If memory serves me correctly,

There was a girl.

A rather beautiful girl,

With a rather beautiful voice,

And approximately eighty-five names,

Some of which I still butcher their pronunciations. Lmao

I remember our first phone call. Crystal-vivid.

The strangest thing happened.

It felt like we'd spoken before.

Like meeting someone for the first time

And somehow finding yourself at home.

She called me Mr.,

The Ghost of that tune still sings melodies in my half-deaf ears

And I would in turn call her Mrs.

The weight of that utterance still tickles my tongue

We were terribly generous

With titles neither of us had earned.

Oh, she was something!

She threatened to bite me,

Beat me,

And report me to my mummy.

A dangerous woman, evidently.

But what can I say?

I've always appreciated beauty,

Even when it threatens bodily harm.

If memory serves me correctly,

She sang White Keys

When our conversations ran out of words.

And sometimes she read me to sleep. 

We read together, too.

I spent two days reading a novel for her,

The notes still gather dust in my shelf.

The characters have constructed a settlement in my head.

Shakespeare was supposed to be next.

Poor fellow never got his turn.

She once read me a story

About a mermaid and the sea. (Half of it escaped preservation. Memory isn't strongest when you're half-asleep)

And she wanted to write stories of her own.

Mythologies, legends,

Worlds waiting to be born.

She wanted a production company, too.

Films, stories,

A little empire of imagination.

I wonder how that's going.

I hope she builds it.

I hope she makes wonderful films,

The sort that win Oscars

And leave audiences speechless.

And if one day

I see her name in the credits,

I'll probably smile and think,

Well, would you look at that.

We had a writing streak,

Her idea, naturally.

A little something every day,

Or punishment awaited.

I wrote poems for her, too.

Quite a lot of them, actually.

Boy did I have fun with that.

My writing still owes her thanks.

I remember her passionate speeches

About women and the world.

How her voice could turn fierce

When something mattered to her.

I remember the Ofada rice,

The dambun nama,

And the scandalous amounts of money

She spent on layered cake.

I'd accompany her on the phone

To the neighbouring hostel room

Where she bought the stuff.

An accomplice to financial ruin.

And a willing one.

I promised her a carton of dambun nama

For her birthday.

Somewhere, I imagine,

That poor carton remains only a concept never materialized.

I remember her friends.

The ones in her hostel

Who occasionally stole her attention.

Sometimes even shouting my name.

And her best friends,

Who welcomed me into their calls

And made a stranger feel less strange.

She liked showing me off, you see.

I rather liked being shown.

I remember the football field.

The boys on the pitch, warming up.

 Training for the match,

My boots already laced,

And there I was,

On the phone with her.

I spoke to her while driving.

She scolded me for it.

Quite rightly, I suppose.

I spoke to her from trees, too.

Yes. Trees. Apparently I was a part-time monkey. My agility rivaled the most seasoned gymnast (A lie)

She'd tell me to be careful,

To come down before I hurt myself.

Imagine that. 

A woman who threatened to beat me

Was remarkably concerned with keeping me alive.

I remember cleaning my mother's room,

Broom in one hand,

Packer in the other,

Earpieces lodged in my ears,

Her voice flowing through.

I remember practising ballroom dancing whqile we spoke.

A footballer, a poet,

A dancer, a housekeeper,

And occasionally a tree-dwelling idiot.

I am a man of many talents, it appears 

And somehow,

There she was,

In the middle of it all.

I once wrote of her as my sun.

And I was happy to be in her orbit.

She spun me around,

Oh, how she spun me around.

And I didn't mind.

Not one bit.

I remember the stories about her mother.

She sounded like someone

I would've loved to meet.

I remember the names

She wanted for her children.

And I remember that my little brother

Still asks about her sometimes.

Funny, isn't it?

How someone can become familiar even to people they've never met.

If memory serves me correctly,

There was a girl.

A beautiful, witty,

Occasionally violent girl,

Who loved layered cake, stories, and Ofada rice,

Who sang when words ran out,

And made ordinary days

Rather extraordinary.

I wonder how she's doing.

Does she still sing White Keys?

Does she still spend a fortune on layered cake? 

Has she written her mythology yet?

Does she remember that mermaid and the sea?

Does she still dream of her production company?

Does she still dream of those names?

Has she read any Shakespeare lately?

Does she still laugh the same way?

Does she still get wonderfully worked up over the things she believes in?

Is she happy?

I hope she is.

And most likely, somewhere,

She's still threatening to bite someone.

Poor fellow.

But I wonder…

Would she remember any of this?

The books, the calls, the jokes?

The promises?

The poems?

Would she remember me

As fondly as I remember her?

I'd never know because I was blocked.