Ghosts of Girls Who Never Whispered a Word

Late in the day, hot in the afternoon, I was in every kind of hurry. I needed to be in Lagos before the end of the day, so I could make it to work the next day – and maybe avoid an earful.

Opi Iweka was busy as usual, people crowded in an oily cluster, some dragging you, most dragging themselves, screams of Enugu, Benin, Ibadan revolting in the air in tireless  decibels. High above, the sky shone a sheen of purple, like the underbelly of an octopus. I noticed because I had to keep looking into the distance as I hurried towards Lagos Park.

As it was late, I wasn’t able to find an afternoon bus leaving to Lagos despite having walked the length of the busy transport center. I eventually decided to get a bus to the bypass in Benin, from where I would rely on sheer luck and my bravodo to find a way to Lagos before the day slipped away. It was between that and night travel, and I wasn’t going to risk feeling like fungus at work the next day.

She was seated under a shed in front of a container that I could bet sold items like toothpaste, biscuits, satchet gin, kai kai and expired soft drinks. The container was not open, for whatever reason, and she was enjoying the owner’s kindness, as they did not lock up the beloved wooden bench they would use to entertain customers who needed to get drunk on cheap alcohol after a hard day; mostly drivers and touts the way I imagined it.

She was beautiful. Beautiful in a way that did not take the breathe away; the type that slowly dawns on you and then proceeds to slowly steal all of your attention.

I first noticed her after paying for my seat in the Sienna Mini-Van I had found going to Benin. As I couldn’t wait inside the car, for reasons such as the heat and the really incomprehensible fish smell, I decided to rest by the door and take in air. She was seated opposite the Sienna, just some metres away. I noticed that she had such well sculptured nose, and she was a tall, and not exactly curvy – like most tall girls. Well, I couldn’t possibly be sure, seeing as she was seated.

Perhaps, I should have spoken to her. The bench was long enough for two, there was nobody on the other end. I could have pretended I needed a seat. I would have sat by her side, fussed about the heat and proceeded to ask her name.

“It’s so hot these days. It’s almost impossible to cope. I am  Charles by the way. Or Nnamdi. You can call me Nnamdi.”

Nnamdi because it was Onitsha and I couldn’t go seeming like an outsider, even though in actual fact, I was.

“Hi. I’m ………….” 

She would have told me her name, and smiled. Most likely. Either that, or she would have acted uninterested, and withdrawn and I would have had to push on. Then I would have said something stupid like “I hope you can understand me though. I really can’t speak Igbo much” and then say “Ah. That’s such a relief” if by some luck she answered that she was fine with conversing in English.

Maybe she was a student. Maybe she was going back to school. UNN? UNIZIK? I could have asked her if she stayed in Onitsha. We would have laughed at some point. Maybe just me at first, then she would join in eventually – smitten by my charm or finally comfortable enough to patronize my tedious jokes.

She had these really beautiful eyes. Sleepy, clear like a brook, piercing eyes that defy my feeble attempts at describing. Her lashes hung low and long, dancing  around her eyes like picturesque beach umbrellas. I would have told her this – not in these exact words though. I would have professed it with utter amazement, with deliberate simplicity. She would have smiled, or shrinked. I would have held her eyes as I said it either ways, so she would know I was being honest. Her eyes had this story in them, some sadness that flickered in the dullish shimmer of her pupils. Maybe, one day, she would have told me what it was; that quiet that lined her soul on that day.

Her lips were beautiful too. Incredibly imperfect lips, her upper lips hanging some inches longer than her lower lips, making her seem like some exotic bird. Somehow, she looked more beautiful from the side, which was unbelievable, because it’s such an impossible angle from which to be beautiful – from the side. I can’t even manage to look decently good-looking from my side, and there she was looking like all the artistry of the angle was made for her entertainment.

I would have told her this too. But I didn’t. I didn’t say a word, didn’t bother. I just stared unabashedly at her, knowing she could feel my gaze on her, wondering what she thought of it, occasionally looking away, just in case she wanted to stare back but wouldn’t want to make my eyes, noticing that she did stare at me on occasions, then wondering what she thought of me. I gave the guy I bought satchet water from a tip; I may have done this if she wasn’t there, if I wasn’t hoping she was watching, but I did it with a little more in mind this time. It was stupid really; I wasn’t hoping she would think I was generous, I was hoping she would see I wasn’t everyone else, if you understand what I mean. On two occasions I almost caught her eyes on me, on both she took them away quickly enough. 

A bit of me really wanted to talk to her. But I knew all along I wouldn’t. She was one of them, I felt it. One of those girls I would end up beating myself over not talking to. One of those who have me asking myself “what use” when they are in sight and haunt my mind once I am assured I would never see them again. There have been many of them; they haunt me at their convenience. They all struck me in the heart, but never could pull me into talking to them – not because they were not magical enough; but because something in my being did not need me to bother. Maybe, somewhere in the heart of my heart, I knew it was going to be more beautiful this way – no words to ruin whatever those few moments meant; no truths or lies to ruin our small piece of nothing. Or maybe I was being a coward. I don’t have much trouble starting conversations though, so it couldn’t really have been that. Maybe it was just reticence? I tend to suffer that a lot. Or maybe it was my script, if things were meant to play that way. I guess I’ll never know.

I sometimes wonder about them. How we could have been friends; who they are; what their stories could have been; who they love; where they live; what their names are. I wonder too, about all the beauties I may have unearthed in talking to them, befriending them. I also wonder how many of the people I give premium in my life, would not be in my life, if I never said Hi. It sometimes scares me, the thought of all the ghosts of memories I have, how easily some of the people who matter to me could have been one of them.

As the Sienna pulled out to leave the park, moments after the two men supposed to seat beside me had finished fighting over whose over-sized girth was occupying the most space in the car, I hoped the driver wouldn’t drive so fast so I could take in her features one last time. While the driver pulled into the road, I turned to look back at her, lucky I was seated by the right window. I found her straining to look at me, trying to avoid the wooden pillar that was used to hold up the shed, which was now obstructing her view. And for a beautiful brief second, I caught her eyes, and in it, what seemed like a tiny unhappiness at my leaving. I smiled weakly, a veiled sadness lining the gesture.