It was him!

How could this be??

I was certain of it as I would recognize his face anywhere; in the dark, in a raging thunderstorm or even if it were in a cloudy swirly dream, I’d still know his face regardless. How could I ever forget such a face that was sculpted in a way that could make even angels pause and stare? That face could send my legs into an involuntary wobble like the way maidens respond to the drum for the atilogwu dance. That same face could paralyze my fingers, and cause my stupid heart to flutter like a bird finally set free after ten years in a cage. The same face that could create, awaken, and give life to hunger-inducing butterflies in my stomach. For half of my young age, I had watched that boyish grin give way to a teenager’s smug. I’ve watched that face for too long not to be able to notice that the subject of my disabled wonder had more laugh lines embedded in his face than usual. That face had been my personal object of fascination and joy. The very thought of a dream come true. A prince charming tailored perfectly after a Disney movie series.

***

You’d be surprised at the way I got to know him. Or did I even know him?

It began with the news that a delegate was being deployed by the government to our little town to help fix the issues faced by the water cooperation.

The first day I saw him, I was a little 12-year-old girl with large hungry eyes, poorly dressed, and shy. The house two blocks away had just been completed, and I watched as our new neighbors made attempts to move into their new home. There were boxes and lots of furniture everywhere and I was fascinated by the idea of something different from the usual quiet that was peculiar in the neighborhood. The sight was a wonder because you’d not find many people moving into the neighborhood every day. I peered curiously in hope that I’d find any child that I could become friends with.

That was when I saw him, he stepped down from the truck, arms akimbo with a slight frown on his face. It was apparent that he did not fancy the idea of moving away from his old, kingly, fancy and familiar friends to a neighborhood that had little prospects in comparison to where he was coming from.

He looked like an ‘Ajebo kid’ who clearly did not like being in this part of the city at all. Our city was small and rural. Most of the inhabitants could barely afford a three square meal, and most of its inhabitants spent their day on small farm plots, trying to plant, harvest, or get rid of weeds that could be detrimental to the growth of plants.

My Papa was different. He was poor too, but what made him exceptional amongst a lot of farmers in the city was his trade. Papa had a salon where old men, young boys, and sometimes women who were tired of keeping a weave would come to cut and trim their hair. He’d always say

“Black people have a lot of value for their hair, and the immense value given to it cannot be earned by just anybody. Many men- sometimes women- in this town trust me with their hair only because I trust them with my crops as well, and that’s something that this world should learn to thrive on: the art of exchanging trust.”

I’d chuckle and nod my head as if to affirm whatever he had to say: A sign of loyal allegiance, even if I did not understand what his words meant, or how that was supposed to ease the hunger bouts that threatened to tear my stomach.

I was the girl with messy clothes and large round eyes. I never had any friends because all of the kids in the neighborhood always had to go to the farm with their parents. I was the barber’s daughter. That meant I had to play alone in the salon with my father’s scissors and dusty overalls. I’d run wild and round muttering and making conversations with myself, just like the kids displayed on the black and white TV. Many customers thought I was cute, and marveled that a Barber’s daughter could be so beautiful. My father would swell with pride and sorrow. He said I reminded him of Mother, before she died when I was 4 years old, and that she’ll be proud of the young damsel that I have become. Mother had died of a fever when I was 5 years old.

I was that dusty haired, wild-eyed girl when the new boy passed across our salon. He walked across the sidewalk and smelt better than freshly baked butter bread – my favorite in the world. That day he’d smelt of something so nice, I wanted to breathe him in every time. The most fascinating thing besides his strikingly handsome face was his hair. He had an intricately braided hairdo: something that could never be found on boys in the rural areas. I had never seen anything like it before. He was the first boy I ever saw with a weave, and I immediately loved it.

I stared wide-eyed as he also, lonely, looked around the neighborhood trying to find the candy store. The next minute, he walked into the next shop, did something there, and walked out.

I watched him, half hoping that he’d stop by our salon to get a haircut, but that was nearly impossible as he kept an intricate weave rather than a low cut hair that was peculiar with other boys. As I watched him walk back home, while singing to himself, I hoped he’d look into the saloon and look at me.

On the day he spoke his first and only word to me, I was too young and shy to be ready. He had come to the saloon with his father, the government’s delegate, who needed a haircut.

