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reunion - olufunmilayo makinde



Hello old friend, I know you don't like pleasantries. Neither do I, but here we are. How have you been? How's work? How are your parents? Do you remember that night in 2016? One of these questions is not like the others.

You know the night I'm talking about. When we stayed up all night walking around campus and talking. We didn't even have plans to meet that day, we just bumped into each other on our way back to our hostels, and that was it. We talked and joked for a whole night, we used to have so much to say to each other back then. We used to have so much in common.

Do you remember the crisp smell of the air that night? It had just rained and the ground was wet and muddy off the tarred main roads. The mud sloshed up our legs with each step and made annoying squishy sounds, but we took those side roads anyway because they were less crowded and we wanted to be alone.

Do you remember that you fell that night? We both did, because we were running through those slippery roads. You, back first onto the ground, and me, headfirst into your arms. If it wasn't for the cold mud on your back, and my arms and legs, it would have felt very romantic. 

Do you remember how we separated and got up? Quickly, too quickly, like people who had touched a live wire and gotten a quick shock, we were too eager to let go. That eagerness gave away our true thoughts and brought a different feeling to that night. We walked to the nearest faculty and washed most of the mud away in their bathroom. Our clothes were wet, we were cold, but we still found a reason to laugh. And the cold was a good excuse to get closer. 

Do you remember how nervous I was? Do you remember that I was so unwilling to admit my own nerves that I tried to bluff my way through our conversation? Because I remember. Were you nervous too? Memory is a tricky thing because I remember you being slightly nervous but more confident than I was. If you were nervous, could you tell that I was too? I can only assume that I was doing well in hiding it with my teenage bravado, until you called my bluff.

"Do you still like me?" You asked, and you didn't have to. How I felt about you was written on my face, in my poems, in my heart. But you wanted it vocalized and since I could not talk without my heart flying out of my mouth, I nodded instead.

I did not speak. I could not speak. I could feel a dryness in my throat, and a tumbling feeling in my belly. I could feel my heart pounding so hard that I could not stop myself from placing a hand on my chest to calm it down. You spotted that, and you smiled. When I asked you why, you responded with a kiss instead. I wonder if you still remember why. If you do, it doesn't matter anymore, nothing we can say to each other would matter anymore. But I would still like to know. 

That night, I gave you what I thought was my hand, and you held it tightly, but what I was really handing you was my heart, and you were kind enough to reciprocate. I'm sorry for bringing up the past this way, but I want you to know that I remember.

Now I'm asking if you remember, but I'm afraid you want to forget it. Please be clear in your response. I cannot read your mind from a few sentences anymore. Everything has changed now. We have changed. 

Enough time has passed that I should have forgotten about that night, and most days, I accomplish that. Today is not one of those days.

When did this change start? Was it when you graduated? Was it when I graduated? Was it when our paths started diverging so drastically that no one would ever believe that they had ever crossed in the first place? I do not know, and for the first time in years, I do not care.

It feels greedy, but if you can, this weekend, I'd like to meet you on campus again. I would have to take a flight to get there, and you would have to take several, but I miss the way things were, and I know you do too. Our meeting would have nothing complicated, nothing stressful. We could just talk and laugh again, not about the present, and never about the future, just the past. We could close our eyes and ears to the changes all around and within us and simply be who we were when we were close enough to merge into one person. If we're feeling up to it, right before we part ways again, maybe we could hold hands. We could once again be the people who had conversations without starting with pleasantries.





Olufunmilayo Makinde is a Nigerian lawyer and writer who finds herself doing more of the former than the latter. You can find her work in Full House Literary.

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