2006- The Name You Didn’t Get

“And the girl fine o.”

Fife’s subtle jab hit your shoulder as he lurked behind the girl. The year was 2006, and Olufunmi the hit of the town hung on everyone's lips.

 It was the song of the year, better than African Queen, at least according to Balu-Boy, your round peg in a circle.

“Na you no sabi music, bobo!” Balu-Boy dismissed Fife, shooting fingers at passersby.

You wondered why.

“You mean you are the one whose taste in music is appalling,” Fife fired back.

Disco lights panranrana as mama called it, spun across the room as you approached the bar. You wondered what excuse you’d give when mama woke in the morning. The crooked squeal of the bent metal gate had almost betrayed you earlier, but God bless her deep sleep.

“First time at a bar?” asked the lady in white socks, red skirt, and a black tie that separated her breasts like a referee.

“No.”

You resurrected your masculine voice.

“Pastor?” she chuckled, and you noticed the glow in her eyes or maybe it was just the disco senrenreh.

“Doctor,” you mumbled, ordering Fanta.

“We do not have Fanta,” the bored mixer replied.

“And what is your name?” you drifted quickly, reaching for something more certain.

“Fix him a strawberry parfait,” she said, saving you from yourself.

You did not get her name.

2010 — The Name You Remembered Too Late

The harmattan that year carried powder like old secrets. If December ever smelled of anything, it was dust on concrete floors and mama’s Robb inhaler, the way she rubbed it under your nose each morning as though it was the mark of a chosen child. But that afternoon you had escaped her routine, escaped her questions, escaped yourself because Fife dragged you to Mummy Basirat’s shop where the world slowed down inside bowls of egusi elemi meje.

“Guy, you too like food,” someone said, but the laughter dissolved the moment the metal bowl touched your hands. You dipped your fingers inside the warm water basin, watching dust rise like incense.

 Harmonies from True Love floated out of a neighbour’s speaker, half-static, half-perfect, the same kind of imperfection that made you cling to songs as though they knew you better than your parents ever tried to.

“Have you collected your day of death?” Fife asked, but even his teasing couldn’t distract you from the way the heat softened the Semo between your fingers. Food was memory. Memory was survival. You wanted to say that, but boys never confessed softness in public.

You were still licking the pepper from your thumb when Fife walked in again. He wasn’t alone. The room seemed colder when she walked in. You stared openly, shamelessly.

“By all means, feel at home,” you said, voice staggered somewhere between your chest and your throat.

“Ashewo boy,” Dewummi muttered beside you. No one argued.

Fife opened his mouth to introduce her, but her name left your lips before sound left his.

“JJ.”

And suddenly the past slammed into your ribs the disco lights of 2006, the strawberry parfait, the lady behind the bar who saved your order and stole your night. Six months had passed since her eyes mocked your foolishness. Four years have passed since your tongue betrayed your destiny. You had spent each night playing African Queen like a ritual you never admitted to, even clothed her in a wedding gown inside your mind only to wake up each morning with the taste of regret still lingering behind your teeth. “Jesus wept!!” You moaned.

Fireworks greeted Ile-Ife in December again.

You didn’t go home that Christmas.

The gang scattered like seeds on dry soil, but Dewummi appeared at your door carrying JJ behind her, the way good fortune is always escorted by loud friends. Baba rose from your couch the moment knock met wood, clutching his wrapper like dignity as he excused the room.

“You are welcome to my abode,” you said, eyes pinned to JJ’s glasses, the way light rested on them like afternoon sun on corrugated roofs. She smelled of sunlight and fresh laundry, waistcoat hugging her frame like it was tailored by prayers answered quietly.

She walked around your room, touching pieces of your life you hadn’t dusted in weeks: the crooked flower vase from your aunt’s wedding gift, the sticky notes plastered like battle declarations, your life plan written in block letters BECOME A MEDICAL DOCTOR, CURE SICKLE CELL. BELIEVE IN YOURSELF. DON’T LOSE FOCUS. You prayed she wouldn’t read the last line twice.

“This is your plan?” she asked, and your throat clenched.

“His life goal,” Dewummi answered before you could breathe.

You smiled, but the smile held more weight than teeth.

“God will help you achieve it,” JJ said.

You staggered not physically, not fully but something inside you leaned to the side, as though her faith had pushed your center of gravity.

