Dear Ivie.
Dear Ivie,
I am running out of things to do. I have successfully counted the ceiling boards in this room more times than I can remember and told the man beside me to shut up in my head over and over again. I know he’s in pain but must he shout so much?
I am shocked that I haven’t gone mad with boredom or have I? I think I must have. Why else would I be writing you a letter?
The weirdest of things remind me about you. Why do I always think of you when the sky turns dark and pregnant clouds pour forth their watery offspring? When the rains become heavy and every drop on my rooftop sounds like the movement of atilogu dancers, I remember your clumsy dance steps and the creaky laughter that follows.
When the smell of ozone tickles my nostrils, I remember the smell of shea butter on your caramel skin. For the last twenty years, Ivie, every time I see blood being spilt, it reminds me of your ruby red lipstick.
Ivie, I am but a dead man. Cancer has eaten deep into my flesh and I am left with bones and just enough skin to cover them. The doctors do not know what to do with me and they’re all waiting for my last breath.
The priest came last week and he said I’ll find peace on the other side. But how can I find peace when my only reason for existence is still here on earth?
When I die, I hope I meet your husband. So, I can tell him how sorry I am in person or spirit or whatever form we take when we die. I didn’t mean to kill him, I didn’t even know the gun was loaded. That was the second time I had ever held a gun in my life.
The first time, I was ten years old and a soldier let me hold his gun while I waited for my mother at the barracks. I deeply regret my actions that night.
Even though it has been over twenty years, the events of that dreary night still haunt me to date. I wonder how differently my life would have turned out if you didn’t invite me over. I wonder what I would have been if you didn’t constantly show up to class looking distressed and forlorn.
I sometimes replay the memories in my head and imagine what would have happened if I didn’t decide to stay back and speak to you every day. Would I have ended up here if I just packed my books and left with my mates?
I hope you do not take this the wrong way. I do not blame you for what happened. The time we spent together was the only vibrant shade of happiness in my truly boring life. The first day you took my hand and put it inside your bra, I knew what it was to be a man.
The warmth of your cleavage massaged my palm and my ego at the same time. I was in heaven. The thoughts of what we did to our bodies in the classroom still resurrects my shrivelled penis.
It is this same excitement that led me to your house without thinking when I saw the photos you sent. You wore barely anything, your red lipstick and smoky eyeshadow was all the motivation I needed.
I quickly left the garri I was prepping to soak and put on my darkest shorts and shirt. It didn’t take long for me to scale the hostel fence and end up in the backyard of your house in the staff quarters.
You welcomed me into your bosom with open arms and didn’t waste time to take my mouth into yours. Unluckily for us, your husband decided to pay you a visit that damned night. If I had known, I should have continued soaking my garri but who says no to a goddess like you, Ivie? No man born of a woman.
When you pointed your husband’s gun at him after he beat your face to a pulp right in my presence, I knew I had to do something to help. In retrospect, I could have tried to tackle him to the floor but no one thinks when the woman they love is in danger. I quickly reached for the gun, aimed it at him and squeezed the trigger until the explosive sound stopped.
Your husband laid there, lifeless, you stood there, speechless and I watched, breathless. Even, when you called the police, I did not blame you, your husband had just died and you were in mourning.
It was during my trial in court when you denied our love in public that broke me. I did not expect that. Even when the judge called out my punishment, “Life Imprisonment with Hard Labour,” you did not spare me a look, despite how many times I called out to you.
At least something good came out of this ailment that plagues me. I have been able to see the sun after 20 years of rotting in a room where the only source of light is a tiny hole through which water floods the place from March till October. I sat there in anguish, waiting for you to visit for years, but you never came.
Ivie, I will soon breathe my last. I hope when you die, you go to hell. Not because I want you to suffer but I know that’s where I’m going and we have scores to settle.
With Love,
Your Favourite Student,
Osaro.
