Ghosts and Fried Potatoes

The aroma of fried potatoes hits your nose and you find yourself closing your eyes, savouring the smell, mouthwatering, heart wrenching. It's been a year since you smelt fried potatoes, since you left home. Home meant her, the memory of her. You think you are ready to face it now, the grief you have been stamping on. So, you follow the aroma till it leads you to the Mallam’s kiosk and you watch as he places freshly fried potatoes in an iron sieve. And then you are falling back, back to the evening you met her.

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The evening you met her, she was waiting for the Mallam to serve her potatoes in a paper plate. She was bouncing on the balls of her feet. You could see the desire in her eyes and how eager she was to wolf it down. When the Mallam gave it to her, she sat down on the bench beside his kiosk and started eating. She meticulously dipped a fry into the yaji (tasty pepper) and placed it in her mouth, moaning in delight while chewing it. It made you smile, how somebody could take this much pleasure in potatoes. You went to the Mallam and ordered two servings. He scooped it and gave it to you. You paid and carried it to the bench where she was sitting. You sat down beside her and started munching in silence.

When she was done eating, she smacked her lips, crumpled the paper plate and threw it in the bin. She made to stand up. You couldn't just let her leave. You had to know her. If she left, you knew you would feel a loss you could not describe. So, you said hi. She turned to look at you and she smiled. A lopsided smile that revealed her chipped tooth. That smile would forever remain branded in your memory. In later years, you would find yourself drawing on that memory just so you can bask in being the focus of that smile.

“Hi.” She said and relaxed back in her seat. That damning smile still playing on her lips. Your hands started sweating, not out of nerves, but because you were thinking of what you could say to her.

“Umm, I'm ..”

“Jay.” She completed my sentence. “I know you.” You were taken aback. You always felt unseen and invisible in your neighborhood, because you had tried to be just that. When your parents moved again, you were bent on not making new friends or acquaintances. You felt your parents would just move again and you were not ready to make ties that would not stand the test of time. So, whenever you ran errands, your head was always bent, your shoulders hunched, your lips tight. You only spoke to the street vendors around, buying what your mum or dad needed. Other people didn't bother to speak to you either.

“Ohh, you know me.”

“Of course, I do. Almost everyone knows your mother. She's very nice. I have seen you around. But, it's like you are bent on not speaking to anyone.” She smirked. “Well, I'm Ebubechi. Nice to meet you.” She stretched out a fist. “I would shake you but my fingers has oil on them.”

You chuckled and fistbumped her. “It seems like you really love fried potatoes.” You said, though you were knocking yourself mentally at your sorry attempt in making conversation.

“I do. But, this particular Mallam just gets it. Like, I don't know where he harvests his potatoes from or the technique he uses in frying it. Let's not even talk about his yaji. Goddd.” She answered with a subtle excitement in her tone.

“Well, I think I can do better than him.” You countered. She turned to face you, an eyebrow arching up. You felt the full intensity of her gaze just then. Those brown caramel eyes scrutinising you from the inside out.

“I actually can. My mum praises my fried poratoes. And when it comes to cooking, my mum's praise is hard to get.” You continued.

“Well, I'm speaking based on what I have tasted. This mallam's potatoes are the best. Maybe, when I taste yours, my decision can change.” She said, then sighed before standing up and dusting her shirt. “I have to go now. See you around?” She asked. She didn't wait for your reply before she was walking away. She walked like she was about to fly. Her tread was light like feathers falling or maybe, snow. The word that came to your head as she walked away was ‘bird-woman”.

You quickly ordered two more servings of potatoes and fried chicken with rhat tasty pepper she had exalted. It was wrapped in a nylon and you paid for it. Then you were running after her.

“Wait.” You ran to her front, then turned to face her. You held the nylon up. “You can have this.”

She smiled and walked past you, while saying, “I love potatoes, but I can't accept it.”

“It's just a small token to starting a friendship with you. I want to be your friend.” You explained, desperate for her to acknowledge this token. She stopped in her tracks and looked up at you. You towered over her by some inches. Then she collected the nylon from your hands and you found yourself exhaling in relief.

“Friends then.” Then she was skipping away. You didn't try to stop her this time.

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The next evening, you went to the Mallam's shop. She wasn't there. And the next, and the next. You didn't want to talk to anyone, so you didn't ask about her from the neighbors. You asked the Mallam though, but he just shrugged and said in his broken English, “Me don't know any Ebubechi.”

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Three evenings later, your parents were out. You were playing video games, so you didn't hear the light knock on your door. The knock came again, louder this time and you paused your video game. You went to the door, and asked who it was.

“It's me.” A pause. “Ebubechi.”

You hastily opened the door and you saw her standing there. You just stared at her and she stared back.

