Last updated on October 17th, 2025 at 07:57 am
I don’t get up from my laptop until noon, almost six hours of intense focus work. Thankfully, I got a lot of work done. As soon as I shut my laptop, I make a banana smoothie, change into my gym fit and head to the gym. I should check my phone; it’s still on the nightstand where I left it, but I’m scared to. So I leave the house and avoid the inevitable until I return at some minutes past three in the afternoon.
By now, I’m utterly scared to check my phone. I decide to clean the house, not that it’s dirty, but I need to keep busy. So, for the next two hours, I’m deep cleaning my house, decluttering, and filling up bin bags with items I no longer need. I’ve been here for just over a year, with almost a whole year spent on trips, yet I’ve managed to accumulate so much. I pick up a magazine, it’s from one of the hotels I lodged in during my trip.
—
It’s six o’clock. I’ve avoided my phone all day and I need to man up, as they say. Without allowing myself to think, I let my legs carry me into the room, pick up my phone and go back to the sitting room. I drop into the couch and unlock my phone, then scroll to WhatsApp. There in my archive is Constance’s message: Joe, Joseph, I can’t believe you replied! I’m fine now that you finally messaged me. When do you want us to talk? I take in a deep breath and drop the phone on the couch.
So I reached out to her, but what’s the plan? Are we supposed to talk over the phone? I look at the time she replied and see that it was about twelve hours ago. I know that I don’t want this to be a chat. I don’t need her to be comfortable enough to always want to chat to me. My parents mentioned that she stays in Lagos too. I look at the message that I sent her once more. Why I asked if she’s doing okay baffles me as I read the text again.
I can’t travel to Lagos, as I also don’t want her to exaggerate or make up anything in her head about her importance. My flying to Lagos is bound to give her such ideas. Let me know when you’re free, and we can talk on the phone. I hit send. The trick is to rip the band-aid off without overthinking. It takes me a moment to notice that I stopped breathing as I hit enter. So I focus on my breath for a while as I wait for her to reply. What if she is busy?
I’m about to lock my phone when I see three dots appear on the screen. Constance is typing; she’s about to reply. It takes all of my willpower not to drop the phone and bolt out of the house. This must be important. I’m very busy at work, can we do tomorrow? In the afternoon. She replies. I can’t believe that I’m now chatting with Constance. Aunty Constance.
Okay. 1 pm tomorrow. Thanks. Thanks? How about I also thank her for molesting me? For causing me to starve because I didn’t want to risk an encounter with her. I already sent the message, though, so I just lock my phone and drop it. There and then, I decide that I have to talk to my parents, separately.
—
I pick up my phone and dial Constance, unable to stop bouncing my legs. To say that I’m nervous is an understatement. She replied to my last message yesterday. Can’t wait. Yeah, I bet. It’s exactly 1 pm as we agreed. I gave up trying to work when I couldn’t achieve anything because I was unable to focus. Instead, I took the day of,f then found a series to watch. The series eventually became a background chatter as I reflected on what I was going to tell Constance.
I’m thinking that the call is going unanswered when Constance picks up. My breath hitches, and all composure flies out the window.
“Joe.” She calls, sounding excited. Way too excited if you ask me. I should reply, but I can’t find my voice. It takes a while and her incessant repetition of my name for me to be able to reply to her.
“Hi,” I answer, my voice hoarse.
“Oh!” She sighs. “I thought it was the network.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m here.” I clear my throat.
“So, you finally respond to my messages after all this time.” She drawls, seemingly oblivious to my silence. I can’t deal with this conversation with her having the upper hand and chatting away as if all is well.
“Constance, I want to talk about what happened when we lived in the same house,” I say, sounding harsher than necessary, but feeling a sense of excitement at being able to sound firm.
“Oh…kay?” She says, almost deflated. I shake off the feeling of guilt then decide to make it a conversation rather than shutting her down and making her clam up.
“Do you remember what happened when I was in secondary school?” My heart starts beating fast.
“I remember everything that happened between us. Why do you ask?”
“Okay, so this is a dialogue, Constance. I don’t want it to come off as interrogatory.”
