Today, I’ll be meeting Cordelia under the tree by the Hades river. We chose this place for many reasons. One, I need to talk to her privately. Away from the stares of the teeming visitors whose unsolicited shoes have been littering my doorstep for the last three days. Two, before the visitors started to visit, Cordelia and I used to come here. We would sit and stare at the movement of the river. On one occasion, we had been so intrigued by the river that we walked towards the wave gingerly until a fisherman startled us. We laughed hysterically as the fisherman eyed us in contempt, obviously wondering why two adults were so lost in themselves to the point of wanting to drown together. We journeyed back to the tree still laughing. We were used to doing stupid things together like farting on each other’s faces, not eating unless the other person has eaten, not sleeping unless the other person was ready to sleep, trekking distances just to talk unending and eloping together when our parents kicked against our marriage because I was a Yoruba man. What I share with Cordelia is intense. So, when the teeming visitors told me to stop talking to her, it didn’t make sense to me.
Last night, I sneaked into the bathroom to speak to Cordelia, I told her that I was sorry for not speaking with her all day. These visitors hindered me; they told Tunde to stay close to me and go with me everywhere. As I rendered my apology, Cordelia smiled and we kissed. It must have been the kiss because I immediately promised her that we’d spend the whole of today together under the tree near Hades river. Yes, that one. The same one I am headed to right now.
As I approach the tree, her cologne waltzes into my nostrils. I know it is her cologne because I bought it for her. The scent is so strong that it makes me stagger. I find my footing and continue towards the tree and then I see her. In all of her elegance. She looks better than she looked when I called her out of the rubbles of that accident. On the day of the accident, Cordelia visited the market but I didn’t see her return. A few hours later, neighbours gathered and shook their heads at me as Tunde told me of how two trailers had collided and sandwiched Cordelia between them. “Cordelia is dead,” Tunde announced. In tears, I walked to the accident spot, called out to Cordelia and just as I expected, she emerged from the rubbles in tears too. We reached out and hugged one another. On-lookers cried too, but it looked like they were crying for something else.
Today, she wears a white gown accentuating her body as I like it. I notice her hair, graceful, longer than the last time, overlooking her shoulders down to her waist. She looks so bright, and if I were Moses, I would have had a déjà vu of the burning bush but I didn’t fall on my knees. I walk up to her, hug her and plant a kiss on her neck; far enough for her neck to feel it and close enough for her collarbone to catch it. She looks into my eyes with a familiar passion, holds my hand and walks toward the river. This time, there is no fisherman to stop us. This time, we don’t laugh. This time, we drown.
