It was one of those journeys with lots of hiccups. I left Boston at 5.30 p.m. but I did not enter her apartment until 5.30 a.m. The Greyhound “Molue” bus I boarded was taking its time. And when it finally got to the Port Authority bus station in New York, her car took its own time before it got us to Queens. But once inside her apartment, I did not come out until 5.30 p.m. the following evening. At that time, we decided to drive out and look at the outside world. Edna, garbed in an exquisite outfit, entered the elevator and I followed. As we approached the doorman, he called out on her.

“Edna, look what I’ve got.” The doorman said.

A beautiful pick of white roses arranged in a glass vase was on the table beside the doorman. A pink paper wrap decorated the vase. The roses seemed to be saying I am a messenger of love. I bring felicitation from a certain Paul. I came on the wings of a dove. I hope to moisten your soul with dew. Please take me and make merry.

“What is the occasion?” Edna asked the doorman. “Is it your birthday?”

“No.” The doorman said. “Come closer and read the note on it.”

Edna walked into the little office and bent down to read the note on the flower. Then she screamed.

I have heard screams before, but this one was unique. She covered her mouth in an apparent show of disbelief. She looked at me, looked at the doorman and looked at the flowers. Then she picked it up and smelt the roses. I stood there transfused. The doorman sat there and smiled.

I gathered the courage and walked toward Edna, still standing there fixated. She had this sudden attachment to the roses. I took a look at the note attached to the flower and it simply read, “To Edna.” I looked at her and she looked at me, still mesmerised. As we walked back to the elevator, she began to think and I could hear her. Who sent this to her and what would she tell me about this guy?

Edna had asked me to bring my albums to New York, but I refused. If she wished to see my albums, I told her that she had to visit Boston. But as a compromise, I agreed to bring a collage. At first, it was a good idea until I had to explain the story behind all those girls. I made the collage for a psychology class. I used it to introduce myself to the class. It had a collection of pictures that told the story of my life. It covered my early years through adulthood. Pictures of my family and some key people in my life were in it. It was the picture of the girls that interested Edna more.

I had told her about the girls. You know, I am a total disclosure kind of guy. Before now, she had heard everything about them, but she had not been able to put a face to the stories. So, shortly before Labor Day weekend, I headed to New York to see her and present the stories of my life in pictures. Maybe, after that, I will graduate to the next level. I am still being checked out, you know. As for me, I did not need much conviction to know I had found the real deal in her.

As we sat down looking at the pictures, I introduced the girls. Mukami was the one who broke my heart. She inspired the volume of poems I called “In Place of Tears”. Ronnie was the one who made me write “The Kid from Labyrinth”. It opened with three letters that up to this day, I do not how I wrote them. Helen was the baby that never was. For Helen, I have “Behind the Shower Curtain” as a legacy. Then there was Binta, beautiful but beyond my reach. She is the character in the volume, “Intimate Verses”. 

And there was Laura who desperately wanted me but – how do they say it – Oh, the chemistry was not there. But how her picture found its way in my collage was what I could not explain. As I introduced them, Edna made side comments. Comments like, what did you see in this one? How could you let this one break your heart? Hmm, this one is cute! Don’t tell me you kissed those lips. Yuck!

I am sure everyone who ever met Edna liked her. She is a no-nonsense kind of girl. Like I told her, if I had known there was anything like her all this while, I would not have passed through New York to New England and not made New York my permanent home. We have come to agree that it’s not late yet. Edna is one of those girls that makes you agree with Elvis’ saying that if God made anything better than a woman, He must have kept it for Himself. She is one of those rare women who are beautiful and look that way too.

Every man who had ever lived had his own Mary, Martha, and Martrida. One who would love you but whom you would not care about. One you would love, but who would not love you. And one who would love you a little and you would care for her a little. Those were the ones you would be stuck with for a very long time. Then there would be those who were indifferent to your feelings. And once in a while, there appeared your own Magdalene. The one made especially for you, who would sweep you off your feet. And if you were lucky, you would sweep her off hers too.

For a while now, I had been trying to write a poem for Edna. So far, the only poem I feel she deserves is the one that will say that nothing that I ever wrote for a woman is good enough for her. For she is extraordinary and so is what is going on inside me. So far, I have not found the right words to say so.

I have written many letters to depict every moment and occasion in my life. In one of the “I love you Ronnie letters”, I wrote:

“Dear Ronnie,”

“I want to relay to you how much I care about you. It may not make sense yet, ‘cos there is no proof of it. But I care about you. I’m saying this with all my heart. It may be hard to explain but I want nobody but you. I need no friend but you. I want to care for you. I want to love you. I want to be your friend. I want to do everything for you. This feeling is so strong. And there lies my fear. I don’t want you to have sympathy for me. I don’t want to give you myself when you don’t even want me. I have been hurt before in that fashion and I don’t want it again. I want to be appreciated for what I am, if you will. 

