Dear Labake,
It was on a Wednesday. I had just finished a court case that went sour—a bad divorce case—and it wasn’t one of my best. I drove home, deep into the streets of Bodija, where my bungalow was situated. I rested briefly on my chair, thinking about my bad day, then changed out of my office clothes. My wig, stained from seven years of practice, no longer looked new.
I stepped out of the house. It was my usual practice to take a walk in the evening. I often used that time to buy groceries at the supermarket at the end of the road. I greeted Iya Mokaila and Mokaila herself, who never failed to smile at me and call me “Lawya” with her sweet voice.
I picked my bread and a few other items like milk and cereal. I was about to pay when I ran into your sister. It surprised me to see Bunmi had grown into a big girl. She still retained her dark skin and oblong face, her beauty as innocent as it was in childhood. We greeted and exchanged pleasantries.
Of course, it was only normal to ask after you. When I did, I was shocked to hear that you had relocated to Canada with your husband and had a son now. Nothing prepared me for the revelation that it had been four years since you last stepped into Nigeria.
Who would have thought? Labake, the village girl, living in Canada. Labake, the orange seller, who would often knock on my door to ask if I wanted to buy fruits. I still remember the first time you came into my compound, the one owned by the village headmaster. Your command of English caught my attention—it was so good that one would wonder how you spoke so fluently, having only completed primary school.
You became my regular customer and often spent time with me. Through you, I learned much of the village gossip. Long before it became public, you told me about Akanni and the chief’s last wife. I still remember how Akanni was dragged ruthlessly around the village, naked, while the children sang mocking songs.
Our connection deepened when your father asked me to teach your sister evening lessons for her junior WAEC exams. It gave me more reasons to be in your house and watch you at home. I remember the day I stayed back for amala. You had cooked it, and the vegetables were delicious. I wondered if your parents invited me to eat because they were aware of what was growing between us.
Those days felt full of promise. I remember how we’d go down to the village stream and hunt for fruits. And that day on the mango tree, when soldier ants stung me. The concern in your eyes as you removed every ant from my body was unforgettable. Labake, you almost cried.
It was in that moment I realized what we meant to each other. The depth of what we felt was undeniable.
But the joy of our companionship was short-lived. Uncle Bolaji came to the village for Christmas, and after speaking with my parents, it was decided I would go to Ibadan to study law.
It was a dream come true, yet leaving you behind felt like betrayal. I couldn’t find the courage to tell you I was leaving. I feared leaving you alone in the village with the Agadi boys, who looked at you with envy and hunger.
I left with my uncle, but for weeks, your memory haunted me. You appeared in my dreams, your tearful eyes accusing me of abandoning you. Sleep became elusive, so I turned to my books. When I couldn’t sleep, I studied. It became my routine.
This went on for two years, until your letter arrived. You told me to forget you and move on because you had moved on. You asked if I was happy and making progress. You said you had forgiven me and prayed for me.
That letter was my closure. After reading it, you stopped visiting my dreams, and I stopped burning the midnight candle. The pain I caused you was the drive that had kept me going. Without it, I felt empty.
Practicing law feels like penance. I deliver justice to others but cannot forgive myself for the injustice I did to you. It’s a burden I carry, knowing I sacrificed you, our love, and what we could have been.
And I sacrificed more than that—your virtue. That night, when I broke your hymen, I took more from you than I ever gave.
Now, you seem to be in a good place, while I’m left to bear the weight of my choices. Life is unpredictable, isn’t it? I wonder if I’ll ever get another chance after how I treated you.
This letter is just one of many I’ve written but will never send. I am in a bad place, Labake, and I know this is my cross to bear.
