A Pipe Dream
Mariam Sule
The morning we meet, I wake up excited like something is going to change my life forever. Life is blooming outside my room, and I’m excited to join it – birds are chirping, people are talking, cars are driving, and I’m looking forward to curating an existential niche for myself as the day blossoms. I join my friends in the hotel lobby where we take pictures and tease each other before we join the festival we’ve all gathered for; An art pilgrimage for the young and free at heart. Often in Nigeria, we tuck ourselves in for fear of taking up too much space. Here, a sanctuary where we can breathe and be without the looming fear of harm. In my view, the hall is littered with a kaleidoscope of humans, each one a vibrant expression of beauty. There are those with intricate locs that seem to carry stories of their own, their hair a tapestry of life experiences. Piercings adorn faces and bodies like glistening constellations, reflecting their defiance of conformity. It is in this haven that I see them. The softness in their eyes welcomes me. We exchange pleasantries as they make their way through the teeth of the crowd but the pull is insistent so I smile at them a little more and they do too. It feels like we’ve met before. A previous life perhaps. The thing continues to nag at my heart so I ask, “Are you kin?” I watch as their eyes widen in shock but they feel the tug too. They take a deep breath before saying, “Yes,” and thus begins our love story.
After the festival, I reach out to them on Twitter, excited to keep the connection. Despite the enthusiasm with which they respond to my message, I tiptoe around our connection, sending messages at long intervals, like a child learning to walk. They exude warmth and an air of openness yet uncertainty weaves through the fabric of our bond. Questions echo in my mind like hesitant whispers – how much contact is too much contact, especially given the 10-year age gap that separates us? With every interaction that strengthens us, they reassure me that our connection, transcending the physical, virtual, and spiritual, is here to stay.
Quickly, I learn that when they ask how I’m doing, they also want to know how I feel about the events in my life. “Your feelings are valid,” they say when I tell them about my anxiety around losing my partner at the time, their voice soft over the phone, and with time, I start to believe it. They tell me the fears that plagued their relationships and how they navigated them. “Life is a series of journeys,” they often remind me.
With them, I learn that words can keep you warm. Beyond the depth of their care for me, they wield and understand words with a reverence that I only ever experienced with them. Their words carry weight and purpose, like treasures unearthed from the deep recesses of their soul. When they speak, whether merely about the moon glowing in the dark or matters aching the heart, their words are vivid, living things that tumble into worlds of their own. They don’t just say the moon is beautiful, they tell you of a radiant orb in the sky casting its milky luminous rays across the vast expanse of the earth’s breadth.
It’s why it’s so easy to love them. They remind me of the possibilities that exist across lifetimes. Before we met, I had pleaded with the universe for a love older than I am who loves and looks like me. So when we meet and our relationship settles into a parent-child bond, it’s without hesitation that I bare the core of my being to them. They are my prayers answered. I share my innermost thoughts and feelings, letting them into dark corners of my heart where I keep my dreams, vulnerabilities, and fears, knowing that they accept me as I am. They explore my soul as I share, discovering the stories I have never told anyone. We talk about everything; I tell them about my childhood, friendships I’m learning to navigate, relationships I wade through looking for a semblance of home, dreams I’m too scared to manifest and a life I know of but haven’t lived.
They see me in a way no one has ever seen me before. Even when I feel wrong, their essence reminds me that I can always be better. Loving them brings me closer to myself. In moments of distress, they send me words that feel like a warm embrace, a soothing balm for my soul that coos me home to myself. “I’m proud of you,” “You are loved,” “You are formidable.” I hold on to these proclamations, heavy with intention and direction, playing their voice notes, reading their texts over and over, forming a guide I moved through the world with. In a world where people commit words to the wind without meaning, they are a rare gem I’m lucky to have found. In their presence, my flickering flame finds the hot coal it needs to burn brightly.
Most of all, they teach me to sit with myself. They cradle my inner child, soothe her with whispers of comfort, and hold my adult self’s hand, guiding her toward acceptance and strength. We’re kin and in a previous life, we had traced intricate paths that led us into loving each other in this life. I don’t know the story of us from the other worlds, but in this one, ours is a love story that defies conventions; it is unburdened by the weight of romance or the complexities of physical desire. It is as clear as spring water, light as a breath of fresh air, and pure as a mother’s love.
Their love becomes a blueprint for how I love and receive love; with intention, care, and an unwavering commitment to nurturing the beautiful complexities of the human heart. It shows me that love is not merely a feeling but a deliberate choice to cherish, to understand, and to stand by one another in joy, hardship and the deep purples in between. Their blueprint transcends into how I navigate my other relationships, making room for the depth that people may not admit exists but bores holes through bonds if left to fester.
Two years loving each other, I find that our love is as whimsical as it is real. It’s also why beyond our texts, spaces where we have created a bubble for ourselves, the fierceness of our love doesn’t do much to hold it together. The reality is that because we are neither friends nor lovers, the gap between us lives a life of its own. We do not live in the same country so all we have are texts, voice notes and occasional calls. When they visit Nigeria, I’m rarely on their list of stops to make and I’m okay with it because aside from our deep affection for each other, we are more or less acquaintances. However when we do spend time together, I feel myself and the voices inside of me come alive.
One time, we locked ourselves in a bathroom along with our other loves, at the time. There we broke hotel rules, smoking in the bathtub as we talked about love and loss. It’s then I realise that their love for me isn’t peculiar to me. It is a bright part of who they are. The care they extend to me, intuitive and unparalleled, almost otherworldly in its depth, is poured into their every relationship. I see this in their interactions with people in the room. It also seeps out to others, however close or distant from them. For a scarce resource like love, they seem to possess a well which they draw from to replenish those around them. Everyone is loved with the same intensity and spoken to with precise care, a trait I feel myself aspire to.
Now, I wonder if care can be code for something else. In the realm of human connections, care is a complex currency, laden with unspoken intentions and hidden depths. But, with them, it’s endless. They give as it comes. They love as they live. Every interaction feels like a burst of sunlight in the darkest of nights. Maybe, care is the only language they know how to speak, and in its quiet eloquence, it paints an illusive portrait of us. Its beauty strikes as lightning across the sky. I fall in love with it but don’t know that I can’t touch, feel or hold it for too long.
Before them, I anticipate loss like a storm cloud on the horizon, looming in the background of all my connections, casting shadows that I struggle to escape, but loving them teaches me to stay in the here and now. Because of this, I forget to worry about losing them. I am convinced we belong together through phases, realms, worlds, and lives we are yet to live in. It’s why when they leave, it takes months for me to realise they are gone. Their absence comes to me like the spiking pain of a phantom limb, when I see them in my dream settled in another life. When I wake up, I text them but to my dismay, that picture of them that made me cheese whenever their texts pop up on my phone is no longer there. I know what that means, in this day of digital presence. In the minutes that follow I confront the void, reading my message again for daggers, blades, anything that could have bled our love out and when I don’t see anything, I conclude that maybe our love was a pipe dream.
Mariam Sule is a writer and communications strategist. Her prose has appeared in USAToday, Aljazeera, Sahelien, Autostraddle and AFeelGoodBook, amongst others.
*Image by on Unsplash