Ronnie, I see something precious in you. A thing I wish to bring near me and let its beauty decorate my heart. I can’t take a firm step if there is no sign that it is not unnecessary. Though I don’t know what you think I am, I am sure I am not who you think I am. When I give, I give the best I have got. And I want to give it to you, Ronnie. Sometimes, I sit down and wish someone would feel about me the same way I feel about you.”

Sweet moments.

Rudy”

Of course, not all letters of mine have been sweet. I have written bitter ones too. When relationships end on a bitter note, a bitter letter often follows. Like this one addressed to my Martha.

“Dear Martha,

“I can see that you have charmed yet another fool. Someone who believes you, just like I did. Those sweet words I used to know, you are dropping once again – meaningless to you, worthless to the hearer. You never run out of gas. You never feel ashamed of your acts. You are beautiful, I agree, but that isn’t a license to keep breaking hearts. You have charmed yet another fool. He can’t interpret your dreams. He even is fooled by your smile. He falls prey to your promises. The same promises that led me to miseries. You’ve charmed yet another fool. I can see him lost in your intrigue. He thinks you are a miracle. In your eyes, he sees eternity. What a shame! As you keep having your day, do remember that every day is for the thief, but one day is for the owner of the house.”

Cheers!

Rudolf”

Then there are ones that are bitter but resigned to faith. Like this one to Martrida. It goes:

Dear Martrida,

“I believe you know how I feel about you. I am grateful I met you even though it hurts to know that things won’t work out. You mean a lot to me – like a gift of a lifetime. I find it hard to let go or look elsewhere. Day after day, in my mind, I converse with you. This new distance brings to my footstep blessings that I am missing and healing that I am denied. I console myself by watching this love grow inside me. 

There is something I would love to hear you say even if it is once. But I guess I may never get to hear it. I can’t say goodbye because I fear I might die. I still believe. I still hope. I still want your love even as all reasons to believe escape my grip. It will take a lifetime for me to forget you. 

Once every day, I miss you so much that I call you into my dream and give you a warm hug. I will always have enough memories to be sweet, enough faith to be strong, enough sorrow to keep me crying. And enough sorrow to keep me dreaming. I have cried. I have tried. One day, when love returns, I will smile again. And I will remember you-my lifetime favourite girl. You are the girl who taught me how to love unconditionally.”

Peace!

Rudolf

The stories behind these letters, I have told Edna. As she looked at the pictures, I only did a recap. I answered all her questions and found a way to let her know that I was still waiting for her story. So far, she had successfully brushed my inquiries away with the generic answer, “There is nothing to tell.”

Like men, every woman who ever lived had her own Andrew, Peter, James and John. Andrew is always the first man. Peter, the man she gave the key to her kingdom. James and John are the two who come when men have begun to look the same to a woman. But it is always a Paul, an outsider, who would work harder and expand further the goals and the aspirations of her kingdom.

And so it was that Edna, as we walked back into her apartment, kept weighing all the possibilities. Could it be Andrew who sent her the flowers? She thought. No. It could not be. She had not been in touch with him for years. It could not be Peter either; he had since married the woman who led to their break up.

Could it then be James? She asked herself. The possibility of it being from James made the smile on her face recede. She dreaded the coming back of James. She fought a big tug of war to get him out. For some two years, she had come to believe he had truly gone for good. He was the one who made her change her phone number. “If these roses were from him,” Edna thought, “it may soon lead to moving out of this apartment. Some men don’t just get it.”

Then there was always John. The handsome one. The well-made one. And yet, the emotionally unstable one. He could always be the one that would play this trick; send flowers today and tomorrow, send a barrage of f-words. Always, he is the “I am the man” type.

But somehow, Edna hoped it would be Paul who sent the flowers. An old Paul or a new Paul. Just any Paul would do. But first, she worried that whoever sent it, she would have to find something to tell me. She wondered if she should lie. If she could make up a lie right there on her feet. Then she wondered if she really needed to. After all, it would be good to let me know that I wasn’t the only one who was interested in her. 

With that, she found the strength to detach the small handwritten envelope attached to the flower. As she ripped it open, her heart was beating louder and louder. Her fingers were fidgeting. I looked at her face and saw a drop of sweat forming on her forehead. The smile all over her face had faded into a mysterious expression of vagueness. She gave me one direct gaze and pulled out the card inside the envelope.

As she read it, a wide smile touched down on her face. She instantly dropped the cards on the table and ran to me for a warm embrace.

“You are full of surprises”, she said.

She did not need to explain anything after all, for on the card was a note which read:

“Dear Edna,

I am glad to be with you today.

Yours truly,

Rudolf.”

Nigeriaworld first published a version of this piece on September 13, 2000.

Rudolf Ogoo Okonkwo teaches Post-Colonial African History at the School of Visual Arts in New York City. He is also the host of Dr. Damages Show. His books include “This American Life Sef”, “Children of a Retired God,” among others.