Like Mariama Ba’s So long a Letter, Funmiluyi Boluwatife Eunice’s “Dear Rolanke” reverberates the art of epistolary narrative- Pointers Editorial
Dear Rolanke,
I write this letter grinning from ear to ear while my heart bounces with joy. Why? A few minutes ago, I got your wedding invitation card. My eyes inadvertently became wider but I broke into a grin afterward. It feels like yesterday.
We were just ten years old. Two frail girls spending every minute together to the point that people mistook us for sisters and when we finally tell them we were neighbors, they cock their eyebrows like it is the worst lie they’ve ever heard. Sometimes, we don’t correct them, we love to relish the misunderstanding that we were sisters.We loved to play in the rain. Our skeleton bodies running on the wet clay while enjoying the soothing feeling that the rain gives.
When our bodies are coated with reddish sand and our face is beyond recognition, we would rush over to your house because my mother would not hesitate to use her long and fat cane on our pea butt that we were trying so hard to grow.
Your mother would drag our ears but not too painful and we would feign pain, secretly enjoying it. Then she would boil water and clean us up, incessantly giving instructions that we shouldn’t play in the rain again but she knows and we know she knows that we wouldn’t listen. Then she will threaten to tell my mother and we will kneel to beg her.
Remember those long treks from school back home? Sometimes we argued, sometimes we fought; play fight. I will hit you. You will hit me back. I will hit you again and I will run away from you so I would be the last person to beat the other, until we both start running and hitting, ignoring the looks of passersby.
When we turned twelve, you saw your first monthly red monster and you ran to tell me the good news, almost tripping on the stairs but you managed not to fall and you broke the good news to me which on hearing, twisted my face in disgust because I didn’t see bleeding every month as a good thing. You shrugged and concluded you didn’t know what I was saying because your mother was singing and dancing while calling you a woman already. You took pride in that and you didn’t let me rest until a few months after I saw mine. I told you my mother didn’t dance or sing like yours instead she held my ears that I should stay away from boys. I was obedient until two years later I had a crush on Banji. I told only you. I could vividly remember your expression like it was yesterday; We were on our way home. Our socks were dirty and our uniforms dull from the interaction with so many elements unlike in the morning when it was bright and we were proud of the attention it attracted.
“I love Banji”, I blurted.
You were quiet. You didn’t look at me. You just walked on and when we got home, you held my shoulder, your brown eyes piercing into mine, and said you were happy for me, and that I should tell him.
I told him the following day which was valentine’s. I rushed to tell you what he said. You bought me a shortcake with your food money as Valentine’s gift and insulted Banji for choosing a girl with no future but yansh over me.You told me we would both grow the yansh and we chanted it all the way home.
It was months later you confessed that you also had a crush on Banji. You didn’t explain why you didn’t tell me. I didn’t ask either. We both knew why.
You did grow the yansh and I didn’t. It was soft and bouncy. You always complained about my inability to stop touching it. I couldn’t help it. It was distracting. When we both turned sixteen, a lot of guys had asked you out, and a few guys asked me.
It was around that time you confessed your faith. I have always loved going to church, wearing my Sunday best, my body scenting, with my koi-koi shoe. It was also the time my mother allowed me to wear lip gloss but, when we sat on the veranda of my mother’s bungalow and you talked about your encounter with Christ, salvation was no longer the blurring message Pastor preaches every Sunday-a Sunday sermon routine. For the first time, it felt real.
Anytime we both walked on the road and a guy stops us, it is always because of you. You didn’t like it and you never listened to them. Instead, you hissed and dragged me behind you. I never told you I wished I had that.
We were both growing, our womanhood erupting like it was tired of being held in.
Your step-father noticed this too. And I guess that was when you started moving away from me. You never told me about how he comes to you in the night when your mother is asleep and touches you. You never spoke up either. You stayed in your room most of the time. Once, I came to see you and I saw your stepfather in your room.
It was late in the afternoon and I was upset with your distant attitude. I planned to tell you that, my mouth filled with words ready to erupt like a volcano. The door leading to your living room was opened and I walked gingerly inside, hoping to surprise you. Your room was slightly opened but clear enough to see your step-father on top of you, your legs around his waist, his right hand covering your mouth. I stood there rooted to the ground, shaking also, and the courage I thought I had in me evaporated into thin air. I turned around and went home. I don’t mind if you call me a coward. I never told you this. Rather, when I wanted to tell you, my grandmother died and I had to travel to Ondo for the burial. When I got back, you had traveled to your hometown.
I think your mother got a wimp of what her husband was doing to you behind her back, but your stepfather was sick and your mother had to stay to take care of him. I don’t know if I was the cause of the sickness because every night since I saw that scene, I prayed to God to cause sickness on anyone that hurts you.
It would have made me happier if I was the cause. I never heard from you but I wrote letters to you. I don’t know if you got any of my letters. I have kept a watch on you, on your works. I attended your book launch and you had grown to be the tall, intelligent, and independent woman I dreamt you would be. And now, you are getting married…lol. Wow, how time flies.
OmoRolanke mi,
You are like the moon, imperfect but beautiful.
Tall like the Iroko but soft in all the right places.
You were like the elder sister I’ve never had.
The first to partake in every new experience.
You were always there to defend me.
You watched me grow. You encouraged me.
I trust Caleb would take care of you.
I trust he would perform his duty perfectly as your husband.
Remember, I am always there with you, so when you are ready, my arms are here to hold you.
I never had the opportunity to tell you this but I love you.
Your sister,
Boluwatife
About the Writer
Funmiluyi Boluwatife Eunice is a writer and a spoken word poet. She has written for a publishing magazine. She is currently undergoing her bachelor’s degree in Medical Physiology.