Dear Flushy

Dear Flushy,

I'll start this one with an apology because I cannot remember the last time that I called you Flushy. It was probably when we were 14 and I was low key in love with you. I know that I shouldn't say things like that ever, but my name is Afam and I've got a penchant for embarrassing myself and everyone I know. Are you embarrassed yet? No? I would try harder but I've got nothing but the memories of misguided affection and friendship.

I'm sorry that I couldn't be at your wedding. I wanted to go so terribly but life intervened. There was an opportunity to leave Lagos and get on with life so I took it. Unfortunately my getting out didn't come at a time when I could reasonably return. It is also unfortunate that I have zero money because if I did, I'd have flown back and sewn a white agbada, and I'd have bought you an awesome gift that wasn't on your John Lewis list because the best presents are surprises. I'm not dead yet, so the present thing might still happen.

The point of this public letter is to tell you publicly how incredibly happy I am for you. You were a beautiful bride. I know every one says that but I mean it differently. It wasn't that you were pretty- we've discussed your good looks before and you know my opinion. It was that you looked like the happiest you I'd ever seen.

If there's any justice in the world, I'll see you soon and I'll tell you all of this in person. If you ever want to see me, all you have to do is cook a pot of fried rice without green beans and carrots and peas, rub the pot as you would my ab-ful belly and say Afam three times. Do that and I will appear. I have never been one to turn down a free meal.

Happy Days,
Afam