So Why Am I Seeing Your Face Everywhere?

John, please. You can go now. I mean it.

Your time here is up John. Exit the stage left. No need for encore, no need for director’s cut, no need for post-credit scenes. Your time in this cinema that is my life has expired. Because why, why why, am I seeing your face everywhere?

I saw one guy at Ojuelegba yesterday that resembled you from the back. I literally whispered “babe” by mistake. Do you know the shame? He turned and looked like the opposite of you. Short, round, and angry. And then he hissed. Hissed, John! That’s what I am facing now. I am hissing at strangers because your memory has fried my brain.

I was even trying to enjoy my small heartbreak in peace, you know? Journal a little. Cry once a week. Maybe drink a bit of cranberry juice and pretend it’s wine because I am on a budget. But then your foolish friend—yes, Tunde, that one that always used to call me “our wife” like he was part of the bride price negotiation posted a full photo dump of your boys’ beach hangout. And of course, there you were. Shirtless. Smiling like the devil just gave you free Wi-Fi.

Why is your happiness so loud? Can’t you mourn us a little? Even if it’s just one Instagram story with “You Will Never Find Another Love Like Mine”.

Nothing?

Wicked boy. Not even a repost of one heartbreak quote from that toxic relationship page we used to laugh at?

Bruh, I am even wondering, did you really like that coconut rice I made six months ago when I came to visit you? Or were you just chewing and smiling like a liar? Because now, looking back, your eyes didn’t close once. That’s the test, you know. If the rice is sweet, the eyes must close. But your eyes were wide open. Focused.

I am trying, John. I am trying. There’s this new guy in my office that greets me every day like he has an agenda. Like clockwork, once the bank closes, he starts doing “You are not going yet?” with that his post-NYSC voice and shiny shoes. And I am not going to lie, he’s fine. He smells like mango and ambition. But I keep hearing your laugh whenever he talks and it’s annoying me. Because why is your ghost monitoring my potential happiness?

And yes, before you start, I still work in the bank. I know we used to talk about japa, and you were so convinced I’d be on a flight to Toronto by now. But I am still here. Trying to gather money. Trying to not cry at my desk. Trying to ignore the fact that my manager uses your exact perfume and now my desk smells like betrayal.

Do you even remember how we used to dream together? You, me, two passports, one carry-on bag, and one nonsense dream of starting a food vlog because you said my voice was “soothing.” My voice that you now ignore. My soothing voice that you have left on read since April 8th, 7:43pm. Yes. I saw the blue ticks, John. Let no one lie to you, God will show all of us pepper.

But still, I am learning to breathe again. One small breath at a time. One step. One plate of jollof. One text not sent. I even made a prayer list last week and your name is not number one anymore. It’s now number four. Right under “get my Visa” and “clear my wardrobe.” Progress, no?

I am not mad, John. Okay, I am. But like, the cute kind. The kind that still smiles at bus conductors and tips small chops vendors. The kind that knows she deserves better but is still adjusting to silence. Healing is not linear, my pastor said. And I believe him. Even though I don’t understand half of what he says because his accent is still fighting his anointing.

I don’t know. I am still figuring it out. Still seeing your face in strangers, still avoiding your street. But also still laughing, still showing up, still hoping. And one day, when I finally stop seeing your face everywhere, I will know peace has entered like small harmattan breeze. But for now, please, leave me alone. Let my healing enter stage two. Please and thank you.