“That won’t be enough,” you muttered.

Her face stiffened, adjusting her glasses with the precision of a surgeon.

“God is always enough,” she replied, voice steady like a hymn sung without a microphone.

“Not at all times.” You warned.

Silence leaked into the room.

Dewummi yawned, folding into your couch like a child who knew she wasn’t needed yet.

JJ stepped closer, so close the scent of shea butter replaced the air.

“Do you celebrate Christmas with your loved ones?”

Your mouth opened.

No words followed.

Because what loved ones?

What Christmas?

What celebration could you call your own when your childhood Decembers were filled with loud parties hosting strangers, parents too busy pouring wine into glasses of people you never learned to trust?

You didn’t answer JJ that day.

Later, when you walked her home, Olo Mi played from a passing barbershop, curling itself around both your shadows like a blessing whispered under moonlight. Streetlights flickered above some dead, some alive like they too couldn’t decide if love was worth risking a power surge for.

JJ stopped walking.

Her voice dropped to a whisper that trembled at the edges.

“My name is JJ,” she repeated not as an introduction, but like an invitation.

And you finally understood:

names are not just spoken to be heard.

They are spoken to be held.

You held hers gently that night.

Afraid the wind might snatch it away again.

You didn’t kiss.

Not yet.

Liking her

You didn’t notice when liking her became something heavier.

It was always the little things. How she never rushed rice, how she rewound songs before they finished, how she asked questions that didn’t demand answers.

JJ spoke like someone saving her voice for the right time.

You listened like someone hoping you’d be there when she finally chose to use it.

Days slipped.

Shared walks along dusty roads, late-night talks outside the pharmacy with the flickering bulb, bread and egg from Mummy Basirat's stall at odd hours.

Your hand brushed hers once; neither of you moved away.

Not boldness, just comfort that didn’t require apology.

The first time she leaned her head on your shoulder, you didn’t breathe.

Not fear just the quiet shock of being trusted.

She hummed Oleku under her breath, eyes half closed.

You didn’t know if that counted as love, but it felt like something you would remember even if your memory failed you later.

When she laughed, your chest tightened like you had swallowed something too sharp but didn’t want to spit it out.

No declarations.

No promises.

Just the kind of closeness that made silence feel like language.

Her family house sat behind a tall blue gate, the kind neighbours used as direction.

December carried cooking smells and loud voices; her father cracked jokes like someone who believed in joy.

Her mother hugged you too tightly for a first meeting, like she didn’t want you wandering off.

You felt welcomed in a way that embarrassed you.

Too many plates of rice, too much chicken pressed into your hands, cousins dragging you to play games you didn’t know the rules to.

JJ watched from the doorway, smiling like she was seeing something she prayed for.

Her grandmother stayed in her room upstairs.

You noticed the way JJ paused before opening the door, like knocking was ritual.

The old woman looked small under thick blankets eyes bright, wrists thin, voice weak but warm.

She asked about your dreams; you told her the truth because lying felt disrespectful.

When you mentioned sickle cell, her face softened.

You could not tell why?

She spoke slowly, breaths spaced apart:

“It is not punishment… but it punishes.”

JJ’s hand tightened around yours then let go before anyone noticed.

You nodded like you understood everything, but the air felt heavier.

Later that night, downstairs smelled of Christmas—firewood smoke, stew, sugar, nostalgia.

Laughter floated from the kitchen.

You should’ve stayed.

But something in your chest twisted wrong.

Dreams you shouted at your wall suddenly felt small beside a life that already held the thing you feared most.

You left without finishing your drink.

JJ walked you to the gate, arms folded against the cold.

“You could’ve stayed,” she said.

“I didn’t want to ruin the night.”

“You didn’t.”

You didn’t know what to reply, so you nodded.

The gate closed softly behind you, like someone careful not to wake sleeping babies.

You walked home in silence, replaying her grandmother’s eyes.

Some truths echo louder than confessions.

2016

2016 crept in like someone returning home quietly.

You met JJ again outside the pharmacy, the same bulb still flickering, refusing to die.

Her smile held memories, yours held apologies you didn’t say out loud.

You talked like old friends who forgot they once hurt each other.

No bitterness, just time smoothing sharp edges.

She asked if you were still chasing the dream; you said yes.

