Written by Busayo Akinmoju
Mother, I am writing this from my room (so I am safe now).
The plane landed. Everyone clapped. And you were right—the river Niger looks surreal when
you’re up in the air. That huge mass of water, flowing. Looking almost alive. Thank you for
asking me to keep an eye out for it, because I’m sure I could sleep through any turbulence.
The room here is quiet, and I have no roommate—there is only one bed here.
I wonder what law school will be like. You told me all of the things I should expect
here; the early morning classes. The stress that makes you bite down on your own teeth. But
one year feels like such a short time.
And also like a long time.
Without you.
I will try to remember all of the things you told me to do—to make friends early on. To not
let my studying have too much of a backlog. To remember to eat. To go out sometimes—you
said some of the best medicine in the world is an evening spent with doing nothing other than
relaxing. Ice cream. A nap. A walk in the gardens—I will also check that out too. You always
give me amazing advice.
When I was on the plane, I tried my best to not seem like it was my first time. But the way I
stared at everything—the ground, the city receding into lines like crop circles. And the
emerald of a forest that edges around the city. I stared a lot. And I think most of all, I was
trying to find our house in those little crop circles. Impossible?
Well, you told me to be careful how I use that word. I know it will be impossible to pretend
like everything will just adjust. This is my first time not being your roommate. People called
me a baby for coming to Uni every day from home. But if you have a mother like mine, why
would you want to leave?
I think I found our house when I was in the air—in six months, when I return, I will make
sure that dull red roof in the sea of blue-grey others is really ours. It’s not impossible—for a
moment I felt I could reach out and hold our house in between two fingers. Like I hold your
words in a tiny fold in my heart.
I hope you enjoy this hand-written letter. It feels old-fashioned. And I’m attaching a picture
of the river Niger.
I am always thinking of you.
(Also, I just realised I didn’t start this with Good morning or Good afternoon. That is bad for
a Yoruba girl. I am sorry. Good afternoon, Ma. I am writing this at 3:47 pm, so it’s almost
evening. The sun is bright outside. If I try, it feels like I can hold its brilliance, its hope in the crack
between two fingers).
.
Busayo Akinmoju is a writer and a Doctor. Her work has been published in SmokeLong Quarterly, Lucent Dreaming, The Republic, among others. She was a category winner in the Welkin prize for flash fiction. She likes to read and to relax on long walks. Find her website here.