passed and I didn't know if I should be pissed or worried. At that point, your number was switched off.

The ceremony had ended, and some students and their visitors hung around the school area. In cars, under trees, in classrooms, behind the senior hostels, and in the multipurpose hall. I walked around, searching for you. My white sneakers had turned brown from the dust, I had wiped sweat together with my makeup off my face.

By the time it was six in the evening, I had returned to my hostel in a mixture of emotions. Anger, worry, confusion, but mostly disappointment. I kept calling your number but it remained switched off. I noticed the looks I got from my friends. Pity, mockery, straight-up laughter.

"Maybe he changed his mind last minute, who knows."

"What if he never intended to come in the first place? You know how boys are."

"Did he give you the confirmation that he was coming?"

"Yes," I had answered. "He told me he was about to leave his lodge when I texted him this morning."

"And then you called later and he didn't pick, shebi?"

"Yes."

"How many times?"

"Nine times."

"You called again and his number was switched off?"

"Yes."

"Did he call you at all today?"

"No."

"Then I guess we have our answer."

I didn't hear from you for the rest of the term. I didn't call after that day, you didn't call either. I was devastated and broken. I deleted your number from my phone in anger, and because I was tempted several times to call you.

I came home for our one-week Easter break. It would be a year since the first time I saw you and a lot had happened. You had managed to make my heart flutter and break it during that period.

Mummy became more annoying than usual, always pestering me to read. I tried but couldn't. I couldn't stop thinking about you. Were you going to ignore me on Sunday? Would I be able to confront you about what you did? Would you try to avoid me by not coming to church? Why did you ruin everything?

On Saturday evening, I was ironing my church clothes when Mummy shouted my name. I groaned and went to answer her.

"Ehen, before I forget, make sure you go to pay your condolences to the Reverend tomorrow. His son died."

My heart sank.

"He has two sons…"

"The first one. Tobenna."

** 

You always said you didn't like your name, and that you were going to change it when you grew older. You didn't have a middle name or a baptismal name. Just Tobenna Okwu. You told me to call you Tobe. You explained it had the same pronunciation as Kobe, your favourite basketball player. 

I told you I liked your name. It wasn't very common like mine, Chisom.

** 

That Sunday, I came to church to see posters of you everywhere.

'Tobenna Okwu. 19. Ghastly accident. Survived by parents, one brother and one sister, grandparents, friends and relatives.'

Girlfriend, I mentally added. Only that I didn't want to survive. I wanted to be with you.

My mom told me they had already buried you. I didn't even get a chance to say a proper goodbye. I didn't want to say goodbye.

I was zoned out throughout the service. It would never be the same. Life would never be the same. Your mother looked dejected. She looked like a ghost. Your father looked like he was trying to keep himself standing before the congregation.

Your father stood at the pulpit in his white cassock. He was giving a sermon but I wasn't listening. Not until I heard your name, and the murmuring of the church members.

"...Tobenna's roommate said he was going to meet a girl. From Ebonyi, all the way to Nsukka, because of fornication!"

It felt like the walls were closing in on me. I gripped the hand of my plastic chair tightly as I tried to take in steady breaths.

"Sometimes we as parents try our best, but our children go astray and embarrass us..."

'We weren't going to do anything wrong! He just wanted to see me,' I wanted to scream.

"He lost his life, all for what? Now he's going to be condemned. He'll burn forever, all because of the craving of the flesh..." His loud voice shook, and he looked like he was holding back tears.

Some women started crying. The men were shaking their heads. It was almost comical, the way everything played out like a Nollywood movie. It was unreal.

I looked at your mother. She had tears running down her eyes, but a grim expression on her face. She kept rocking back and forth. A woman from the congregation ran to her and began wiping her tears with a white handkerchief.

Did she believe them too? Did she believe that you were condemned? Did she believe you were going to burn forever?

I wanted to scream. I tried to stand up and yell at everyone, starting with your father. But I felt something physically holding me back. I was pinned to my seat. I was frozen. I couldn't talk or make a sound. 

Maybe I was finally going crazy, but I felt your presence. I knew you were the one stopping me.

I wanted to leave. At least if you wouldn't let me talk, then let me leave. But my feet remained stuck to the ground. Your father progressed in his sermon, and I looked at him with contempt, wondering why he felt the need to bring you up. He preached for twenty more minutes before the band took over, singing praises like everyone didn't just witness what happened some minutes ago.

That was when I could finally move. I joined the line and walked like a zombie to the front of the church, throwing my hundred naira note into the offering box.

After the service, I went to the parsonage to see your mother. There were several pairs of footwear at the door. I didn't say anything to your mother when I got in. There were two other women who sat with her. I couldn't look her in the eye and give her my condolences, not when her son died on his way to see me. 

Eventually, the two women left. I silently walked up to her and gave her a hug. She seemed startled at first, then she started shaking. It was the first time I cried since I heard the news of your death.

And the last time I visited St. Luke's Anglican Church.