The restaurant was our little world after secondary school, before life dragged us in different directions. Azuka and I continued to admire each other from afar, shared dreams whispered over smoky stoves and secret smiles exchanged across serving tables.
He made me laugh when my feet ached. He was the first to notice when I braided my hair differently. He wasn’t like the other boys, loud and careless, he was thoughtful, always ready to mop the floor, do the dishes or give his only meat to anyone who didn't get a share.
Then one day, life moved on and we all went our separate ways.
No calls. No notes. Nothing.
We liked each other a lot but we never gave voice to our feelings. I guess he was too shy to make a move and I was raised to believe the girl should never make the first move, it was always the guy's place.
So, four years later, when I saw him again—of all places—in Ketu… my heart stopped.
But he looked different.
His feet were covered in dust, as if he had journeyed across deserts, his clothes were worn out, and a bit oversized. He looked too thin, like someone who hadn't eaten in days. I wasn't entirely sure it was him at first, but his height gave him away. He still stood six feet two, taller than the average man, a feature that had me falling for him, the very first time I laid eyes on him.
---💠
Back then, he was the senior prefect of our grammar school, an exceptional basketball player who proudly represented us in numerous inter-school competitions. His height was his greatest asset.
He was my crush back then.
“Azuka?” I asked.
He turned, and his eyes lit up. “Chioma! My God! Is this really you?”
We stood staring for a moment, the Lagos noise fading behind our reunion. I noticed how thin he’d become, how tired his smile looked.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Yaba,” he said, shrugging. Trekking!"
"Where did you go, Azu? It's been years."
"Long story.” He smiled. He had the most beautiful smile I had ever seen on any man.
---💠
I reached into my purse and handed him some crumpled naira notes, all that I had. “Here, at least take transport.”
His eyes welled up. “Thank you. I—can I see you again?”
I hesitated. I was staying with my uncle, a former soldier who was very strict. He barely let me go out alone, talk less of having male visitors.
“I’m not allowed visitors,” I said quietly.
“Then take my address. Come visit me when you can. Please,” he said, scribbling on a small piece of paper.
I took it, promising to go. We hugged briefly. It felt… final, though I didn’t understand why.
A week later, on my only free Saturday, I made my way to the address.
It was a hospital.
I checked and rechecked the number. The security man looked at me strangely and said it was strictly a hospital, not residential. I left confused and disappointed, assuming he’d written it wrong.
---💠
The memory would not go away, it kept tugging at my chest. So when I visited home two months later, I decided, on a whim, to check on him or at least ask his family about his whereabout.
When I got to his house, the old compound looked the same, though the painted walls were faded and in need of a fresh coat.
His mother answered the door.
“Ah, Is it Chioma I am seeing?” she looked so shocked to see me. “Come in.” She said quietly.
She offered me a seat and I asked the question as casually as I could.
“I saw Azuka recently, in Ketu. He gave me an address, and said I should visit, but I guess it was a mistake because it was a hospital, so I didn’t find him.”
Her brows furrowed. “When did you see him?”
“Two months ago,” I said. “on the 12th of May.”
Her lips parted, she stared at me as though I’d just grown wings.
“My daughter… Azuka died on the 16th of May, after a long, protracted illness. For months, he was too weak to get out of bed, much less walk. He died in a hospital in Yaba.”
My heart stopped.
“No, ma… I saw him just days before that, he looked like he had been trekking for miles. I spoke to him, I even gave him money for transport!”
She was shaking her head slowly, as if reality had split between us.
“Are you sure it was him?”
“I know Azuka, I know him. He even asked me to visit him after I told him my uncle would not allow male visitors to our house. Tolani's hospital—was that where he died?”
“Yes,” she whispered slowly. “Room 309. Ward B. He died clutching his Bible and a piece of paper.”
I felt the air sucked from my lungs.
“I thought… I thought maybe he got the address wrong. But he didn’t. I was just… too late.”
She stood slowly and walked to the back room, returning with a plastic bag. Inside was a notebook. I recognized his handwriting immediately.
One entry, dated May 11:
“If only I could see her one more time. If I can just tell her I never forgot that day at the restaurant, when she gave me the bigger meat because I was tired—that was the day I knew I loved her.”
I began to cry. I couldn’t hold it in. Every word hit like a blade.
“He never stopped talking about you, Chioma,” Mama Azuka said, tears in her own eyes. “Even when the pain got worse. He begged God for one chance. Just one moment, to see you again.”
I was shaking. “But… how? How did I see him? Talk to him? Give him money?”
She looked at me long and slow, then said, “Maybe love is stronger than death. Maybe his spirit held on, just for you.”
"I didn't understand it then, but now I do" she said as she handed to me, the piece of paper he had held onto until the very end;
"I can now rest for I have seen my beloved."
Then she said something that chilled me.
“A week after his burial, a nurse brought this.”
She handed me an envelope with my name on it, written in his handwriting.
---💠
Chioma,
If you're reading this, then it means you came looking for me. The years came and went, I watched you from afar and loved you still. The diagnosis came early, and deep down I knew, I didn't stand a chance.
But I didn’t want you to remember me as weak, dying in a hospital bed. I wanted you to remember me smiling. Walking. Laughing. That’s why I asked God for just one more chance. Just one moment. To see you again.
I don’t know if prayers work that way, but if you saw me—then they do.
Thank you. For everything.
You meant more than you ever knew.
Azuka.
I wept.
Mama Azuka pulled me close like a daughter, the one she never had, and we sat there, mourning, no words enough to express the pain we each felt.
And as I stared out the window, I whispered through my tears:
“Where did you go, Azuka?”
And somehow, deep in my heart, I heard him whisper back:
“To say goodbye.”
All images are generated with AI.
I am 