“Hi…I am Noah”.

He’d stated bluntly to the air.

That was the day I learned his name. Noah. It had a kingly taste to it, and I liked the feel of it on my tongue. I had always looked forward to meeting the boy with the intricate hairdo. His gaze was surprisingly warm, and a moment after he saw me, his lips broke into a smile that reached into his eyes; a double-front- teeth-missing smile . as I watched him smile, everything else in the salon paled in comparison. His dentition was so glorious. Forgetting my shyness, I smiled back and tentatively waved at him, as he walked out of the salon with his father.

Every day, I’d sit in the window and watch his father’s car ride pass the saloon leaving a trail of dust behind. He attended a school in town. That was only possible because he had a car to take him down there, and bring him back unlike all the other children in town that attended a local school nearby. The schools in the city were too expensive, and about four towns away. The distance was nearly impossible to make every day without an automobile or car. Noah’s parents were the only ones in the town that had a car, unlike other farmers who did not have the need and could not afford one.

Every evening, he’d amble around the neighborhood and pass by our saloon. Whenever I’d spot him, I’d quickly close the window before he could see me. And peep from the door as he passed by.

Sometimes, he’d peer into our little saloon, as if searching for something and then walk into the candy store nearby. His beautiful face would always look crestfallen after peering into the saloon, leaving me to wonder why. I often wanted to go and help make him smile and feel better. Despite this, I never spoke to him or opened the window to call out to him. I was a little town girl who was too nervous to call out to someone who strutted about so confidently and freely in the big wide world.

A lot of us did not have city-strangers as friends, and he looked liberal, confident, and too polished to be associated with anything around this neighborhood: a true city boy.

Or so I thought?

Whenever his father would come into the salon for a new haircut, I’d deliberately peep behind him, hoping to catch a glimpse of the confident handsome boy that walked freely in the big wide world- something I thought only adults could do.

On some days, he’d be right behind his father, grin on face, intricate hair weave, waving hands and I’d instinctively wave back, and smile too, never able to muster the right amount of courage to speak to him. He’d sit beside the big mirror, and throw casual glances at me. I’d sit far away near the pile of clothes- that has become a constant in the saloon hoping to jump in if he attempted to talk to me and pretend not to notice his glances.

This became the routine, till I turned 16. As I grew, year after year, one would think I would have grown into having him around in the neighborhood. Old enough to be able to casually greet him, hold a little conversation, and walk pass just as casually as I would with every other neighbor in the environment. But for him, it was always different. I never got accustomed to seeing him at all. He was always different, more handsome, and breathtaking than the previous time I stole a glance his way.

On my sixteenth birthday, father had informed me that aunty Ada – my aunt who had kept her distance since mama’s death- wanted to have me

Spend the long Christmas holiday with her in the Big city. It was my first chance to see the bigger world that Noah had the opportunity to see every day while he went to school. I was extremely excited and looked forward to a little vacation from the monotony of the town that I’ve become accustomed to. Aunty Ada had driven in her car to take me away from the saloon. I had watched my father try to mask a cry with a tired smile. Father would miss me, and I would miss him even more. But I wanted to explore just as much as I enjoyed being in the little saloon with him too.

The big city was everything I had imagined and more, aunty Ada was a lively woman, and I enjoyed her company a lot. She drove me around the city, and that was the first time I ever saw a large number of cars, automobiles, and commercial vehicles all at once. The city was too busy with people running and hurrying like they had something hot under their heels. I loved the sights, but I hated the noise. Life can be many things, but it definitely is not running for a future, while forgetting to catch the binding memories that can only exist in the present.

As I looked around the city, I was jolted by a pang of jealousy. A lot of things happened here contrary to the small town that was mostly green and too quiet. How, did I ever think that Noah would have thoughts to replicate the feelings that I had for him? Who did I think I was? After all, I’m but a girl from a small town in a smaller saloon with casual clothes. I could never compete with the classy, chic, and extravagant hairdos and outfits of the city girls! the same girls that Noah met every day in school too.

All of these thoughts made me detest the city even more, and I yearned for my father, and the little salon day after day, till the period of visiting was over, and aunty Ada bid me farewell as I returned to the little town that was home.

