Diary of a Lover

(For those broken hearts, that love find you yet again)

(art credit: Google)

The last word in my dairy was love. It was in bold, cap letters, I remember. My diary was kept a secret. A secret I kept from everyone else, for myself; a secret account of everything I feared and hoped for, of love and hatred, of pain and gain. I read it every day because it reminds me of everything I had and all I wanted to have. Basically, I kept diaries to express myself; to shout when someone tries to shut me up; it helps me to say everything. In my diary I sing, I laugh, I cry. In essence, my diary makes my muteness eloquent. Today, I am holding my diary in my hand – my secret book, thinking if some of the entries are mere accounts of my dreams. How things change! The last page was dated 16^th August, 2008.

Saturday, August 2008.

My friend once told me that love is nothing but illusion; he calls it a mirage. He said it was something in your mind. “Just an imagination,” he would say. Fred is a coward. I like to think that he has no blood in his veins, no feeling. I don’t believe him. I am different. Somehow, I know love exists. I like to imagine that you attract what you think, and like Bob Proctor would say, “If you can see it in your mind, you are going to hold it in your hands.” I believe!

***                                                                  ***                                                                  ***

There is a hand somewhere beyond me, an infinite hand, I know. This is not me. I can’t believe I have this feeling for Osarome, a mere acquaintance, but for a few moment of unwilling conversation –

“I loved Ben with everything I had. I almost thought there was no life without him…. He was so sweet, before….before…” “Oh my God, why am I telling you all these? I mean am….

That was how, Osa, as I have learned to call her, broke the seal of silence that day, and shocked that she had surprised herself, she buried her face in her palms. I was a stranger after all. 

“I…I know how you feel.” I struggled with words too, obviously infected with her apparent emotion.

“You know nothing about me,” she snapped hysterically, her voice brazen and startling. And right then I saw her frustration.

“Am sorry but its good you talk about it. Maybe you could feel better.” She didn’t say a word, just staring into the plain wind.

I know there were so many things she had to say, but I am not the right guy to hear them; no, not about her devastating relationship with Ben, not the poignant tale of her father’s passing. I am just a stranger trapped in her pitiable emotion.

I want to tell her something about me; that I’ve been broken too, and ever since have been lovelorn. But how do I even begin? She seems allergic to the sound of this four letter word ‘love’. Will she believe me? I want to tell her that we have a common problem, and that we can help ourselves. But that doesn’t sound like a simple recipe to make her feel better or to assuage my own misery.

“Hey,” I began, clearing my throat. “I want you to know… see…you can love again.” There is an interlude of silence, before she turns to look me with unfeigned suspicion.  

This fleeting dialogue introduced the last entry in my diary. I titled it Osarome.

I met Osa on a mild Saturday afternoon at Fun Park, a recreation center in Abuja.

It is two years and eight months now, since that fateful day. The weather was unusually bright and clement, not much of the drizzling August rain. Her posture at the far end of the Park called me. She was alone, playing with a slim cell phone in her hand. I drew closer. “Are you ok?” I asked in desperate attempt to initiate a conversation. “…or you’re waiting for someone?” She didn’t say a word. Then, looking up she pulled a reluctant smile.

 “No. I just want to be alone.”  

Escape! 

Truly, sometimes you seek escape into some kind of life away from normal, especially when things seem to go wrong, or to inspire creativity. Often times when you are hurt, you retire into yourself, and in many cases to places so secluded; to shut your heart against the world, and perhaps be shielded from the piercing claws and cruel hands of life’s grinds. So you bear your burden, your pain, alone. Such was the case with Osa.

Moved by her pathetic stance, I let my bag on the ground and crouched beside her. “You can’t be alone. I mean you are not supposed to,” I said, my voice deep with concern. She feigned a smile. If lifting her out of her present state was the last thing I could do, then there was hope to sing eternally – a pleasant thought running through my head. Freeing a troubled heart could be a saintly disposition. I plunged on.  

I am seated almost head to head with her, a complete stranger. I don’t know how I got this close. But she doesn’t mind. I told her stories. They were fairytales, stories inspired by genuine intention to lift a soul from its miserable state into an unprecedented vivacity. The stories are touching, certainly. She looks into my eyes, a stranger’s eyes. I look away and return into her waiting eyes. There’s a reassuring level of peace and calm in her face now. She believes me, my stories. I nod in my mind.   

Now she is smiling. She is laughing. She pushes me and says “go away, I told you I want to be alone.” But she does that with a deliberate sense of reluctance. I grin. She understands she won’t make me go with that. “How easy to be happy,” I imagine her say. She leans forward to pick a stone, and throws at straying bird; a beaming, cheery countenance on her face. There is no more tension. No fears. No hard feelings. She no longer wants to be alone. We are no longer.

Later, we talked about some of the ‘pressing’ things in her life at the moment: her father’s passing, and then, Ben. Somehow, she was at the Park for the things she felt about them. She said Ben left her heart broken. “Ben doesn’t deserve any woman,” she said, her face to drooping. “He is a cheat. I loved him, but…” She couldn’t continue, polka dot of tears making a slow narrow tracing down her cheek. I ran my fingers across her delicately beautiful love-shaped face. This heart is truly broken! I see it in her eyes; the tears she cried, the moments she had spent alone seeking the return of peace and smile on her face. I see everything; and now, her father is gone, just a few weeks back. “My daddy was my best friend. Do you know how it feels now?” I put my hand on her shoulder and moved my head up and down. “Yes, I do. Am sorry for your loss” Now, her face is flush with tears.  She could not help it. I open my hands and close her in. “Am here for you” was all I could whisper. 

Our day at the Park ended. It ended well. She went home happy and new. She ran away from everyone at home, to nurse her pain alone, but found a companion and gained. Someone says fate is your destiny, and has a way of playing tricks on you. “Thank you for making me happy” was the last statement she made before she disappeared into a cab. I stood there, watching her now elusive figure fade into the green cab. Then, my emotions began to run. I could only stare. There were many things I wanted to say to her. But my mouth was heavy with words.

She is waving at me, saying goodbye as the cab started out. But her hand was not strong, not confident. It was hard to say goodbye. But she waved anyway, until the cab was lost down the steep, narrow street. Then she was gone, leaving me with myriad of thoughts and feelings jostling through my head. Nothing serious came out of my thinking. So, forlorn in the street, I gathered myself and headed home. That was the last time I saw Osarome. Since then, every other thing has been in my imagination and dreams.

To be continued…

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