Good bye Femi🍃 (part 3) - by Nomshu Writes✨

Maybe In Another Life I received a call from Femi on a Wednesday morning. It had been almost eight months since that morning at his apartment. Eight months since the wedding, the rain, the terrible decision and the message I never replied to. I had gotten better at not thinking about him. Or perhaps I had simply gotten better at doing other things when I did. "Hello?" "Nomshu." I closed my eyes. There are voices you can go years without hearing, but your heart recognises them before your brain has time to prepare. "Hi, Femi." "How are you?" "I'm okay. How are you?" "I'm good." He paused. "I heard you're leaving." I looked at the half-packed suitcase beside my bed. I was relocating. A new opportunity, a different country, a fresh beginning. Something I had wanted for a long time. "Yes. Next week." "That's big. Congratulations." "Thank you." He asked if we could see each other before I left. I was quiet for a moment. Then I agreed. We met on a Sunday afternoon at a little restaurant we used to frequent in Abuja. I arrived first. When he walked in, I noticed he was wearing the watch I bought him for his birthday three years ago. I almost laughed. Some things really do have a longer lifespan than relationships. He hugged me. It was brief. We ordered food, although neither of us seemed particularly hungry. We spoke about my relocation, his work, our families and people we both knew. He told me his wife was doing well. I told him I was happy for him. And I meant it. Eventually, he looked at me and asked: "Do you ever think about what would've happened if we had stayed together?" I stirred my drink. "Sometimes." "Me too." I smiled. "Femi, we would've probably killed each other by now." He laughed. "You're still very dramatic." "And you're still very annoying." For a moment, it felt like old times. Then the laughter faded. He looked at me. "Can I ask you something?" "Go ahead." "Do you remember why we broke up?" I looked at him. "Of course I do." "I don't think we ever really talked about it properly." I put my glass down. Perhaps he was right. People had always assumed we broke up because of marriage. Because he wasn't financially ready, because I was impatient, because we were young. But that wasn't the whole truth. The truth was that we wanted different futures. Femi had grown up helping to raise his younger siblings. He had watched his parents struggle, watched the responsibilities of parenthood consume people who had barely figured out how to take care of themselves. He loved children. But he didn't want to have any. Not one. Not two. Not someday. He wanted a quiet life with a partner, a career and the freedom to travel without having to consider another person's entire existence. I wanted the opposite. I wanted children. I wanted to be somebody's mother. I wanted school runs, birthday parties, little shoes by the door and the beautiful chaos of a family. I wanted a home that was sometimes too loud. And Femi knew. We had spent months trying to find a middle ground. He suggested adoption. I considered it, but even that didn't change the fact that he wasn't sure he wanted to be a parent at all. I suggested we revisit the conversation in a few years. He told me it wouldn't be fair to either of us to build a marriage around the possibility that one person might eventually change their mind. And he was right. I remember sitting in his apartment that evening, asking him if he could ever imagine himself being a father. He looked at me for a long time. Then he said: "I can imagine you being a wonderful mother, Nomshu. I just don't think I want to be a father." I cried. He cried, too. Because we both understood what that meant. There was no medical procedure to fix it. No amount of money to save. No family meeting that could resolve it. I couldn't ask him to become a father just because he loved me. And he couldn't ask me to give up motherhood just because I loved him. That was the day I understood that some incompatibilities are permanent. I looked across the table at him. "Femi, we wanted different lives. Neither of us was wrong." He nodded. "I know." "I would've hated you eventually if I stayed and gave up something I wanted so badly." "I know." "And you would've hated yourself if you became a father just to keep me." He looked down. "I think about that sometimes." I reached for my glass. "Me too." We sat quietly. Then he said something that caught me off guard. "I think you would've been a really good mother." I smiled, but my eyes filled. "I think you would've been a wonderful husband." He looked away. And for a moment, I wished we could