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How’ve you been? I’m not going to blabber (much to your relief I figure). Straight to the main course we go. But first, where we left off last week;

Somewhere in the middle of the stack, I saw it. The stained, cover-less exercise book I wrote in, not lecture notes. You see, as a matter of principle, I don’t keep diaries. I’d write my precious thoughts in stanzas. It was my little-known talent. I didn’t speak of it much because it was inconsistent with my alpha-male aura. Can you picture Christiano Ronaldo and Shakespeare in one person? Exactly! Back in the day, I used to rap some of the poems, but some things were too pristine, too ethereal, too pure for a ghetto rendition, Like Ginny. Half of the scribbles in that book were about her.

“Hi Chris, it’s been ages.”

OO SHIT! That wasn’t Amma, and it couldn’t have been Sam’s voice. I turned, slow mo, it was Ginny. She was standing in the doorway, my doorway. My bladder filled spontaneously, and I got it like a friend request; I wasn’t over her.

*       *        *

My pupils dilated, I felt cold all over and my hands moved clumsily. I didn’t even realize I had dropped my poem book. If I had taken an X-ray then, it would have shown my stomach touching my heart, and my intestines writing “Awurade m’awu!”

She wore a long oversize polka dot shirt over blue pencil jeans. The large black belt she strapped over the shirt did more than correspond with the black dots in her shirt, it allowed her shapely figure to teasingly stand out in the otherwise casual attire.

She held her long black hair in a simple pony and other than lip gloss, she had no makeup on. But the Ginny that rendered my stiff a year and a half back, hadn’t lost even an ounce of her aesthetic glory.

I was unprepared but delighted. I was vulnerable, and had to be guarded. I had to say something, but all the energy I could muster went into keeping me together and acting as unclumsy as possible.

“Ginny?”

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The cat napped,

The mice played.

The cat’s back,

Mice awaayyy!

*         *         *

Hehehe, my sorry attempt to say sorry But is it true? that an apology is more sincere when it’s brief? Because if that’s the case paah de, then i’m sorry for the fallow period; i was re-fertilizing:-D

So here you go, the continuation of your addictively loved story (I don’t get why someone falling for his best friend’s girl piques your interest so. why is it because…lol) anyways, so from where we left off;

The more I thought about it, the more I looked forward to it; I’d see Ginny and know for sure that I was free of her haunting sweetness, of her lingering effects. Yes, this would be a liberation of sorts, and my inexplicable coldness would be needless. I could be a friend in the true sense…or I could be in for the rudest shock. I could find out that what I perceived as a complete emotional detachment was actually latent passion. Aarrrggghhhh.

These thoughts streamed through my mind as I checked in to JFK the following Thursday. My Virgin Atlantic flight was going to stop over in London and I’d be in  Ghana before the next day ended, a week before Sam was to marry Ginny. Was I ready? I don’t know.

*         *         *

My flight was smooth. By 6:45pm on Tuesday June 10^th (five days before Sam’s wedding), I was sitting at the arrivals hall of the Kotoka International Airport. It was packed with Ghanaians coming home for summer and foreigners seeking oilier pastures. My head kept sticking out like a hydrogen-filled balloon, but I couldn’t see Sam.

My sorely-missed folks and Amma, my perceptive, beyond-her-years teenage sister had finally given in to waiting home for Sam to bring me before midnight. He had strongly insisted on taking me to see his new apartment in East Legon, but each minute he delayed in showing, I felt like calling Dad, or chartering a taxi. I helplessly waited, and there were few things I disliked more.

Worse was the fact that he was getting married, so he had enough get-out-of-jail-free cards to make me look bad for being upset. When 7:25pm came and he still hadn’t shown, I decided his cards were used up. I was about leaving when I heard the unmistakably sonorous voice of my best friend.

“Yo, yo yo yo waspaaappiinggg??!!!”

His demeanor was light and infectious, his smile was reminiscent of a blissful childhood, and I knew for a fact that I’d missed him. For the records, I’m not gay. In fact, I’m so straight that I could wear a g-string and still exude enough alpha-male aura to charm a nun. But when you’ve lived in a strange land for even a few months, you tend to value your childhood friends. A crowded sub-way in New York still felt lonely; everyone was invisible to everyone.

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