I was struggling to hold it all together. My bag, a box that contained my shoes, another box that had my books, and a mattress that I had carried wherever I went. I said, “Or I should leave the mattress here and come back later for it?” The voice in my head answered, “By the time you come back, you won’t find it here. Somebody might have stolen it.” So I picked the mattress, bundled everything up, and started moving to the hall I was assigned to. So this gentleman walked up to me and said, “You should ask for help. How can you carry all that by yourself?” He stretched his arms and I gave him the mattress and the box that had my shoes. I was sweating. Even before he took a step, I said, ”Thank you. I really needed help.” He asked, “New student?” I said, “Yeah, I just came.”

So he carried my things and followed me to my hall. When I got to the entrance of the hall, there were some guys assembled there. They started screaming, “September rush! This one is catch them young. It’s happening oooo September rush.” I didn’t understand anything. I watched the guy and he was laughing. I asked why and what ‘September rush’ meant. He only smiled and said, “Don’t mind them. They are just being silly.” He helped take my things up—four floors I think. I said thank you and he said, “When you’re in need of help, call for it. Anyone at all will help you. You’re a beautiful woman. Guys would gladly help you. Don’t do it on your own.” I thanked him again and he left.

One day I was in a queue trying to register for something when I saw him. I waved at him and he waved back. He left the guy he was walking with and came to me. He said, “My September rush, how are you doing?” I asked him, “What does it mean to be someone’s September rush?” Again, he smiled and didn’t explain. We spoke for a few minutes and he left. At some point, it felt like he was stalking me or I was stalking him. I would turn left and he was there. He would turn right and I would be seated right at the corner. I would hear “siii” from behind. I would turn and it’s him. “I don’t even know your name. That’s why I call you my September rush. What’s your name?” “Maria,” I responded. He gave me his name too. Oliver. 

From there, I was no longer his September rush. I was “My Maria.” He would meet me, instead of calling my name he will say, “My Maria.” I had to correct him, “Maria is not my surname. It’s actually my first name. There’s no ‘My’ before Maria. Just Maria.” I remember him laughing. And I recall him saying something like, “Maria sounds good with ‘My’ and you’re also my friend so ‘My Maria’ it is.” 

I got his number. When I needed help he was the first person I called. When I needed somebody, he was the first person I called. I had him as a friend even before I made a friend from my class and from the hall I was assigned to. He came through each time I called on him. Then he started eating from my end. He would come over after lectures and ask what I cooked. I would give him something. On weekends, he’ll give me money and say, “Just in case you’ll cook, this is my contribution.” We were together more often than friends would be. He helped with assignments, helped with money, and started getting to me emotionally. By the time he proposed, he had only a few weeks left to leave campus. I watched him and wondered why he didn’t propose early. He had always called me “My Maria” and yet said nothing to me until when he was about to complete school. I accepted his proposal. 

It started making sense whenever he called me “My Maria.” It sounded like a prayer. A kind of prayer Catholics would kneel and recite to Mary. 

Fortunately for us, he ended up doing his national service on campus so we had another year together. That was the best year of our lives. There was nothing we couldn’t do. There was no place we didn’t go. Young and free we decided to explore everything that looked explorable. He still helped with assignments, helped with money, and helped take care of my emotional needs. When service was over, he left campus to a world where he could chase bigger dreams. He was looking for a job but never left me behind. He had a job down south and still traveled up North to visit me at the end of every month. Maybe he’s the reason why up till today, every end-of-month excites me.

But things got harder for me when I was at level three hundred. I couldn’t tell him about it. I felt I would be a burden on him. It was hard for me to pay fees. Dad had retired and was still taking care of four children. I’m the eldest so you can imagine. Fees delayed until at some point I was barred from writing exams. I remembered his words, “Ask for help. Don’t try to do it all alone.” I told him about it. He said, “No problem. I will take it from here.” From level three hundred until I completed, he paid my fees and gave me something to rely on. So when he called me “My Maria” It made a lot of sense and had a lot of meaning. I was his completely. He didn’t just say it. He proved it. 

We celebrated our fourth anniversary when I completed school. It was September 2015. That day I laughed. I remembered the very first day I met him and the voices of those guys who kept screaming “September rush.” I laughed because I had learned the meaning of September rush. I asked him if he remembers that day and he laughed too. He said, “They were actually right. Ain’t you my September rush?”

I did my national service down south. I was closer to him than before. I spent most of my weekend at his end. We planned our future together. How it would look like when we finally settle down as a husband and wife. We planned the number of kids and planned where we would live. Because of his descriptive powers, I could see our wedding in my mind’s eye. My hand tucked under his armpit as we make our procession to the altar. The lifting of the veil and the “I now declare you a husband and a wife.” Everything looked possible because I was his Maria.

On that Friday night, I was supposed to be with him but I had a call from the house so I rushed home. The idea was to be home early so I can return to see him in the evening. Around 6pm he called. He asked me, “Is it possible that you can return?” I said, “It’s getting late and I’m yet to finish what I came here for. It’s becoming unlikely for me to come back. He said, “Try. It’s not a long journey back here. You can even set off at 8pm and get here before 10pm.” 

