Last updated on October 17th, 2025 at 02:18 pm
I can’t be mad at my parents because viewing them as normal humans, I’m able to see that they’re flawed, as most humans are. As parents, they were and have never been a burden. If communicating their love to me was through their support, especially financial support, then I know how much they love me. After they left, I was able to imagine the pain that they were going through. For you to have trusted someone and for them to have done something unforgivable to your son.
Somewhere in Constance’s mind, she’s sure that she fell in love me and it makes everything right. Not like I care. My mum has called me twice a week since their visit, and my dad once a week. It’s been easier for me simply because I compartmentalise. They aren’t the best parents, but they’re good humans. No one teaches anyone how to be a perfect parent, and it’s relative; a perfect parent to one child is different to another child.
Hassan also apologised. He claimed that if he had known that it was me when I told him, his response would have been different. His response wasn’t bad; it was even better than all the responses I’ve gotten over the years. He’s a real one. For the first time in a few years, I don’t mind having a partner this year’s Valentine’s Day. Not that it’s my thing but at the same time, it’s not “not my thing.” If my woman loves it, I’m cool with it. Only that, I have no woman, except for the one woman who has been featuring in my dreams.
I scroll to her status as is my recent habit (she’s also been posting more, if one picture in two weeks counts) and see a cute picture of a little boy and her, with the caption: My Valentine, today and every day. The last time that she posted on her WhatsApp status was a picture of this little boy and her. It was during the period that my parents and Hassan were here, so I saved the picture to come back to. Something stood out about the picture then and now. After my parents left, I forgot about it, not like I could follow up anyway, since we hadn’t chatted in ages, not even when we both attended a training in the same venue.
Still, I can’t help the persistent feeling that this isn’t just a normal picture. Maybe I’m getting too clear-minded, but then I look at the picture again. There’s an unmistakable resemblance. The boy looks to be about four or five years old—this means he could have been born a year after NYSC, at about the time that Angela stopped chatting with me. I grab my phone and scroll to our chat which I’ve not deleted. The last message I sent to her was me checking up on her and that was it. No response. Nothing. Five years ago. I was going to ask if I could video call her but since she seemed to have suddenly become unavailable, I didn’t.
What happened five years ago? The typical person is probably not thinking twice about Angela’s post but I’ve always wondered more than once what I said wrong. I’ve always held a curiosity about why Angela stopped chatting with me. I wasn’t hounding her, I wasn’t even asking her out anymore; she had told me that she had someone and I respected her choice, so we were friends. Before I am able to stop myself, I reply to her status.
Angela! It’s been ages.
I wait with bated breath, not really knowing what to expect. I have to keep myself from tapping my foot recklessly as I await her message. Life as an adult can easily spiral out of control; there’s always a reason to be anxious. I can relate to people who find relatively unsafe outlets; it’s the ghetto out here.
—
After waiting for about an hour for Angela’s reply, I get busy with work. This work pays the bills, curiosity doesn’t. I check the time and see that it’s been almost four hours since I sat down to work. This is another thing that I love about my work; how I can easily get lost in it.
I hibernate my laptop, get up and stretch then go to the kitchen to sort out dinner. I’ve been cooking more this year and eating out less, and not only has it been good for my pocket but my health too. It’s a subtle difference but I can tell. For the rest of the evening on Valentine’s Day, I, a twenty-eight-year-old man somewhere in Calabar, am attempting to make a lovely meal for myself. True love.
