The initial message was received at 5:12 a.m. when the sky at Lagos had not yet made up its mind on what colour it wanted to be.
"Wish you a happy Valentine day. I hope you sleep well."
I looked at my phone and grinned, although I realized that it was addressed to another person.
She was called Sola, and was a bookseller in a little store by Ojuelegba. I had seen her three months before, when the rain had been driving all home to doorsteps and filling the streets with the smell of damp dust and oil. I entered her shop in order to escape the rain.
I led away a book and something to come back.
The store was small and never cold. Books were stacked in unbalanced piles and a small fan was on the counter blowing the hot air on one side to push it to another side.
Sola had a pair of large glasses, and a low voice, as though she had no wish to interrupt the anecdotes which were spoken around her.
On the first day, she told her, go back the following week, "in case you like this book."
"I’ll have the next part.”
I came back the next week. And the week after that.
We discussed books, Lagos traffic, how difficult it was to get time that was not owned by somebody. In some cases when business was light she would read to me. Even the most basic of sentences were what seemed important with the help of her voice.
But Sola had a boyfriend. His name was Kunle. He was an offshore worker who was forever coming back. On her phone screen, on a small frame next to the counter, his photos were everywhere.
I heard of him just like you hear of bad weather, too early, and completely out of power to prevent it.
Still, we talked.
The city was starting to transform as the valentine day was approaching. The supermarkets were hung with red balloons. Radio presenters laughed out than normal.
Careless questions were put to me by my friends.
“So, who is your Valentine?” One night Tunde inquired when we were having suya by the road.
I shrugged. “Nobody serious.”
On February 14th morning I made up my mind not to go to the bookshop. I said to myself that it was another day. I reported to work, answered mails, drank poor coffee. But in evening my feet took me there without consulting my leave.
It was not yet time to close the shop, and the lights were low. Sola was sitting at the counter with tight shoulders.
“You came,” she said.
“You’re still open,” I replied.
She smiled, and it never came to her eyes. Kunle was to be coming today.
I nodded. “Supposed to.”
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“He called,” she said. “This morning. Something changed. He won’t make it.”
She did not say more. She did not need to.
Outside, a generator hummed. Somebody some way down the street had laughed too loud.
The air was stuffy in the shop, such as it is when it is going to rain.
I did not know whether I should leave at early, I said. “Or stay. Or go home.”
“So you stayed,” I said.
She looked at me then. Really looked. “Yes.”
There was a long silence. I took a book out of the counter, shook it upside down, and replaced it.
I brought you a present, I said to myself to my surprise.
I took out a little envelope out of my bag. Inside was a plain card. No hearts. No roses. One line of a book she was fond of, and in my ushering hand.
She read it slowly. She laughed when she had finished, a little squeaky laugh, nearly like a sigh.
“This is perfect,” she said. “Thank you.”
We could talk till the shopkeeper that was our neighbor started closing.
About nothing important. About everything small. Time passed slowly, as though it was afraid to upset us.
At length, she said, Kunle requested me to something this day.
I waited.
“He asked me to wait. Not for a ring. Just… wait.”
“And?” I asked.
The woman folded the card and put it into her bag. “I told him I needed time.”
In the outside, the streetlights flashed.
Valentine day was nearly at an end.
“I should go,” I said.
She walked me to the door. Thanks, said the other, you know you have come.
When I came out of the street, she called my name.
“Yes?”
Well, said her, to-morrow may I have you to assist me in putting the books back in their places?
I smiled. “Yes. Tomorrow.”
I strolled homeward with a silent sky. The city seemed to be restraining itself.
Valentines Day had come but without fireworks and promises, it had come with an interlude. And even a break is sufficient to allow a narrative time to breathe.
