A Winter in Beijing

Antonia, I would ask about your ailing mother, but I do not think I want to hear from you after this.

I thought I was going to die the other night. It has been three times now since you left that my lungs have forgotten to do anything with the air inside it, because my whole body was too busy trying to make sense of the reasons why you insisted everything we shared had to come to an unnecessary end on Christmas Eve.

And then my mother called. And slowly, my chest settled, as she shared news about my cousins from my father’s side. 

One of them, Ifeanyi, who is around my age, though a little younger, is getting married before February’s end. My father used to sponsor his undergraduate studies, but he dropped out of school a year ago to open a church inside the apartment building my father gave his mother, my father’s sister. 

I am sure he has come up in our conversations.

She also shared news about Ifeanyi’s sister, Ifemefuna. She too has decided to take some time away from school. Last week Sunday,  the assistant Pastor at their church came with her mother and Ifeanyi to see my father. Because the assistant pastor was interested in marrying Ifemefuna. My mother thinks she is pregnant. She thinks that is why they are hurrying everyone up. But my father disagrees. He said his sister and the assistant pastor have no reason to tell such unnecessary lies. That it is in her nature to rush things.

It was then that the details of the weeks leading up to your hurried decision to leave us came to me. Like the changes to your body you said was because of your new diet, the tampons you stopped asking me to pick up at the store, and the unusually long showers you started taking in the mornings. And then I felt my chest begin to tighten again, and I held on to my mother’s voice.

And just before my mother had to go, I asked her what she would do if she learned that Ifemefuna was indeed pregnant, but she could not hear me. The network had dropped for a moment. And I did not ask again. I knew what she would say. She would be disappointed. But in the end, she would be there for her. Because unlike my other cousins from my father’s side, my mother was always fond of Ifemefuna.

Before hanging up, my mother said she loved me. That she wished I had come home for Christmas. She also said that my father could not come to the phone, but he misses me too. And that my tomatoes, the ones in her garden, had ripened, and she had made my favorite stew with them for Christmas.

But she did not ask about you. Though, I wish she did.

I wanted to tell her how you left in such a hurry. And that she was right about you and I. That I spent the last days before Christmas, and all of Christmas in bed trying to decide how I was going to keep you around, before booking a flight to D.C. to see you. But you insisted you did not want to see me again.

I think I am okay now. At least I am trying to be.

Christmas has come and gone, and the green on the Christmas trees are fading, along with the sting of our last words to each other, before you cut off all communication with me.

The new year is quiet in Beijing. I thought I would like that. So I am writing to you now because I want to let you know that I am trying to forgive you. Even if you do not deserve it. That I think I know why you left us behind in such a hurry. And that you were right to do so without telling me. Because it would have broken me. And I would have done things to your body I know I would regret.

Anyways, this is the last time you will hear from me. I hope you and the child I have concluded you are carrying are doing okay. Unless, of course, you chose yourself. If that is the case, then I pray you find peace with where your choices have brought you. I am trying to do the same.

I have been struggling to keep my mind in this city. And though there are a few things in Beijing I could occupy myself with, I feel I should go home to Enugu. Ifemefuna’s wedding is coming up at the end of January. And it would be a great place to reconnect with my cousins from my father’s side of the family. 

Do take care of your mother. I will miss you.

Sincerely,

Anthony Ibeanu.