09/09/2024
When I think about that day, I can still feel the rain on my skin, the wet earth beneath my feet, and the taste of salt in my tears. It was the kind of day you don’t easily forget, the kind that leaves an imprint on your heart no matter how much time passes.
It was raining when I first met her. I remember because the downpour was so intense that I took shelter under the awning of a small kiosk. The streets of Lagos were flooded, as they always are during heavy rains, and people were scurrying to escape the storm. I was soaked to the bone, cursing myself for not taking the bike earlier when the clouds were already heavy. I had refused to take the bike because I felt the rider wanted to cheat me—charging N400 for a N250 trip—when she appeared beside me, clutching an old, worn-out umbrella.
She smiled at me, a small, hesitant smile that lit up her eyes. “Good afternoon,” she greeted. Her voice was soft, with a lilt that hinted at her Igbo roots. I could tell she wasn’t from Lagos, maybe from Anambra, Enugu, or one of those places.
“Hello, good evening” I replied, trying to sound casual, though I was anything but. There was something about her, something in the way she stood, so calm and composed in the middle of the chaos, that drew me to her.
We stood there together for what felt like hours, talking about everything and nothing, as the rain pounded the pavement and turned the streets into rivers. She told me her name was Chiamaka, but everyone called her Chi. She was in Lagos for her youth service, living with an aunt in Surulere. We talked about our favorite books, our mutual love for Burna Boy, Omah Lay, etc, and the dreams we had for the future. I found myself laughing at her jokes, and when she laughed, it was like music, soft and melodic, like the songs my mother used to sing to me when I was a child.
As the rain began to let up, I knew I couldn’t let her walk away without seeing her again. I asked for her number, and she gave it to me with that same hesitant smile. I watched as she walked away, her umbrella bobbing in the distance, and I knew I was already falling for her.
We saw each other every day after that. I would pick her up after work, and we’d walk through the busy streets of Lagos, talking about everything and nothing, just like we did that first day. Some weekend, we’d visit Atican beach, sit quietly at a corner, watching the water ripple in the evening breeze, and talk about our future. We made plans, so many plans, for a life we thought we’d have together.
Chi was everything I had ever wanted in a woman. She was kind, smart, and had a way of seeing the world that made everything seem brighter. I loved the way she cared for others, the way she would give money to the beggars on the street, even when she didn’t have much herself. I loved the way she would sing, softly, under her breath, as we walked hand in hand. I loved her, every single thing about her.
But as time passed, I began to notice the small things. The way she would go quiet sometimes, staring off into the distance, her thoughts a million miles away. The way she would avoid talking about her family, especially her mother. When I asked, she would brush it off, saying it wasn’t important, that she didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t push her, thinking she’d tell me when she was ready.
Then, one day, she disappeared.
It was a Friday afternoon, and we had planned to go to the beach. I had called her, excited about our plans, but she didn’t pick up. I tried again and again, but her phone was off. I went to her aunt’s house, but no one answered the door. I waited for hours, pacing up and down the street, hoping she would appear. But she never did.
The days turned into weeks, and still no word from her. I called everyone I knew and searched every place I could think of, but it was as if she had vanished into thin air. I was devastated; my heart shattered into pieces. I couldn’t understand how someone who had meant so much to me could just disappear without a word, without a trace.
Months passed, and life went on, though it felt like a hollow version of the life I had known. I went back to my routine, but nothing felt the same. I couldn’t laugh, couldn’t smile, not the way I used to. Everywhere I went, I saw her face, heard her voice in the wind, in the rain that fell each night, reminding me of that first day we met.
Then, one day, by coincidence, something drew me to Surulere, and I found myself on her aunt’s street. I walked into the compound and knocked on the door of her flat again. This time, a total stranger—a man—opened the door. Quickly composing myself, I asked him about the previous occupants of the house. To my surprise, he gave me a perplexing answer. He said that he and his family had been living in that flat, in that building, for the past eight years, and there had never been a Chiamaka or a woman matching the description of her aunt living there. He even called a couple of neighbors to confirm his story. I left, bewildered.
I still think about her, especially when it rains. I wonder what she is, where she is, and even if she was ever real. She has to be real, though, because my friends and siblings saw her, met her, and spoke to her. She even gave one of them a gift on his birthday.
But life goes on, as it always does. The rain still falls, the streets still flood, and people still scurry to get out of the storm. Sometimes, when it rains like that, I find my way to that street and stand under the awning, waiting and hoping that one day she’ll come back, that one day the rain will bring her back to me.