You asked if she still rewound songs before they ended; she laughed and said always.

When you finally asked her out properly, no half-sentences, no drifting around the truth, she didn’t rush her answer.

“I thought you would never ask.”

You both laughed.

Your chest felt steady for the first time in years.

You had only been dating a few weeks when she started pausing before laughing.

Not obvious at first just small hesitations, like breathing hurt some days. But somehow, you saw all these things, you always did.

You called one Thursday night to tell her about a grant proposal you were excited about.

The phone rang seven times.

She didn’t pick.

No text.

You tried again the next morning with two rings, then it cut.

You stared at your screen long enough to feel stupid.

Afternoon, she sent:

“Sorry. Slept early.”

No emoji.

Nothing added.

Not cold, just thinner than you expected.

You typed:

“I miss you.”

You deleted it.

Typed again:

“I’m around today. Can I see you?”

She replied an hour later:

“Not today.”

You stared at the wall, replaying her voice in your head instead of the message.

Fife walked in unannounced as usual, arms full of biscuits he didn’t buy for you.

“Why your face like person wey chop bad akara?” he asked, dropping the nylon on your table.

“She’s been quiet.”

Fife sat down, unwrapping biscuits like he owned the place.

“Quiet no mean wahala. Sometimes na breath.”

You nodded, pretending it helped. You prayed too.

The next day, you saw her at the clinic.

At the clinic waiting area, she didn’t meet your eyes at first.

She held her test results like a little confession.

Did she come here for grandma?

“It’s me,” she whispered.

Sickle cell.

Not just carrier full.

Not early advanced.

You felt the wind leave your body without moving an inch.

She smiled as if comforting you.

“Don’t look like that,” she said, but her eyes glistened.

You wanted to say you weren’t leaving.

You wanted to promise forever without sounding foolish.

But the words stayed stuck in your throat, heavy like unspoken prayers.

You held her hand in the hallway until the nurse called someone else’s name.

Her fingers were warm, yours cold.

Nothing about the moment felt real in a way that hurt more quietly.

You did not ask her what she wanted.

She did not ask you either.

Some distances appear without footsteps.

Two days later she called first, voice steady but softer than usual.

“Can you come with me somewhere?”

She didn’t explain.

You didn’t ask.

The silence between the question and your answer said enough.

The clinic was across town, not the one you remembered from before.

The signboard said HopeCare Medical Centre, peeling at the edges, like someone couldn’t afford fresh paint.

Inside smelled of Dettol and old magazines.

The receptionist looked up.

Recognition sparked.

“Ah-ahn! Fola?”

You blinked.

She hugged you before you placed her name Yetunde Dewummi’s friend from university, the one who used to sell drinks at campus parties.

“So na you JJ dey follow?” she whispered, smiling like she wanted good news.

You shrugged.

Didn’t know what to say.

JJ greeted quietly, hand cold in yours.

No smiles this time.

Yetunde led you to the waiting area.

“Doctor go soon see una. Sit small.”

JJ kept adjusting her glasses, pushing them up though they weren’t slipping.

You watched her fingers tremble once, then steady themselves.

“You okay?” you asked.

She nodded, too quickly.

“Just tired.”

You didn’t push.

You wanted to, but the air felt fragile.

When her name was called, she didn’t move at first.

You stood, offered your hand.

She took it, but her grip was weaker than before.

Inside the doctor’s room, Yetunde didn’t joke.

Her face shifted into something professional, something older.

She asked questions slowly:

“When did the joint pain worsen?”

“How often do you get tired after walking?”

“Any crises this year?”

JJ’s voice was faint, like she was borrowing it from memory.

“Sometimes,” she said.

“Not often.”

“Last time… maybe months ago.”

You watched her eyes, they didn’t match her tone.

You wanted to interrupt, wanted to speak what she wasn’t saying.

But you stayed silent.

Yetunde flipped through files, sighing quietly.

“You should have come earlier, JJ. We could’ve managed it better. Early care helps.”

JJ stared at her knees.

You squeezed her hand.

She didn’t squeeze back.

When you stepped outside, she exhaled like someone hiding tears under breath.

“You never told me you knew the doctor,” she said, voice small.

“She’s Dewummi’s friend,” you replied.

JJ nodded once.

Silence sat heavy between you.

You tried to change the subject.

“You want suya?”

