I have a story to tell. I must tell my story. My tale is a sad one embellished in the juicy stupidity and ignorance of a young me. It is said that he who laughs last, laughs the best and good things come to those that wait; but it is not always so. I am living proof of that assessment. I am an epitome of a soulless man wandering this earth for the next available force to snatch up and destroy.
There was this girl I admired so much. So much that I would readily make the ultimate sacrifice for her any day and anytime of my sorry existence. From far away, I could tell she admired me too and would readily accept my proposal. But fear and cowardice stood guard over me every second of everyday. They stretched their poisoned swords towards me and cautioned me not to take a step farther. And being an ignorant fool, I thought I had time and that love would surely take me one day into the compounds of Dzidzor, my love.
One might be tempted to be content with the proceedings of my story. Do not be! As this tale is not that of a happy ending. For he who drinks a calabash full of the locally distilled akpeteshie; with a smile on his face is a hypocrite and a liar. A fool like I was, I believed I had time to make myself a befitting gentleman, worthy of asking my Dzidzor’s hand in marriage.
For this, I embarked on a journey to my mother’s village, to find myself a good job so I can make enough money to offer my love the happy life she deserves; one befitting a princess. After six months of hard work, I had made enough to return home to fulfill my ambitions. My mother had died three months after I got to her hometown. I was grieving, but I had the memory of my Dzidzor to give me comfort.
I began my two-week journey back to my father’s village. Fourteen days until I saw Dzidzor again. Fourteen days until I could call her mine. A week into my journey, I saw Dzidzor on a dusty footpath leading to my village. She had a few of her clothes tied up in her favorite wrapper. She told me she was fed up with waiting for me and so she set out on this journey to ask me to come back home, and that she wanted nothing from me; nothing, except my love and devotion. You should have seen my excitement when this news came to me. I was surprised she knew the reason why I had left the village, since I told no one the reason for my journey. But why tempt fate and ruin such a good fortune? We celebrated our love on our way home. We made love. We were happy. We were in love.
When we got to the outskirts of our village, we were greeted by a mighty stench. A smell that was foul enough to drive flies away. But Dzidzor asked me to go pluck a mango fruit she had seen about five hundred meters back. She said she had a sudden craving for one. I happily set out to pluck this fruit for my love. When I returned, Dzidzor was nowhere to be found. I searched for hours and decided to go into the village to look for her. Perhaps I spent too much time plucking the mango. Perhaps she waited for me at home.
The village was empty, buildings were destroyed, the palace was torched, bodies lay everywhere. Apparently, there had been a war shortly after my departure to my mother’s village; and all the townspeople were killed. Women and children were not spared. The head of the chief of our village was on a spike in front of the torched palace.
I quickly ran to Dzidzor’s hut, and there she was, as beautiful as ever. Even in death, her smile consoled me in many ways.
No! She can’t be dead. No! I had been with a ghost this past seven days. No! Death has stolen from me the essence of my very existence. ‘Blewu lorlornye. Baba!’ This is my story; and it’s a sad one indeed.