The last time I saw him-Noah, he was a whole lot taller than he’d been on the first day I had seen him. This time, I was 18, with a tamed afro, big starry eyes, and I had overall on. That day I had stared at him walk into the saloon alone. His father must have been doing something else. He had his hairdo that I still loved and still yearned to touch, and his smile was even more delicate and charming than before. He had grown some beards and had requested Papa to help trim it. This was the first time and last time he came alone to the saloon, and I watched him laugh loudly as father muttered something to him about scratchy beards and summer. As he laughed, he threw slight glances my way, and just like I had done since I was twelve, I pretended not to notice as I shifted closer to the heap of clothes that lay on the floor, hoping to jump in if he looked at me again.

He was still the bold boy that walked and laughed freely in the big world that I only saw through the saloon window.

After his beard session, he moved closer to the father to hand him some cash for the service done.

“Thank you so much for making my beards look better,

I’d definitely miss coming around to your saloon.

You see, my dad’s job here as the government’s delegate for this town is over, and we’ll be moving to another city across the country”

My father sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder

“We’ll miss having you around son”

He moved towards the door while I stared closely at him. I had wanted to say something, just anything that’ll make him hear my voice for the first and last time.

When he reached the door, he hesitated, clasped his hand behind his back, and shifted from one foot to another.

“I…I… also … wanted to tell you…”

For a moment, I could swear that his eyes were fixated on me as if to send a secret message. my heart immediately began to pound furiously as I braced to hear whatever he had to say. The world had stilled, and the only thing still beating – maybe too loudly and fast – was my heart and head.

Just like every other time, he turned around, without completing the statement and walked out of the door. My heart wrenched to see this little bold boy become a timid man, as he walked away from my little world.

He left. The boy did not come back. I was not willing to let go of this perfect angel that lightened up my day, heart, saloon, and little town. But I did anyway. How could someone you’ve hardly spoken to, learn to capture your heart so soundly? How could a single smile share from a distance bind two people forever?

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After he left, I learned to cut and weave intricate hairstyles on young boys in the saloon. Each new style and weave was an unspoken eulogy to a bold and beautiful boy that strolled the sidewalk a long time ago with a carefree smile. A smile I’d never see again.

Until today.

The saloon had been super busy lately, and papa had gone in to retire for the night. I looked up as the doorbell chimed in the little salon, hoping to welcome another customer, and then the world stilled.

It was him!

How could this be??

I was certain of it as I would recognize his face anywhere; in the dark, in a raging thunderstorm or even if it were in a cloudy swirly dream, I’d still know his face regardless. How could I ever forget such a face that was sculpted in a way that could make even angels pause and stare? That face could send my legs into an involuntary wobble like the way maidens respond to the drum for the atilogwu dance. That same face could paralyze my fingers, and cause my stupid heart to flutter like a bird finally set free after ten years in a cage. The same face that could create, awaken, and give life to hunger-inducing butterflies in my stomach. For half of my young age, I had watched that boyish grin give way to a teenager’s smug. I’ve watched that face for too long not to be able to notice that the subject of my disabled wonder had more laugh lines embedded in his face than usual. That face had been my personal object of fascination and joy. The very thought of a dream come true. A prince charming tailored perfectly after a Disney movie series.

“Hi,” he said, smiling like an angel bearing good tidings. His voice was a little rougher, a little deeper than I remember it.

Like the way, honey attracts the queen bee to mime, and a piece of a magnet attracts metal. Like the way, a small-town girl should have responded on the sidewalk to a smiling-gap-toothed little city boy, and like the princess should have said to her prince charming twenty years ago, I instinctively smiled back and whispered softly

“Hi”

He hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Do you remember me?” He asked with a phenomenal grin plastered across his face

“I never forgot you – Noah”

I replied.

He looked into the mirror and asked

“What’s your name?”

This time, I peered into his eyes and replied

“Hope –my name is Hope”

“Hope”

He whispered softly and shut his eyes.

The way my name danced fluidly like it belonged on his tongue made my heart soar.

When his eyes met mine in the mirror. They were gentle and fond, an expression that doubled the butterflies in my stomach, and made my lungs feel empty. I don’t know what I did to make him look at me like that but at that point, I was certain of one thing. This time around, the story will be different. More adventurous and heartwarming than the former.

All images are gotten from Unsplash.com