I still remember the moment Kamsi walked into my life, or rather, my hostel room. A first-year student, lost in the maze of Awka’s campus life, she had followed the wrong hostel trail. Her oversized UNIZIK hoodie swallowed her slim frame, but her voice, though hesitant, carried warmth when she asked for directions. From that first meeting, something clicked—like finding the missing part of yourself you didn’t know you needed.
She quickly became my person. We spent afternoons studying under the mango trees near the Faculty of Arts, our hands brushing now and then, leaving an electric thrill in their wake.
“Ada,” she would call my name, “please, have you seen my glasses?” I was the first daughter in my family, so it came naturally to me to care for her—helping her find her keys, glasses, eyeliner, and blush whenever she misplaced them around the room.
Evenings were for whispered conversations on my bunk, laughter muffled into pillows, and Kamsi’s fingers tracing lazy circles on my palm. Nights were when she’d hum Ebezina softly in my ear, promising that the world didn’t have to feel so heavy.
Loving her felt both daring and natural, like we were breaking invisible rules no one had the courage to write down. And for two years, our little bubble of stolen glances and secret moments kept us afloat. It was enough—or so I thought.
The news came like harmattan dust: sudden and suffocating. She had transferred to study Law at UNIBEN. She told me one Friday evening in the cafeteria, her eyes refusing to meet mine. “Ada, you know I can’t do anything about it. It’s what my family wants,” she said, as if she didn’t already know that our bond felt stronger than family ties.
I sat there, watching her lips move, trying to focus on her words, but all I could hear was the slow crumble of everything we had built.
The days leading up to her departure were a blur. We avoided talking about it, filling the silence with casual jokes and awkward smiles. The night before she left, she came to my room. She lay on my bed, her head on my lap, and for hours, we said nothing. I could feel her tears soak through my leggings, but I didn’t dare acknowledge them.
At 5 a.m., I walked her to the bus park. Her suitcase was embarrassingly large, but then again, so was my heartache. When the bus finally pulled away, taking her with it, I stayed there long after the exhaust fumes had settled.
Now, weeks have passed, and I am learning to exist in a world where Kamsi is only a memory. The mango trees don’t feel as inviting, the evenings stretch endlessly, and the nights are deafening in their silence. We talk occasionally—stiff phone calls laced with awkward pauses and words we don’t say. She tells me about her new classes, her new friends, her new life.
I tell her I’m fine.
But the truth is, the campus feels like a ghost town without her. I replay her voice in my head, wondering if she still hums Ebezina to herself in Benin. I wonder if she misses me as much as I miss her.
In my heart, Kamsi is still here, sitting under the mango tree, her laugh a balm to my soul. But in reality, she’s under a different sky now, chasing dreams I can’t share.
(TO BE CONTINUED …)