How do People Fall in Love?

Harmattan arrives at the end of a year, snows bows out to warm sunshine by January. Summer arrives so soon, you would wonder where the trails of snowflakes marched to. These are children of nature. They are as predictable as day and night. These are offspring of earth; they show off with signs and declarations that sing dependency. But that is nature! Not life. Not love moreso.

For I have been sitting here, thinking as I watched from this odd corner, you reading, throwing yourself into the adventure  of a treacherous sea, somewhere in Neverland, watching how you giggle to yourself through some wonderful summation you have gotten on that adventure. Like the entire world existed at just that page, so completely drawn away from an existence, taking me along with you to somewhere no one exist but you. Then I realize again, Wiwa, that I love you. But how? I am not at all bothered by the fact that I feel so much of myself when I am with you. It is the most wonderful feeling! But how? 

You have always been one to have theories and thesis, findings and recipes, arguments and the rest, so I wrote this note to you so you could tag this along with some of your big findings. I myself, I'm yet to know how. I knew when I came to truth with it. It was as we argued over the struggle of the Niger Delta over the Biafra. That one moment where all you did was tick off your analysis, I watched as you spooned yourself into your theory, how you wouldn’t take no for an answer, how you didn’t hide what piqued your passion but had the patience and the energy (I must add) to include more into your complex mind. “I love you”, my heart screamed. Why then? Hadn’t we known ourselves for two years now? Wasn’t this your controversial struggle that chooses to express its ways, first in solitude, and now in our air tight times what had kicked us into this little box of friendship? 

So why now? 

Why didn’t this occur to me as I had kissed Hephz on your birthday and shot stones at the stars with promises I thought I could keep? What about that time I had given John your digits with laughs as he told me what you did the day before. Why wasn’t I a bit possessive? 

My grandma has a little piece she keeps in her box. It is a little box with a handle on it, you just have to turn the handle through and you would get images flipping pass. Each image continued from where the last stopped. Each image; a reminder of the last, of what was not yet complete. If you flipped it real fast, you would make a movie. Isn’t that same as you? Like how I could piece every moment we have spent into little square boxes? Moments you made me dizzy with happyness, where you were so darn annoying with your stubbornness, it literally hurt, where we get to share food in places that seem forbidden, with our little paper thrown at each other when a lecturer has made a naptime out of a class. 

I think I have just the perfect picture. You, in your favourite sweater; with the huge panda bear treaded on it, your hair in spikes with that bracelet I have begged you to give to me. Your jeans shredded below your ankles, reminding me of every time we have to argue because of your misplaced priorities or your rebellious tides. That rainbow colour scarf tied across your hair, against your raven colour hair you complain that you hate but have been at it for three years. And of course! You on bare feet just pacing around on the sand. 

 I realize, I could trace every mark on your face because I had spent two years of my life staring at it. I had no idea! As well as I could tell your favourite colour is black and you could be a goddess of the Goth in another world but here. I could state days your hair could be spiky and when it would remain assailant. I have been watching you, noticing every rhythm, patterns that resonate to make you. Now I think of it, maybe it won’t be boxes of memories. No. it would be all too many. Maybe it would be boxes of you shared in different pieces.  Maybe it would be with your irresistible craving for small snacks, your tuxedo painted nails and then it would end with you right there with that picture. 

I don’t know I fell in love with you Wiwa but I have. Maybe that makes me not want to make a thesis on it; looking for solutions to this sickness. I am ok loving you Wiwa, and I ask myself “isn’t that ok?”.