“What are we doing here?”, she asked, fidgeting with the sleeve of her long modest dress, eyes darting nervously around the café. We never liked coffee but I held her down as she stood to leave, my hand gentle but firm on her wrist.
“You do not need to worry, just wait a bit.” Yes, we are in Pause, but this is one for sweet tooth.
The moment I walked in, she gasped. “Shorts?” Her eyes widened, scanning my exposed legs with disbelief. What happened to being embarrassed about how my thighs couldn’t keep from flapping together whenever I was walking? Mama said to dress how I wanted to be addressed, so she questioned me for wearing anklets, in a whisper as though someone might overhear our conversation. I could have sent her into shock when I mentioned that I’d always worn one since 2020.
“Every day?” she asked, touching her own ankle as if imagining the freedom.
We had a good laugh about many hopes and dreams that never came to light. I told her I never became a Journalist but her eyes glowed when I mentioned that writing never left me.
“Remember how Aunt Vee would press us for a drama script for every Children’s day celebration?” I asked.
My younger self smiled, nodding vigorously. “Yeah, and we always delivered. How did you ever come up with the stories?”
I smiled. “I don’t even know, but I’m grateful to her now. She realised our creative potential before we did, she saw something in us that we couldn’t see yet.”
Taking a quick scroll through Instagram, I found what I was looking for. “Look at this,” I said, handing over my phone. I played her a powerful reenactment of a script I’d written for a top bank’s International Day of the Girl Child celebration.
“You came up with this?” Her fingers hovered over the screen.
“And these ones too,” I said, swiping to other videos whose scripts I had written. “And here’s one where I was the ‘muse’, a bit rusty but I love it.”
As she watched me on screen, almost confident and poised, admonishing people to tell their stories, tears welled in her eyes. When the video ended, she looked up, the tears had broken loose. “I’m so proud of you, Pumpkin.”
I met my younger self for coffee today and when she raised my left hand for an imprint on my fourth finger, I chuckled. Her eyes fell, disappointed at the bare finger.
“No,” I said gently, “that finger has never worn a diamond, all I’ve worn all my life are steel rings gotten from my once-a-blue-moon shopping in Idumota.”
She made to speak, her lips parting with what I knew would be a consolation or perhaps motivation. I told her not to bother. “There was no way I could have gotten married at the agreed upon 23,” I explained, watching understanding slowly replace concern in her eyes. “I was a child then and frankly, as close to four summers have gone by, I still find myself giddy over taking my favourite ice cream in Foodco.”
“So we’re happy?” she asked, as she sipped what remained of her coffee.
“Different kind of happy than we imagined. But yes, genuinely happy.”
I met my younger self for coffee today and after we finished our cups, she followed me home.
For the last time, she pleaded that I make her that one meal we used to eat. I shook my head but reluctantly, I stood up to wash some rice.
“Allow it to soften a bit, then add two indomitable in it. Curry is in that cupboard over there, I’ll be back,” I instructed, my voice catching slightly.
I rushed out to wipe my tears because this wasn’t just food. This was a reminder that the last time I ate this was over twelve years ago when my father was still here with us. As I leaned against the wall to gather myself, I cackled at how my father would sometimes struggle to pronounce the word: “spaghetti”.
Why was that such a tongue twister?
My mind moved back to my younger self in my kitchen and I thought, perhaps in sharing this moment with her — I was finally ready to reclaim this recipe and all the memories it carried.
I met my younger self for coffee today and we had a good time.
