49th August

Its good to see that you're alive.

After the news of your shooting broke, I thought I'd never breathe again but here I am. That day, it started like any other day: me teasing you about your numerous girlfriends, searching your wallet for change and you chasing me around the compound. There was not an inkling of the calamity nearby to at least forewarn you or even me. It wasn't magical, it was typical, a mediocre day to say the least but it was us, it was how we did things and it suited us just fine.

I wouldn't go to the hospital after the news came, I found countless excuses not to do so but the truth was that I didn't want to see you so weak and helpless, at the mercy of Science, Medicine and goodwill. I was also having difficulties keeping it together so I knew I couldn't be strong for two. In my own twisted way I was glad they took your phones so that you couldn't reach me and hear my voice devoid of strength and discover that I couldn't give you that solace you needed.

It happened on 30th July but August turned out to be the longest month of my life; I counted 49 days in total before relief came
49 hollow days where fear was dissipated in a sinister ebb and flow
49 days where your body lay broken because the guardians of your peace violated you.
After you were shot, you were lugged from hospital to hospital, in the true Nigerian manner and it reminded me of Dimgba Igwe:
"we don't have that equipment here"
"Please provide police report to prove this your boy no be thief o"
"Sorry we don't have anymore O neg to give him"
"We need a deposit of five hundred thousand before we can touch him"
The news trickled in slowly,
My life seeped away slowly
You lay dying
Daddy ran helter skelter

After the fifth operation, I heard you could sit up and you asked about me.
I'm sorry I was such a coward
I didn't know you'd live because I prayed for it to end.
I wanted it to end
It provided some closure albeit a selfish one
I told myself I could deal with that
I know now that I couldn't have.
I see in your eyes, the worst scars of them all:
The irrational fear that they'll be back
So now I can't drop crockery in the kitchen for fear of jarring you
And I have to walk to sleep, sure footed to calm you
And though the night terrors are close by,
If they want you, they're gonna have to fight me.
It's the least I could do.