She didn’t laugh like she used to.

“Not hungry.”

You waited for her to ask what you were thinking.

She never did.

A week passed, her calls were fewer.

Your messages longer.

Her replies shorter.

You called one night, hand shaking without reason.

Phone rang once cut.

Called again busy tone.

You dropped your phone on your bed, angry at nothing specific.

Fife barged in again he never learned how to knock.

“She still dey ghost you?” he asked.

“She’s not ghosting,” you snapped.

Silence.

Then Fife sat slowly.

“Sometimes people dey fight battles wey no be your own,” he said.

“Give am space small.”

You nodded, because arguing would mean confessing.

Later, she sent:

“I’m fine. Just resting.”

You replied:

“I’m here.”

Message delivered.

Not read.

You stayed awake that night staring at your screen like it owed you answers.

December arrived again.

Same harmattan dust, same fireworks in the distance, same songs on radio stations that refused to update playlists.

But her absence changed the air.

Your family asked questions you didn’t answer.

Friends joked about your “mood,” thinking heartbreak was just hunger.

Even Fife stopped teasing when he saw your face.

You brushed past old memories on street corners, bread sellers, chipped walls, the pharmacy light still flickering like a dying secret.

Your phone stayed too quiet.

Songs sounded unfinished.

You didn’t rewind anything endings didn’t scare you that year; they angered you.

Christmas morning, you walked past her family house but didn’t knock.

Voices echoed inside, laughter rising and falling.

You stood outside long enough for someone to notice.

No one did.

You hummed African Queen without meaning to stop again before the last chorus, not out of fear this time, but respect.

The wind caught the sound and carried it somewhere you couldn’t follow.

You walked home, hands in pockets, dust in your throat, her name on your tongue like a word you didn’t know how to say anymore.

You walked past her house one evening.

Lights were on.

You heard laughter not hers.

The gate stayed closed.

You didn’t knock.

Fife joined you halfway back, hands in hoodie pockets.

“You go still call her?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

Truth tasted bitter saying it out loud.

Fife kicked a stone off the road.

“If she wan disappear, let am. If she wan come back, she go come back strong. Just dey.”

You nodded again second time that month his words stuck.

Christmas evening, your house smelled of fried meat and too much seasoning . Mama never changed the recipe.

Fife showed up first, uninvited as usual, carrying a bottle of Coke like tribute.

Balu-Boy followed later, loud from the gate, shouting Merry Christmas like someone who wanted neighbours to know he was surviving.

They argued about music again.

Fife swore African Queen was timeless.

Balu-Boy said anybody still playing it in 2016 needed deliverance.

“Na you sabi rubbish,” Fife muttered.

“You no get taste.”

Balu-Boy shot back, “Your taste dey inside nylon wey breeze carry.”

You laughed, a small one, surprised at yourself.

They didn’t ask about JJ, not directly.

Just side glances each time your phone buzzed with alerts that weren’t hers.

Balu-Boy finally spoke what Fife avoided:

“So… una still dey talk?”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Too many words sat in your throat, none of them ready.

“Sometimes,” you said.

It was true enough.

Silence stretched, not awkward just real.

Balu-Boy leaned back, chewing chicken bone like it annoyed him.

Fife wiped his hands on tissue and didn’t look up.

“You go dey alright,” Fife said quietly.

Not comfort.

Not prophecy.

Just something said to stop your chest from burning.

You nodded, stood up slowly, pushed the sliding door open.

The balcony air was sharp, cold in a way that felt personal.

Harmattan dust hung like memory, like breath that wouldn’t settle.

Fireworks cracked somewhere far the late ones that sound like gunshots till parents shout that children should come inside.

You leaned on the railing, looking down your street the way someone searches for headlights that never turn.

Voices floated faintly from inside Balu-Boy still arguing, Fife laughing at something he didn’t actually find funny.

You checked your phone once.

Screen blank.

The wind pushed your hair slightly, the kind of touch that feels like someone calling your name from far away.

You closed your eyes, waited just a second, for a miracle you didn’t believe in.

Nothing.

The balcony felt wide.

Your chest felt tighter.

You swallowed, opened your eyes again.

The fireworks faded.

The street quieted.

You stood alone against the cold railing, breathing slowly.

It was Christmas.

She wasn’t here.

#itschristmasandiwishyouwerehere