Finding Love In Accra Episode 4: Let me hear your voice

Read Also: Finding Love In Accra Episode 3: Typing… What did you delete last night? I sat up. Checked the message again. Then checked my ceiling, as though the answer might be up there. Nothing, I typed. Deleted. The evidence suggested otherwise. How do you know I deleted something? His reply came almost immediately. You were typing for a while. Then you disappeared.

So he had been watching. I smiled. Then remembered I was under investigation. I couldn’t decide what to say. To me? That small question made me uncomfortable. There was a time I could call Kojo and begin a conversation halfway through a complaint. No greeting. No explanation. He would listen until he caught up. Now I was checking punctuation before speaking to him.

It’s been a long time, I replied. He came online. Went offline. Came back. Please. We were both too grown for this hide-and-seek, and yet there I was, monitoring….. Then my phone rang. Kojo Campus. I let it ring twice so I wouldn’t appear desperate. On the third ring, I nearly dropped it. “Hello?” “Lovia.” “Yes?” “Breathe.” “I am breathing.” “Good.

You seemed to be struggling with a text. I thought I’d make it easier.” I pulled my duvet over my knees. “You could have texted me too.” “I could have.” Silence. I had expected an explanation. Perhaps even a small apology. Instead, he waited. “I wasn’t very nice to you,” I said. “No. You weren’t.” Ei. No cushioning? No oh, don’t worry about it? “I’m trying to apologise.” “I’m listening.” I picked at a loose thread on my pillowcase.

“I should have answered when you asked me out. Even if I didn’t want to go. You deserved a reply.” “Thank you.” “I was immature.” “We both were young.” “You weren’t that immature.” He laughed softly. “You didn’t know everything about me.” For some reason, that bothered me. I had always thought I knew Kojo. His patience. His ridiculous handwriting. The way he rubbed his forehead when he was tired.

But four years had happened without me. There were probably people who knew what he ate for breakfast now. “So,” he said, “what brought all this on?” I could have blamed the restaurant. The bracelet. Emefa. Instead, I told him. “I missed talking to you.” His voice softened. “Then you could have called.” “I know.” “Why didn’t you?” Because I liked believing you would always be happy to hear from me, and I was afraid to find out I was wrong.

“I wasn’t sure you’d answer.” He let that sit between us. Then, “I answered tonight.” I smiled into my pillow. We talked. About my work. His move to a new apartment. A lecturer we both remembered who used to lock the lecture hall at exactly eight. At one point, I laughed so loudly I had to cover my mouth. “What?” he asked. “Nothing. I’d forgotten you were this funny.” “You used to laugh.” “I used to do a lot of things.” “Like call me your brother?” I closed my eyes.

“Can we retire that?” “Already? I was getting used to the family.” “Kojo, please.” He laughed, and I wished he were sitting beside me. Then he yawned. I glanced at the time. We had been talking for fifty-three minutes. “You should sleep,” I said, hoping he would disagree. “Probably.” Disappointing man. “Goodnight, then.” “Goodnight, Lovia.” Neither of us ended the call.

I listened to the quiet at his end. “Kojo?” “Hmm?” “Who was the woman at the restaurant?” A pause. Then I heard him laugh. “I was wondering when you’d ask.” “I’m just making conversation.” “At almost midnight?” “Goodnight.” “Lovia.” “What?” “Have dinner with me.” I stopped pulling at the thread. “Saturday?” “Yes.” “Just the two of us?” “Unless you’re bringing another relative.” I laughed.

Then, before I could spend another four years finding the right response, I said yes. After we hung up, I changed his contact name. Deleted Campus. Looked at Kojo for a moment. Then added a heart. Removed it immediately. Let us get through dinner first. To be continued.