Dear Remi,
Now playing “Somebody That I Used to Know” by Gotye.
I walked into the bank, and my nostrils immediately flared. The air felt different; unfamiliar yet disturbingly familiar. The atmosphere had been quietly corrupted with memories I had worked so hard to bury. Something in me paused. And for a moment, I allowed myself to remember; to remember why this particular scent always carried weight. To remember what it meant.
I almost turned around and asked, “Who is wearing that perfume?”
It was as if it were urgent. Like I needed to know or something sinister would happen.
As if it mattered.
For one brief second, I wondered if he could suddenly be in Lagos. The last time I saw him was in Abuja, and we didn’t get to say a proper goodbye. He isn’t even in the banking sector, so it made no sense, but the thought still crossed my mind, uninvited.
In Akure, I found it too.
I would sniff the air like a dog following the scent of its owner. Until a corper wee dared to violate my memories. She wore the scent every day, and when I could not fight it anymore, I found comfort in it. I would compliment her every day. If she found it odd, she never showed any displeasure. It hurt then. Every sniff I took was torture to my lungs and heart. But it was the only thing I had left of him.
But Remi, it didn’t hurt today. Not in that bank hall.
It didn’t tug at me or crack me open. It didn’t send me spiralling into old emotions. It simply made me remember his name, his face, the ghost of a laugh we once shared.
For the longest time, I thought losing him would mean losing breath itself. I thought I would never be able to move on, that life would dim without him in it.
Yet here I am, confronted by the very fragrance that used to undo me, and all it does is stir a calm memory. The air felt rich with that sweet, intoxicating aroma (like candies mixed with something deeper, something I still can’t quite place), but it did not move me to sorrow. It only reminded me of what once was.
We used to be friends for several years before emotions rose like a storm and tried to destroy what we had. And even as the thread of our friendship frayed, I clung to it with a desperate loyalty, gripping it tightly with both hands, as if letting go would mean a kind of personal extinction.
I cannot remember the last thing we said to each other. I cannot recall the last conversation or the last silence. His face fades behind the shadows of the walls I have built carefully, intentionally, brick by brick. And still, in the deepest dark of my imagination, I can always make out that small scar on his forehead. Strange how one detail survives when an entire person dissolves.
So what am I really trying to say, Remi?
Maybe I forget with the same urgency with which I love. Maybe I let go with the same ferociousness with which I cling. I don’t know if it is a good thing. But for someone susceptible to repeated emotional onslaught, it is the safest thing.
Remi, why can’t I have them both?
***
Featured Image by Sora Shimazaki for Pexels.
