Chapter 3: Waiting and Letting Go

First year,

I remember as Halima tell me say one local bully dey disturb am before.

For our last life, he yarn am with pain for him eye. This time, I say maybe if I help am, e fit change something—give am the boldness he no get as small boy.

I reason say maybe na why God carry me come again—to be his guardian angel when e need am most.

When I see as dem dey beat Halima, I quick call people to help.

I run barefoot for sand, call my cousins, their shout loud as dem chase those yeye boys. The boys scatter, Halima dey for ground, shirt tear.

Sixteen-year-old Halima eye shine with surprise.

He look me like say na ghost he dey see—thankful but shy, pride dey pain am say na girl save am.

He thank me, but call me, “Thank you, Aunty Sade.”

That 'Aunty' hit me like slap. E be like wall dey between us wey I no fit climb.

I notice the gap for him tone.

He dey talk like say we never near before. The formality pain me pass the scratch for him face.

My chest dey burn, but I get sense—in this life, na just now we dey meet.

My heart squeeze, but I swallow am. Maybe na price wey second chance dey collect.

I help pay Halima school fees, but hide do am.

I hold the envelope, heart dey beat, dey fear say if he find out, he go vex. I beg my cousin Tunde, “Just talk say na from well-wisher,” as I press envelope for him hand.

I drop money for his window, watch from mango tree as Halima see am, relief for him face. He hide am for exercise book, small smile show. I wipe my eye, happy say I do the right thing, even if he no know say na me.

Second year,

Halima come out best for national exam.

Everybody dey shout him name—from village square to pepper seller for market. “That boy from Gidan Sarki—he get sense, ehn!”

But still, he no come propose.

Neighbours dey gossip, Auntie Dupe go see me for well, shake head. “Your scholar still dey come, Sade?” I just smile, tie my wrapper well, hide my worry.

He just enter public service—maybe him dey struggle for city life.

I tell myself, maybe Halima dey try find him leg for inside ministry wey snake and tiger full.

I beg Papa make he help Halima more.

I kneel near him chair, eye dey beg. “Just one letter to your friend for Abuja. Make Halima get chance.”

Papa grumble, but make the call, cane dey tap floor as he yarn his old padi.

But Halima dey dodge, no wan make people suspect, he keep distance from my papa.

He no dey collect ride, no dey sit long for parlour, no dey drink water unless you force am. “Thank you, sir,” he go talk, bow, “but my mama dey wait.”

I try arrange meeting, but he always dey rush, never give me chance talk wetin dey my mind.

He dey slip like smoke for my hand, always get excuse to waka before I fit open up.

Third year,

Halima still no show.

The pain dey bite harder. Even during festival, when everybody dey dance, my seat near am empty.

I begin wonder if this second chance don spoil destiny.

For night, I go dey roll for bed, dey ask stars if I break something wey no fit repair.

Maybe na my fault.

Maybe I try too hard. Maybe I no suppose meddle at all.

I dey hide for house, no dey waka anyhow again.

I fold my feelings neat, like mama old scarf, dey stay my lane.

That year, I just dey look Halima from far.

I go see am for market, tall, serious, him step fast, laugh no too plenty. My heart go skip, but I no go near.

Fourth year,

Before I fit wait more, Papa say he get one-year posting for south.

Thunder dey grumble for distance, breeze dey blow harmattan dust enter my eye as I open the letter. Paper crisp, official, governor call him personally—papa pride dey hide under strong face.

Now, papa na governor padi, achievement dey pile.

Newspaper dey carry him name, aunties wey dey yab before now dey boast say dem sabi our family.

But for last life, na Halima dey always move city, rise quick. Now, fate don turn another way.

As I dey listen to papa, hand dey shake, something dey prick my memory.

Halima too get second chance.

E clear now—the way he dey dodge me, the careful step, like say he dey follow new map.

But when him memory return?

I think back: first time we meet, before I even call my name, he call me “Aunty Sade.”

No small boy dey call strange girl ‘Aunty’ unless e sabi am before.

So,

He don remember since that time.

Palm fronds dey fall, wind scatter dem for yard.

I watch as breeze scatter everything, my mind dey heavy with bad feeling.

Sure enough,

Fifth year,

Halima return from south.

Convoy full compound, people dey hail as dust settle. But even with all the noise, he no look my side.

Still, no proposal.

Instead, rumour spread say governor wan marry daughter give am.

Market women dey talk, “See our own Halima! To marry governor pikin—na big thing o!”

Outside,

Rain dey beat roof, everywhere dey blur.

I sit for window, dey watch gutter overflow, my hope dey drown inside the rain.

My old life love with Halima now be like dream wey don pass.

I wonder if ancestors dey look me from frame for wall, dey shake head for my matter.

I wait five years.

Five years of lonely birthday, dodging family question, watching friends marry go their husband house.

Wait till I be old maid.

Neighbours stop to ask about wedding. Cousins dey bring their pikin come play with me, call me ‘Auntie Sade’ as if I old finish.

Suitors no dey plenty again.

Those wey remain just wan chop land or make me second wife.

Papa still dey do shakara, but I see sadness for him eye as he dey send dem away.

Adeyemi house wey dey lively before now dey cold, quiet.

Compound dey echo with silence—even goat no dey shout again, like say dem too dey mourn.

My name don spoil, papa dey hear gossip every day.

People dey say I proud, or maybe I chop something for dream. Mama Ope for roadside say maybe I use jazz.

At this point, I finally understand—

I sit for veranda as sun dey set, orange light dey shine for dust. One hard knot of acceptance land for my chest.

Given another chance, Halima want different life.

And for this life, I no get space for him world.

Let him get wetin him want.

I press my chest, let go breath I no know say I dey hold. If na his path be this, who I be to block am?

I dey look flower branch wey rain beat, call my maid gently, “Go tell Papa, I ready to marry.”

Her mouth form big ‘O,’ even the wall shock.

After I talk finish, as my maid dey shout my name, my eye just dark, like NEPA take light for my eye.

As my maid dey shout my name, I hear Mama voice for dream, dey tell me, “My pikin, your heart go heal.”

For my mind, I see Mama face, gentle, pride and sadness full am. Fate between me and Halima don end here for this life.

From today, we no join together again.