My story and Chioma.

Back then biblical scriptures were like  fictional story lines to me, same as to Chioma. I knew it was a bad feeling because we were supposed to be touched and changed both spiritually and physically by the message we read from, but it was perverted from my expectation, same as to her. We read a verse that there’s no sex before marriage, but we ended up doing it, I promise you not once. It was evident I needed a spiritual leader maybe he could’ve changed everything and we could’ve been reborn again, but their was no guarantee that we would get a genuine one. Our churches have been modified to chemistry labs and in the mosques it’s all about being radicalized, and the next time you get out of the mosque you’re already a murder weapon or a mass killer. Poor us (me and Chioma), I really pity our souls and for the people like us who struggle everyday to keep the heathenship a bar.

Actually when your stomach feels like your throat is cut that’s the time you’ll realize you didn’t had anything to eat at the fast place. Chioma used to depend on her eyes but later realized that she couldn’t be led by her eyesight when the focus is already out of the place. She ran into infinity, got married to an Indian guy who bought her a lake house – how lucky without sweating but by just panting on the top of the old mzee. She buried her struggle for success contrary to me. Sorry did I mentioned my name, this is outrageous, but never mind my name is Eric Ekeno Echwa but my engineering friends prefer calling me Swahiba- a swahili word for a friend, others called me Swahili – just to cheer me up due to my love for our national language, Kiswahili. I’m a black, thin and about six feets tall guy in my twenties,( sorry for much details I forgot you just needed my name) just take it for the records.

Chioma struggled to get a D minus in her A levels education and enrolled for a marriage, she had all minimum requirements for the course, beauty check, body check… list them. I spent my whole life just proofing to the world that I’d really make a good Civil engineer. My lecturers kept on disapproving, although factually I did believed in myself. I knew I would make it, but after five and three other years of continuous supplementaries, grades go with the moods of the examiners. I remember my building design lecturer (Mr.Muga ) didn’t allowed us into the lecture room without our college tags or drawing instruments; a T-Square, an engineering set, and mere pencils , did I just said mere pencils? The pencils had names too H 2,H4, HB and H5. Mr. Muga didn’t entertain non-sense in his class, I recall my phone rang someday during one of his sessions and he got mad and left the lesson. But all in all we passed at the end of the semester exams very well.

That was part of my college life.

Chioma missed every bit of my experience, but she never missed the power of all town girls – materialism. She was my sweetheart back then in our village, until she got employed by a certain famous bus company in the capital. She met the grim reaper there, whom not only ended her dreams, but also killed our future- mine and Chioma’s. We had made promises a lot of them, I’d have mentioned them here, but let that be the story to be narrated another day. My Chioma didn’t had a father but a mother who never restricted her decisions example, she would leave Chioma come and visit me for a whole week. You can only imagine which kind of a parent gives her daughter such a freedom? Because I remember my mum’s storyline how she used to be punished for just waving to a guy let alone opening her mouth to say “Hello?”

Up to now I don’t really know whether Chioma has a father, but there are no rumours that she’s from Artificial Insemination, no her mum wouldn’t afford that. She obviously had a father but she kept him out of the picture. She talked less about him and praised her mum, more than Mary mother of God. To date I still do send her notes just to let her know that I still care for her,hoping that one day the old mzee will collapse and die out of desperation more so when he misses her. What difference does it make anyway?given that Chioma still visits me oftenly,not in person, but through finding out from her friends how I’m fairing on with my life?

That’s the piece of my story with Chioma, I could’ve gone on with our story but let’s preserve it for another day before I get emotional and start crying (sobbing ) – nothing bad like a crying cyndrome.







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