Lanre. V. [Final]

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Lanre. I.

Lanre. II.

Lanre. III.

Lanre. IV.

You had ordered a coffee and Lanre had ordered a bottle of water, and you were now both sitting in the Kilimanjaro Restaurant on the second floor of Departures.

You could barely look in his eyes, but you made yourself do just that, as the memories of loving and losing him flooded you.

“You look well,” he had said as you settled at a table by the window.

“You too,” you responded out of reflex; the truth is, he looked amazing – his skin seemed to be glowing and he had packed on more muscles. He looked so good, your heart ached.

The waiter brought your beverages and as you opened the sachet of sugar, Lanre asked, so casually, “What have you been up to?”

You wanted to laugh. How funny. Then you wanted to text Nike and Deola: Hey, guess who I just bumped into.

“Not much,” you said. Which was the truth. Because your depression had found you and had assaulted and smothered you. And you had eaten into 85% of your savings, going on more trips the last eight months than you ever have your entire life – Dubai, Paris, Greece, Cardiff, Turkey, Casablanca  – just to get away from yourself, or to attempt to find yourself, a useless feat because it seems like you've never known who you really are.

The people you had met on these trips had become a blur, memories melding into each other, so that you have to think hard to remember if it was in Santorini or Istanbul that you drank with the rowdy American sailors, or if it was in Cardiff or Paris that you woke up in a strange hotel room and the occupant had ordered you breakfast and had gone to his meeting. No. That one was Cardiff. The Orchard Hotel with the lush carpets and feather-stuffed pillows.

“I heard,” you said, without thinking it through properly, but the words were already out of your mouth, so you continued, “I heard she passed on. I’m sorry.”

Lanre took a swing from him bottle of water.

“It is what it is,” he said.

And then an uncomfortable silence hung between the two of you and you stirred your coffee to keep your hands busy.

“So…” Lanre said after a while. “What’s happening in Abuja?”

“I moved,” you said, “back home.” To your mother. And her younger boyfriends. And her gate man with the loud transistor radio you can hear hammering through the night. And her housemaids that come and go like night and day because your mother is an impatient woman. And her driver with chronic body odour. And her younger boyfriends – it’s the boyfriends that drive you mad. One is a Uni Abuja student. One is a banker. One is a washing machine and AC installer. One is a struggling musician. Another is a stripper. Yes. A stripper.

Lanre’s eyes widened and then softened as he smiled. “And how has that been?”

“As animated as you can imagine.”

“And the shop… in Lagos?”

“Deola runs it. For the time being.”

“Deola.” He paused. “How is she?”

“She’s good.”

The silence settled again and you took a sip of your coffee, eyeing your watch.

When you dropped your mug on the saucer, you both spoke at the same time:

Why did you move?

What’s happening in Abuja?

And then you both giggled and said together: You go first.

And then you laughed again and you missed him. God, you missed him so much you wanted to cry, right there in that restaurant.

“Work,” he said. “Boring, as usual. And why did you move?”

“I needed to get away,” you said. “From Lagos.”

“I’m sorry.”

He had reached across the table and had a hand over yours before you could process the words he had said.

Your heart stilled. It had taken almost a year and the death of his lover for him to say that he was sorry. You wanted to text the girls: Guess who finally said sorry.

“Really?” You asked, shocking you both.

Lanre withdrew his hand and wrapped it around his bottle of water.

“I should have said sorry a long time ago.” His voice was quiet now and you could barely hear what he was saying. “Everything happened so fast. I was so in love, at least I thought I was. I couldn’t see or think straight.”

Tears gathered in your eyes.

“I was wrong. What I did and how I did it was wrong and I know that and I accept that.”

If she had not died, would you be having this conversation? If you had not bumped into him a couple moments ago, would you be having this conversation? Did he not have your number? Or your email address? The flat he left you in as he made away with his lover, did he not know the way? Had he entirely no idea how to find you those early months to say that he was sorry, if at all he was?

“Did you… hear me?” He asked.

He was peering at you.

“I said, maybe before I leave Abuja, we can see? And talk?”

Guess who wants to ‘talk’.

“Maybe,” you said.

But you already knew the answer.

A female voice came over the loud speakers calling your flight for boarding.