Finding Love In Accra Episode 3: Typing…

Read Also: Finding Love in Accra Episode 2: Like a Brother By the time Kojo left the restaurant, I had remembered why I used to enjoy having him around. Unfortunately, I had also noticed several new reasons. “Your brother is leaving,” Emefa said. “Will you stop calling him that?” “You introduced him.” I ignored her and opened WhatsApp. His number was still saved.

Kojo Campus. Four years, and I had not even promoted him out of university. His profile picture was a photograph of him standing beside the sea. Linen shirt. Dark glasses. Smiling at whoever was behind the camera. Who took the picture? I enlarged it. “Are you listening to me?” Emefa asked. “Yes.” “What did I say?” “You said… something about work.” “I asked whether you wanted the last chicken wing.” “Then why are you still holding it?” She looked at my phone.

“Oh, Lovia.” I locked the screen. “What?” “Nothing. Greet your brother for me.” That evening, I opened his chat before I removed my makeup. Our last conversation was still there. Can I take you to dinner on Saturday? Just the two of us. Four years old. No reply. Seeing it now, I felt a small, uncomfortable twist in my stomach. I had somehow remembered his kindness more clearly than my own silence.

I typed: It was lovely seeing you tonight. I read it twice. Too formal. We had met in Osu, not at a shareholders’ meeting. Deleted. So you were just going to leave without asking how I’ve really been? No. Accusations already? The man had returned a bracelet. Deleted. Hey, stranger. I stared at that one. I was the reason we were strangers. Deleted. At midnight, I was in bed, on his profile again.

He came online. I immediately left WhatsApp. Please don’t ask me why. Apparently, he could see me through the phone. On Monday, I decided I would message him after work. By evening, I felt Tuesday would be more appropriate. Tuesday, he posted a picture of coffee and his laptop. I nearly replied, Working hard or hardly working? Even loneliness has limits.

I deleted it. Wednesday was worse. He posted a woman. I sat upright so quickly my charging cable came out. Proud of you, sis I studied her face for family resemblance. There was some around the nose. Possibly. I called Emefa. “Do men call their girlfriends ‘sis’?” “Good afternoon to you too.” “I’m asking generally.” “Then generally, leave me alone.

I’m at work.” By Thursday, I was annoyed with him. He had my number. He knew where to find me. Why hadn’t he said anything? Then I scrolled up to his unanswered invitation. Fair enough. That night, I finally typed what I had been avoiding. They say it takes twenty-one days to break a habit. It’s been four years, and I still can’t get you off my mind.

I paused. Had I thought about him every day for four years? No. But I had missed him in little moments. When something funny happened, and I knew he would understand. When I had good news. When I needed to talk without first making myself sound cheerful. I kept typing. I know I did you wrong by not responding to your message about the date. But you know I adore you.

It hurt not having you in my life. I read it. Then I imagined him opening it beside the woman from the beach photograph. Deleted everything. On Friday, Emefa took my phone. “Just say hello.” “It’s more complicated than that.” “It is five letters.” She handed it back. At 9:43 p.m., after a week of composing messages that nobody had commissioned, I sent: Hey, Kojo.

It was good seeing you the other day. Delivered. I put the phone down. Picked it up. Two blue ticks. Then: Typing… I held my breath. I was wondering whether you’d reply this time. Before I could recover, another message arrived. What did you delete last night? I looked at the empty space where my confession had been. I had deleted the words. I had forgotten WhatsApp could announce that I was typing them.

To be continued.