With adoration in my heart I pick up my pen (well, my laptop) from the basket of love to write you this letter. I have been thinking about you since you have been gone. Daily! I have been talking to people who know people who know you. Almost daily. I have been thinking about the people who have been speaking in your name, clearing their own names in your name. Daily! I have been thinking about the rooms you are in, all of them, the ones we know, the ones we think we know, and the other rooms. Daily! I allowed myself to think about you in a hospital gown, a white man with degrees in medicine probing your inner parts, until the people who speak to the people who speak to you assured us that you are hale and hearty and in good spirits. I am erasing that memory from my mind now, realizing it is not only false, but inappropriate. You are fine and even — I saw the photos online — receiving visitors in Abuja House in London (which, let’s face it, is technically Nigerian soil — and you are president of all that is Nigeria, whether that bit of Nigeria is in Nigeria or abroad).
It is almost Valentines and there is no word on whether you will be home in time for that or not. I miss hearing your voice. People say a lot of bad things about you and I know this should not affect the way I feel about it you but I have to admit, it is tough. Say something General. Say something, not because I am giving up on you but because you know, this was the deal. That is what love is. It is nothing without communication. I listen to sad love songs and I tell myself, he cares, he still cares.
I know you know exactly how to make me feel better, even though the enemies think otherwise — they say if you knew, you’d have done something about our economic situation, about the people, grass cutters, who try to come between us. Every family has that one rogue, that alcoholic embarrassment, that pedophile cousin who shows up at family dinners that you warn the kids to stay away from, that thieving uncle whom you allow visit but don't leave anything valuable around, the other uncle who buys gifts but you know defrauded his last office. But we cannot let them come between us. Say something, General.
Someone sent me a photo of you with someone to say you were in London, to make me jealous maybe. But I know you would never go behind my back to see others. I know that photo was taken in 2015. You would never deliberately do anything to hurt me.
The guys you are paying to protect all the people you love, they are beating people up and impregnating some of the young girls in our house. You do not approve of this, I know. Making young girls pregnant is not your thing. That is why I am thinking, maybe we need to do something about them so they don't affect our relationship.
You remember I told you about my ex. I told you clearly that I have trust issues. But you told me I was safe with you. Not to belabor the point but you remember my ex, it was bad enough that we were in a long distance relationship, him always being in Germany and Saudi Arabia and all, but he had this condition and didn’t tell me. Imagine entering a long term relationship and they don't tell you they have a terminal illness. There is something deeply selfish about that. You invest time, emotions and money and boom, the person you thought you would be with for a long time drops dead. They will not be alive to see you mourn. They will not be there when all the people you turned down for them show up at the funeral mocking you with their eyes, telling you: “If only you chose me, you would not be mourning a lover now.” I know you are not like my ex and if you had any thing like that you would tell me. You would not make me mourn a second time. I know that even if it turns out you have something like that and I don't know, it will not be because you hid it from me. It will be because you didn’t know yourself. And I can forgive that. Anyone can fall ill. So, my dear General, say something. You know I cannot do this long distance relationship thing. I told you when we met when you insisted we go out and I told you I was still burnt from the last time.
Just tell me this London thing is just temporary. That you will be back soon. That you will call me. Or send me a WhatsApp voice note. Or FaceTime me. I do not want to spend this Valentine alone. Not that I will start thinking of someone else. But it will not be good for our relationship. Say something. Or better still, come home. Tell me what is wrong with you. I can handle it.
Ps. Look darling, even if it is that prostate thing and we can no longer, you know…it is fine. Just tell me. Love is not all about sex. Love is greater than sex. I can find other ways to sort myself out. And no, it will not involve cheating on you.
Pps. In case you come back, shall we talk about the guy who has taken our money to cut grass but hasn't done so? I think we should let him go. And then we can have a nice dinner and talk about our finances. We are running out of food.
You are in my heart,