It was the middle of dry season. Which meant hot smoldering days and cool breezy nights. The kind of nights that are perfect for lying under the stars next to the one you love. This is where my story begins.
"I love you," he whispers in her ear after kissing her cheek. "I love you more," She whisper back with a smile. He stands and offers his hand to help her up. "Come on," he says with a warm gleam in his eyes.
She took his hand and they walked in the moonlight to the Nepa forsaken half bacha house. They had bills to pay. The young couple sat on a secondhand couch and studied some old newspapers with the aid of a dwarf candlestick. The man was lean from too many skipped meals. His wife rubbed the small bump of her belly and took slow, measured breaths. She didn’t want to worry the child before he even saw the world.
“Three thousand this month?” She asked. At this rate, they’d stay in debt for twenty years. But what choice did they have?
Her husband shrugged.
She put down the papers, stood and stretched. The kitchen held the promise of tea, but little else. Her hand trembled as she grasped the mug.
Around her, the apartment reflected the pains and joys of their new life. The few plates in the cabinet were clean and neatly stacked, but they were also chipped. The carpet in the living room was faded and thin, but creased in the patterns of a recent vacuuming, and the duvet in the bedroom were frayed at the edges, but they were also warm, hand-stitched and handed-down from two generations. The apartment smelled of cinnamon, and the window blinds were always open for sunlight, though the windows looked out on a gray, crumbling street.
She turned on the stovetop and sighed.
Warm hands touched her shoulders and rubbed in small, gentle circles. He had been a dancer once, and he still moved with a quiet grace that had caught her attention so many years ago. They had danced together, night after night, in clubs filled with winking lights and the sweat of the exuberant.
She missed that. She missed the care-free speed of twirls and shakes. She missed the stretch in her limbs and pulse of her heartbeat rhyming to the beat of the music. She began to hum and old tune, slow and soft, mournful but unyielding.
He planted a kiss on her temple and spun her slowly around to face him. He offered one hand and placed the other on her hip. She laid her head on his shoulder and continued to hum. They swayed together in the tiny kitchen.
She felt a soft thump in her belly. She stopped and snapped her head up. Her gaze met his, and she saw his smile. Pressed against her in the dance, he’d felt it too. The smile lifted the worry off his face. He looked, for the first time in weeks, like the shy stranger who’d asked her to dance—full of hope. And they sang "whether na one naira,whether na one million...baby you've got me" as tears rented her cheeks. Then again he whispers"I love you," in her ear after kissing her cheek. "I love you more," She whispered back with a smile. He nods his head and says with an even bigger smile, "Yes I am so sure."
The lack of money did not mean lack of life, or love. They had no time left to be young, but they soon they would pass that gift onto another.
By CHINWEIKE DAVID OKWU(LYRICALPONTIFF)
