I was going through my pile of old schoolbooks recently and found one of those books that was originally written as a series of letters but put together as a full book for educational purposes. I think the title was So Long a Letter by Mariama Bâ, although I may be mixing it up with another book. The cover with the title was missing.
Either way, it got me thinking about how letter writing feels like a lost art, and honestly, I think it deserves to come back.
People used to be so creative with letters. There was something about sitting down with a piece of paper and carefully putting your thoughts into words. Now, we seem to have become too lazy for full sentences. We shorten everything on WhatsApp, throw a few emojis into the mix, and call it communication. Even emails, which are technically letters in another form, somehow feel more functional than personal.
I remember coming across a few handwritten letters when I was about thirteen. Some of my friends used to receive them from boys at school. I never got one myself. At that age, I suppose I wasn’t exactly considered physically appealing.
My parents were extremely religious and had very strong opinions about anything they considered fashionable. I wore the largest uniforms imaginable, and my hair was usually shaved clean because it was cheaper than braiding it. Lip gloss was completely out of the question.
I still remember one harmattan season when my lips were badly chapped. I thought applying Vaseline would obviously be harmless because, well, my lips were literally suffering. Instead, my father, who was a pastor at the time, caught me and punished me for it. Apparently, I was trying to become “seductive and wild.”
Looking back, it is actually hilarious. Regardless, I somehow became friends with some of the prettiest girls in school. Those ones who received letters from crushes. I was never bullied, but I did get the occasional side comment about looking like a pastor’s child.
And the boys back then could write. My friends would bring their letters to school or the ones they found in their lockers, and we’d arrange our desks in a circle. The owner of the letter would sit in the middle and read it aloud while the rest of us listened, giggled, and collectively went, “Awww.”
Some of those boys wrote with such confidence and creativity that you would think they had been studying poetry in secret. Their words usually came from a place of deep musing. One time, a particular letter was so beautifully written that I stole it from my friend and read it by myself. Not because I wanted her crush, I just wanted to know what it felt like to be described that way.
I would read those words and daydream about someone looking at me with the same kind of admiration. I can’t remember what eventually happened to those letters. I eventually grew out of that phase, especially after my teenage rebellion, which my father described as grave and a disgrace. He still complains about some of my choices to this day, although not nearly as much. My mother has long since gotten used to it, and I have simply learned to do me.
One thing on my bucket list for when my hair is grey is to write myself a letter, a real letter.
I want to walk into an antique store and find a bottle of ink and a feather, although I’m not entirely sure how practical writing with a feather would be. I want a timeless sheet of paper, perhaps one edged in gold. I want to sit beside a window with the curtains drawn, the moon fully out, and a lantern glowing beside me. Then I want to write.
I want to write about who I was, who I became, the things I loved, the things I lost, the places I went, the people who mattered, the mistakes I made, and all the strange little moments that somehow became my life.
I want that letter to be addressed to my family, my present family and whatever future family may exist by then. Something they can find years after I’m gone and read, not just to know what I did, but to know who I was.
Sometimes I enjoy technology so much that I forget how much I also want to escape from it. There are days when I imagine disappearing into the wild. I’d climb trees, collect scars, steal honey from bees, get my clothes dirty, and live without a screen demanding my attention every few minutes.
Then, when night comes and the cold wind begins to creep through my window, I’d sit beside that same window with my lantern and write. I’d write about the day’s adventures on paper. I’d fold the letter carefully, put it away, and add it to the growing pile of letters I’ve written over the years.
A little archive of my life, something physical, something that smells like paper and time that can outlive me.
Dreams, dreams.
Sighs.