go back to being twenty-something-year-olds who believed that loving each other meant we could figure everything out. But we weren't those people anymore. We had grown up. And growing up, I was beginning to realise, sometimes meant accepting that the person you love isn't necessarily the person you should build your life with. We finished our drinks. He insisted on paying. I argued. He laughed. "Nomshu, abeg. Allow me." I rolled my eyes. Some things never change. When we stepped outside, the afternoon sun was beginning to disappear. He walked me to my car. We stood there for a while, neither of us particularly interested in being the first to leave. Then he hugged me. A proper hug this time. I held him tightly. He rested his chin on my head. "I'm sorry about everything." I shook my head. "Don't be." "I mean it. The wedding, that night, everything. We could've handled things better." I pulled away and looked at him. "We should have. And I know we both have things to forgive ourselves for." He nodded. "I hope you're happy, Nomshu." "I am, Femi." He smiled. "Good." I wiped my cheek. "I hope you're happy, too." "I am." I believed him. Then I said the words I had been carrying for years. "I wish you happiness, Femi. Real happiness. I hope you get everything you want out of this life. I hope your marriage is beautiful. I hope you travel everywhere you've ever wanted to go. I hope you laugh a lot. I hope you never have to question whether you're loved." He looked at me with tears in his eyes. "You're going to make me cry." I laughed. "You're already crying." He laughed, too. Then he said: "Thank you for loving me the way you did." I swallowed. "Thank you for loving me, too." He kissed my forehead. And I let him. It wasn't a promise. It wasn't an invitation. It was a goodbye. I got into my car. Before starting the engine, I looked at him through the window. He raised his hand. I waved. And that was it. I drove away. I didn't turn around. *** A few days later, I was at the airport. My luggage was in the boot, my passport was in my handbag, and my boarding pass was sitting between my fingers. I was excited. I was terrified. I was beginning a life I had spent years hoping for. But before leaving Abuja, I had one last thing to do. I opened my WhatsApp. Femi's conversation was still there. I scrolled through it. Four years. Four whole years of two people trying to make a life together. I found an old voice note. It was from a random Tuesday afternoon. Femi was laughing about something. I couldn't even remember what. At the end, he said: "Love you, baby. Call me when you get home." I listened to it twice. Then I put my phone down. I thought about the wedding. The rain. The morning after. The things we wanted. The things we couldn't give each other. And I finally understood something. I hadn't lost Femi because I wasn't enough. He hadn't lost me because he wasn't enough. We simply wanted different things from the same life. And perhaps that was the most painful part. There was nobody to blame. Nobody to hate. Nobody to wait for. Just a love that had reached the end of what it could be. I opened our conversation one last time. I typed: *I hope life is kind to you, Femi. Thank you for being part of mine. I will always wish you well.* I stared at it. Then I deleted the message. He didn't need to receive another goodbye. He already had one. I put my phone away and looked through the airport window. Somewhere in Abuja, Femi was probably going about his day. Maybe having lunch. Maybe driving home. Maybe laughing at something his wife had said. I hoped he was having a good day. I really did. And if he ever thought about me, I hoped he remembered the good things. The suya. The laughter. The terrible jokes. The girl who loved him. Not the wedding. Not the mistakes. Not the ending. Just us. For a little while, we were happy. And I think that should count for something. Maybe in another life, Femi. Maybe in another life, we meet when we both want the same things. Maybe we get the house, the garden, the Sunday dinners. Maybe we grow old and argue about absolutely nothing. Or maybe not. Maybe some people are only meant to find each other once. Maybe we were never supposed to be forever. But I loved you. And I hope you know that. I wish you happiness, Femi. The kind that doesn't require you to become somebody else. The kind that feels like home. The kind I hope I find, too. **As I drove off to the airport, I knew I'd never see Femi again.** And for the first time, I didn't ask life to give him back. I just wished him well. Goodbye, Femi.

Love Me Not

Contributor Points

Points-to-Coupons

Referral Earning