It’s been years Sofa, till yesterday. How long has it been, six, seven years? Kept count?
You know you always say, “Life is cruel,” and now I believe you again, who else but a mean old bitch would send me the worst reminder yesterday, seeing you in the supermarket.
I wish we hadn’t met and yet I’m happy we did, because now I know I’ve been fooling myself all these years, telling myself I’m over you when I’ve not begun yet.
I’ve spent all these years tucking away parts of me I would never need again because you were gone, locked away parts of me somewhere nobody ever ventured into, removing, destroying reminders of you, of us, of the sad truth that I had once let my hair down with you and taken a long shot at happiness.
You know those little souvenirs, they’re all shattered, broken, burnt up somewhere.
Remember the framed picture of us, of those beautiful couple, it went crashing against the wall the day after you left. The flower vase too, the picture cards went up in flames a week later.
My room is no more filled with pink girlie glitters, Sofa, it is the room of a matured mind, of a grown-up lady who has seen much to ever yield to the antics of a man.
So I thought, Sofa till yesterday.
I thought I was plastic, yet you still conjure up heat to make me melt, and even warmth crept into my cold heart.
How are you, Sofa?
I’m so sorry, I got carried away. Need I ask, life had dealt fairly with you, Sofa. You’re so beautiful, still lovely like the pitch darkness.
I use the word ‘beautiful’ as I remember how you protest when I call you that, but you, my dear are beautiful. Brothers can be beautiful too.
Who is your new she, Sofa? Is she as short as I am? Do you tower over her when you kiss her? Or can she stare into your eyes without raising her face some inches higher? Does she wear her hair long or short? Does she wear your T-shirts too? The shirts stopping just an inch before the knee? Do you play T&D too? Do you play Ludo with her too?
Does she have a fancy name for you too, Sofa? Your name Ikechukwu lost in the warmth of an endearing name.
Do you still remember our warm entanglements on your sofa, the reason behind your name? Or is it all smudged in the haze of the past in your brain? Do you remember or choose not to remember?
Please don’t tell me her name, I’ll rather that she be a nameless and faceless entity I never get to meet so that I can throw imaginary darts at her at night without being bought over by her obvious kindness and toothy smiles.
But, do you, answer me, Sofa love her the way you loved me?
I still play Whitney Houston. I still play Celine Dion. I’ve grown to love them because of you. Maybe when a new day has come, you’ll remember that my heart will go on and on loving you. Word play, right? Tell me I deserve an applause, Sofa.
I’m writing to you, Sofa but I know this would never get to you because it would end up thrown into the wastebin and finally on the piles of ashes like others I’ve written.
I miss you.
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