The rain started before sunset.
Not the heavy rain in Lagos which pours down and fills roads with danfo buses waiting for hours. This one was soft, slow, and gently tapped on the roofs of the zinc houses of Oke-Ayo Street.
Just then, Aisha was in her mother's bakery, putting loaves of bread on the wooden shelf, and looking outside. Kids were running across the street, barefoot, yelling and laughing as if rain was theirs.
Her mother said without lifting her head from the tomatoes she was sorting, “You're back at that road again.”
“I’m not.”
“Here you are for Kunle.”
Aisha kept quiet.
Her mother sighed. “He has already been in Abuja for two years now.”
“He assured me: I will return.”
Many people say all sorts of things.”
Aisha then picked up another loaf of bread and pushed it too hard. The nylon wrapper created a bend in her fingers.
Kunle had promised.
They had been standing by the yellow bridge behind the secondary school, three days before he went to Abuja. A light wind gently rustled the tall grass, and generators hummed in the homes nearby.
“By the time you turn next birthday, I will be back,” Kunle had promised her.
“You better do.”
“I promise.”
Then he smiled as he always did, the smile of a man who felt that life was going to be kind to him.
This was 2 birthdays ago.
A motorcycle came to a stop outside the store. Aisha quickly lifted her gaze, heart jumping for an idiotic second.
But Baba Seyi the tailor, with his bag of rice.
Her mother saw the sadness in her eyes, but didn't say a word.
The little bell, that hung above the door to the shop, chimed when someone came in.
“Good evening.”
Aisha turned.
And froze.
Kunle was there with an old traveling bag. He shed water from his shoulders onto a cement floor.
They all fell silent for a moment.
He looked thinner. Older too. Abuja had removed the softness from his face.
“Aisha,” he whispered quietly.
Her mom straightened straight away. “Oh, right you remembered this street.”
“Good evening, Mama.”
“Hm.”
Aisha carefully patted her hands on her skirt. “You came.”
Kunle nodded once. “I did.”
The quiet that ensued was uncomfortable and intrusive.
Her mother took a basket. I want to purchase some pepper from Iyabo's stall. She walked towards the door and stopped by Kunle's side. “There are some promises that if left too long, they expire.”
Again the bell rang as she walked out.
Kunle exhaled deeply.
“I deserve that.”
Aisha raised her arms over her chest. “You disappeared.”
“I know.”
“No calls.”
“Well, I had my phone stolen.”
“You can't borrow another one?”
“I tried.”
“You stopped trying.”
Kunle looked down on the wet floor. “Things were hard.”
There was laughter in the depths of Aisha, but it was not a happy laugh. “It's a rough time for all in the scene.”
It was getting dark out, with thunder rolling across the sky.
Kunle set his suitcase down so as not to jar the suitcases. “Upon arrival in Abuja, the mechanic workshop I was supposed to work in shut down and its owner died; I had no place to stay at first.”
Aisha remained silent.
For some weeks, I had slept in a church,” he went on. Then I began washing buses at a park.”
She wanted to remain angry. She really wanted to. However his voice was weary in a way she had never heard before.
“You might as well have called.”
“I was ashamed.”
The solution lay between them, as they were to each other.
Aisha even turned away and adjusted the bread as it was straight.
"The bad thing,” she whispered, “is that I didn't expect it to be so easy."
Kunle waited.
“Everyone was asking me about you.” She swallowed hard. I stood up for you at first, I told you that you were busy, then later… She shook her head. “I stopped talking.”
Kunle stepped closer. "I can't forget you."
“That doesn't matter.”
“I know.”
It was now raining heavily. The rain was pouring through the gutters surrounding the store.
Kunle hailed a taxi cab and then pulled out a little folded paper from his pocket.
Many times I wrote, he said. I just never could muster the courage to send them.
Aisha paused to consider it before taking it.
It had been folded excessively, making the paper worn and soft.
“You were walking around with this on you?”
He smiled faintly. “Almost one year.”
She looked at him intently. There was no more the brimming confident lad who was by the bridge making easy promises. He had been stretched by Life.
She asked, “What is going to happen now?”
Kunle looked around the little shop. There was the same old refrigerator in the corner that made the typical humming sound. Wall with same calendar. Scent of detergent and bread.
Now I'm in a proper garage, I'm working,” he said. “There is a branch here in Ibadan, they transferred me last week.”
Aisha blinked. “You’re staying?”
“If it's not too much to see me again.”
Before she could answer, her mother came back with a nylon bag which contained pepper.
She paused at the door, from side to side.
“Hm,” she muttered. “So there was no one who bought anything during my absence?”
Aisha laughed suddenly.
Not loudly. Not perfectly. But not so much that she would be surprised.
Even Kunle smiled.
It started to rain out of doors but became less intense. The clouds were slowly giving way and the light of evening was creeping through, touching the wet road, as if it were golden.
