STORY: VOLTE-FACE

B.

Every night I conjured you till I fell asleep. I conjured your face, every single detail. The perfect arches of your lips which gave it its love shape. The way your cheeks flushed whenever I called you 'her royal sexiness'. I conjured your eyebrows too. Those little bushes that grew so fast no matter how often I carved them. I conjured your eyes which looked like two drops of coffee in a cup of milk. Your nose, with its big nostrils that looked like they wanted to suck up all the air in the room. I conjured you till you became tangible.

A.
We met at what is supposed to be the  Students' Union Building of the University of Nigeria, Nsukka; but is better known for the restaurants and shops littered in and around it. In fact just few people knew what its initial- SUB stood for.

“I don't know why I keep coming here to spend my money on stale food and people with uncouth manners”, you complain aloud, more like to yourself. 
I think to myself: this one is speaking English. She never chi chun ching.
"The same question I ask myself every time I find myself here. Hi, I'm Aisha." I introduce myself.
"I'm Ifunanya."
I attempt to pronounce your name but mess it up. 
"What does your name mean please?" I ask
"Love."
"I guess I'll have to make do with that."
You were about leaving so I asked if I could walk you to wherever you're going.
I have not had a girl offer to walk me before and the first time I do it is a Hausa girl. You could be a terrorist, for all I know, you say.

I do not take offense. I chuckle actually.

"There's always a first time and I'm Fulani."

“Hausa, Fulani. There’s no difference.” You say.
We got acquainted and exchange contacts while we walked to your lodge.
I didn't call until about a week later. 
"Hi Love, it's Aisha, we met at SUB."
You chuckle then say: I saved your number na. I know who you are. How are you?
"I'm fine and you?"
You reply that you're fine but hungry, so we agree to meet at SUB to get food. 

B.
“We have to move on from this”, you said one day.
“Move on from what?” I asked.
“From this relationship of ours.”
But this is who we have been. This is who we are”, I said trying to, for the umpteenth time, dissuade you from calling it quits.
You say: I know but one day we'll have to move on. 
When you say 'move on', it sounds like we're in a gridlock and we'll have to move soon. 'Move on' sounds, too, like something you tell someone who has just lost a loved one. Because there is nothing that can be done to bring the deceased to life, you tell the bereaved to ‘move on’.
You said you would get a boyfriend so your mother would ask you less often when you will ‘bring a man home’. You said 'get' like a boyfriend was an item in a supermarket. Like a boyfriend was something hanging around the corner. A boyfriend probably was hanging around the corner because the next week when we are having dinner, you tell me you cannot eat much as Michael was coming to take you out for dinner. You said 'Michael' the same way you said my sobriquet- with extra love; and that was when I knew I had lost a battle I tried to avoid.
"Who is Michael?" I asked. I already knew the answer, but I needed to hear them from your mouth.

Did I? 
"You know what, don't worry." I stop you before you say anything.

We eat quietly. Your phone rings and you tell me you have to leave. I didn't kiss you goodbye or walk you to the door. After I lock the door, I go to lie quietly in bed, leaving the used plates unattended. I put on repeat Beyonce's Scared of Lonely and listen to it till I fall asleep. I dream. I dream that, like old times we take a walk around school. But when we stop behind Balewa hall to kiss, you begin to fade. I try to hold you back, but you keep fading till I am forced to wake. I sleep back and hope you'll come to me again in my dreams. You don't. I pray you'll call me the next day to tell me Michael isn't right for you and that you miss me terribly. You didn't call. You didn’t call the next day or the day after or the next week or the week after. That was when I started conjuring you at night before sleeping.

A.

Most nights we strolled around school. From Students affairs via SUB, then we'd pause at Ekpo Ref. to tease lovers that made that place their rendezvous.
"Get a room", we'd whisper loudly to lovers that kissed or even made out there only to stop behind Okpara or Balewa Hall to kiss.
"Hypocrite", I'd say after we kiss. 
"Lover of a hypocrite", you'd reply and we'd laugh.

B.

You call me six months later with a different number to ask if you could come over. I say you can. You come with a wedding invitation card.

“I’m getting married to Michael, Aisha. I’d really love for you to be there.” You tell me.

You keep trying to make me say something after you have offered your litany of apologies and tried to make me see reasons why you did what you did.

“You knew we would never work out Aisha. It is not easy to live as a lesbian in this country. We were only fantasizing, plus we are from different tribes. I’m Igbo, you are Hausa.” You say.

"Only six months with some fellow, and you forget I am Fulani."

Silence.

“I am sorry.” You say.

"So you come into my house after 6 months of not ending a relationship properly, and label me. What happened to all our talk about being different and not minding what society says because we own our happiness and not the other way around? Do you love him?"

"We were only fantasizing Aisha. Exogamy is rare for even normal couples, talk more of people like us."

I laugh.

"So we were abnormal, huh? And you feel getting married to Michael will make you normal?"

“It is not what I mean”, you say.

“Do you love him? I ask again.

“That’s not the point now. What matters most is that I am getting married to him."

Silence.

“I think you should get a boyfriend Aisha.”

"It’s not bad enough that you betray our love, you feel holy enough to tell me what to do with my life now. Wonders shall never end. In fact I am done having this conversation. Get out of my house!"

“I am really sorry”, you say again by the door.

I bolt the door and go to my room to cry. I choke on the powder of my pulverized heart and no matter how much I try, I cannot summon tears. I did not conjure you that night, or the night after or ever again. In fact every night I prayed you’d go mad or drop dead or Michael would die, after all he was the source of my misery. I wished you so many evil things until my fountain of evil creativity runs dry.

C.

Does anyone have any objection to this marriage?” the Reverend asks. “Speak now or forever remain silent.”

The whole room is silent.

The reverend repeats the question. I made to stand, but remain seated when someone else does.

“Reverend please the food is getting cold. If anyone objects he or she should object after the reception biko. I cannot come this far and not eat party jollof.”

Everyone bursts out in laughter.

The devil in me speaks: perhaps this is not the perfect time to act. Wait.

I smile. In fulfilment of what I plan to do in the future.

“Thanks for coming”, you say, when I came to take a picture with you.

The pleasure is all mine, I reply smiling.

Six months later I get a message from you.

“Aisha what have you done to me?”