Have you ever done something crazy for love? I mean, some stupid actions for the four lettered word? No? Yes, I hear you answer!
Truth is, I haven’t either because instead of calling mine stupid or crazy, I called it “creativity”.
Do you want to hear more? Journey with me.
She hugged me, my first ever. She didn’t just embrace me, she nearly squeezed me into her skin, her budding milk industry pressed against my chest and sent a tingling sensation down my spine. Her smile was contagious, it swept me off my feet. Her scent enveloped my nose. All that would end in—
Her name was Ndidi. She was my church member, a Sunday school mate, the first person I felt love—or is it infatuation?—for. We were of the same age bracket, we were both fifteen years of age. She was fleshy, blessed with beautiful gray eyes. Our love tale had started when our youth teacher paired us for a presentation before the adult church, a presentation that provided us with proximity, seeing each other thrice a week. We aced our presentation but figured we couldn’t do without the yearning for each other.
She had two elder brothers. The eldest didn’t care about what transpired between us. The younger one on the other hand poked his nose into each of our activities. He was the spoiler. Although we played football together, he never failed to voice out his suspicion and distaste over my closeness to his only sister. He once told me with a cloth drenched with sweats and a baritone: “See as my sister dey compare me with you. The day wey I go catch una for questionable position ehn. I go beat you so tey you go die.”
Jokingly I had replied, “Shey na you go marry your sister?” And sped off before he could even think of rushing towards me.
Her parents were strict towards her only. They didn’t want her to spoil like a rotten egg. After the presentation, they never allowed me closer. Although they had their suspicions, her brother that was supposed to bridge the gap became a frenemy. We resorted to seeing at church once a week. That few minutes was never enough to suffice.
She devised a plan of persuading her mom to let her fetch firewood. The plan failed woefully. As a boy filled with creativity, I carved out a plan. An incredible plan of luring her out. It was a strategic plan that involves the orange tree few metres away from her house, a red cloth, her friend’s name Chioma and myself.
There was a problem though. The red cloth was my favorite shirt that I had to tore to shreds. Then getting myself to climb the tree, a tree infested by ants was another.
Love conquers all, they say. Love did conquer the bites of those ants.
The plan worked wonders, the first few weeks. Every Friday by four o’clock, she came out of her father’s house, her eyes on the orange tree. Once she saw a red rag tied to the tree, her face would light up and she would know that I was waiting for her. She’d dash inside, get a couple of notebooks and lie to her parents that she had an assignment to do at Chioma’s place.
We played this game for two months until that evening. A promising evening that was never fulfilled. A bright evening that turned glommy. As we were enveloped in a hug of bliss, feeling our soft skins and inhaling the scent of our Tony Montana perfumes, little did we know that Chioma paid her house a visit and had not seen her there. She had answered some incriminating questions thrown at her.
We were still playing ‘love nwantịtị’ when a jab connected with the back of my head. The speed at which it hit me knocked consciousness out of me. She held me close and tried to stand up to her brother. The slap was deafening as she found herself on the ground.
The rain of blows, kicks and punches on my face that day is the reason why I built a garrison around my heart till date.
PS: What’s the most creative thing you’ve done for love? Share.