At 9pm I was at the roadside waiting for a car that would take me home. I stood there for over an hour and no car came around. My mom said right from the beginning that I would not get a car because of the time. But I had hopes. Oliver wanted to be with me so I had to do everything to be with him. I called around 10:30pm to inform him about my inability to get a return car. He said, “No problem. Tomorrow is Saturday. If you start the journey early, you will be here before sunrise.”

I called him around 8am to tell him I was on my way coming. The first call went unanswered. The second one too. The third one too the same. All calls were made at five minutes intervals at least. I sent a message, “I hope you’re not angry at me for not coming early. Actually, I’m on my way,” Fifteen minutes after that message, his call came through. I picked up the call and a different voice greeted me. He said, “Oliver was rushed to the hospital this dawn. He couldn’t make it.” I looked at the name on my phone again. “Maybe I’ve called the wrong Oliver.” The name was right and the number was right. I said, “What did you say? He said, “It’s unfortunate but it is what it is. He was declared dead on arrival.”

I got frozen. There were so many things happening to me that I can’t explain with words. “How? But I was on the phone with him just last night? How is that possible? He wasn’t sick? So how?” I didn’t believe what the voice said until I got to his place and met a lot of people gathered there in a somber mood. I rushed to his next-door neighbor. I said, “Tell me it’s not true.” He was already crying. He said, “It’s true. Late last night I heard a knocking sound coming from his room. It sounded like someone knocking on a piece of wood. It was intermittent. I even thought it was a knock. It happened repeatedly until I got disturbed and woke up. It was like someone was struggling and hitting things in the room. I knocked on his door and called his name. He didn’t respond so I called the other neighbors who came to help us break into the door. He was on the floor convulsing and foaming. We struggled before sending him to the hospital but…”

I blamed myself. That made the burden heavier. “I should have been there with him. This wouldn’t have happened if I was here.” What if he had a reverie of what was coming to him that night and it was the reason why he wanted me around? He had been my help through it all but just one time that he needed my help, I couldn’t help him. It hit harder than any sadness I’ve been through. I was at his funeral. I saw everything that happened but did everything possible to avoid seeing his dead body on display. I didn’t want his dead body to be the last image I have of him. I wanted to keep holding on to his living face and nurse a useless hope of his aliveness. 

I woke up every day and said sorry to him. “Man, sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.” It broke me into pieces. I struggled to eat. I had weird dreams. I had a broken heart for months. He was buried in his hometown. I marked his grave. Every end of the month, I sent a bouquet to him. I did that consecutively for six months. But life got busier. The distance to his hometown became longer than it used to be so I sent him a bouquet only on his birthday. I did that until I met Joel and said yes to him. I told him the story of Oliver right from the start. It got him broken too. What I didn’t say was the flower I sent to him on his birthday. I thought it would be weird. Or he might interpret it wrongly. That I haven’t moved on or haven’t forgiven myself. So I kept that on a low-key and did it at his blindspot. 

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But the love between us got stronger. He filled the vacuum perfectly. So perfect that I felt guilty whenever I thought of sending a bouquet to Oliver. For three years I didn’t do it but it didn’t stop me from thinking of him every once in a while. When it became very obvious that I and Joel were going to get married, I decided to get closure from the past and move on completely. The only way to do it is to confess to Joel what I’d been doing. I said, “Do you know that I’ve been sending flowers to Oliver on his birthday each year? I haven’t done it in the last three years because it didn’t feel right. It’s a confession.” He laughed. I laughed back. He asked me, “What flower is that?” I said, “Oh the normal ones that they put on graves.” He said, “Those artificial ones?” I said, “Yeah. A year later. It is gone but it’s ok. It serves the purpose.”

He said, “Then why don’t you plant natural ones if you think he needs flowers.” 

He said it jovially but it made sense to me. I thought of it and it became all the closure I ever needed. “If flowers grow around him, then he wouldn’t need one every year right? Great idea.”

I went there and plant a series of them around his grave. I said, “I met someone else. I’m sorry. We are getting married. I may never come here again but I hope you’ll be happy for me wherever you are. I’m also sorry for that night. That I couldn’t be there. I will continue praying for you.”

Months later, I got married to Joel and moved in together with him. How happy and fulfilled I felt on my wedding day can’t be explained. Because Joel is a kind man. Very soft inwardly and also very forgiving. There’s a piece of bare land behind our window. Joel grew green grass on it to prevent dust. I said, “Flowers here would make the whole thing beautiful.” He told me, “Then grow some on it.” Guess the flowers I picked, the same ones I grew on Oliver’s grave.

Two years later, They’ve grown beautifully. My husband waters them when they look dry. From all indications, he’s in love with them. It’s the reason he wants to see them do well. The dead needs flowers. The living also does and I’m glad I could use the same flower to represent the two great moments in my life. I don’t know how the ones on the grave are doing. Maybe they died maybe not. But the ones here are alive and beautiful just as the marriage I’ve found myself in. 

–Maria               

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