“Well, can I come in?” She asked, arching that eyebrow again. You stepped aside and she entered. She took in your living room and you felt self conscious. “Nice place.” She commented.

“I have been looking for you.” You blurted out. The first thing on your mind.

“I didn't want to be found.” She perched lightly on the edge of a couch.

“I thought you agreed to be friends.”

“I did. I have just been dealing with some stuff.” She picked at a frayed thread in her shirt.

“Okay, so how are you?” You sat across her.

“I'm okay. Do you want to prove your legendary skills in frying potatoes.” She asked, that lopsided smile stretching her lips. You smiled back. The first genuine smile you have had since you moved to this neighborhood.

That day, she agreed. You were an expert, your potatoes were better than the mallam's and your pepper sauce was “delisssooo” as she put it. You taught her how to play Mortal Kombat. She beat you three times. She pecked you lightly on the cheek. Then, she left. Just as abruptly as she came.

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You didn't see her until a week later. That evening, you were sitting on the short grass in the field where all the boys played ball. There was nobody in the field. Your headphones was blasting ‘The Night We Met by Lord Huron’. Your eyes were closed and you were so into the song, you didn't realize somebody was crouched in front of you. The headphones were removed from your ears and your eyes snapped open. There she was, her smile, her lightness, her being.

“What are you listening to?” She asked. Without waiting for your answer, she placed it on her ears. And you found yourself starting the song all over. You watched her close her eyes and sink into the song. She swayed back and forth in tune to the music and you found yourself mesmerized by her movement. When the song ended, she removed the headphones and sat beside you.

“Where have you been?” You asked.

“Around.” She answered vaguely.

“You only see me when you want to. You can't keep doing that.”

“Maybe we shouldn't be friends then.”

“Why?” You inquired. She sighed and stood up. “I should go.”

“Can I know where you stay?” You stood up with her.

“No, you can't. It wouldn't be good.”

“Ohh.” She started walking out of the field. You followed behind her. Then she turned to you.

“We could meet here at the field on evenings like this. Or when your parents aren't around. Just you and I. Getting to know each other. There wouldn't be too much time in between our meetings.” She said. “I promise.” She added as an afterthought.

“Okay. That works.” You smiled. You grabbed her hands in yours and pulled her closer. You wrapped your arms around her and hugged her tightly. Her hair smelled of coconut oil and Shea butter. There was also the sweet cloying scent of something you could not place.

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You always met in the evenings. It was all shades of fun, happiness, joy, lightness. She introduced you to music like The Night We Met. She showed you why you had to listen to When It's Cold, I'll Like To Die by Moby. You told her about your parents moving and how stablility wasn't a given. You told her about how you had stopped trying to make friends with anyone when you moved. She asked you why you decided to be friends with her. You just shrugged and smiled. You shared kisses. You loved her.

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Then you spoilt everything. You made everything crumble and you discovered. Reality hit you stark in the face. It had been three months knowing her. You wanted to know where she lived. So, when she left you that evening, you trailed her. But she caught you.

“Why are you following me?”

“I just wanted to know where you lived. I was curious.”

“I told you it wouldn't be good.” She said in a low, calm voice. You could see her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“What do you mean by it wouldn't be good?” You asked, stepping closer to her. She pulled back.

“You won't see me again. You have become too curious. Go back home.”

“I don't understand you, Ebubechi. Why are you saying this?” You tried to hold her shoulders.

“Go back home.” She screamed and just then, rain started falling. She turned away and started running. You watched her receding silhouette fade away. That was the last time you saw her.

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A month slipped by. You went to all the places you met. She was nowhere to be found. The field, the mallam's kiosk, the community garden. She was nowhere. The not knowing was hitting you in the chest, so you asked your mother.

“Ebubechi??” Your mother paused in her chopping of onions.

“Yes, mum. Do you know Ebubechi?”

“No, I don't know her. But I think I have heard of her. From the women around. I heard she died. Before we moved here. I think it was a car accident or something. I heard it happened around that mallam's kiosk. They never found the driver. I don't know sha.” Your mum turned back to her chopping. She didn't know what her news had done to you.

“I don't think it's true.” You countered, your heart beating fast, your tongue parched dry.

“It is. Her family's house is just by the corner in the next street. They said she was buried there.”

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You leaped over the short fence and made your way past the thicket of bush. You were at the backyard. You could see a headstone with a wooden cross mounted on it. It was made of granite and limestone. It was shiny.

“No, no, no.” This word rang in your head as you made your way slowly towards it. You read the inscription.

HERE LIES DAUGHTER, SISTER, FRIEND, EBUBECHI CECILIA WILLIAMS. 2004-2019. IN LOVING MEMORY.

You knelt in front of the headstone and you wept. And you wept. You had loved a ghost. Someone you never truly mer. Everything added up. Why she always wanted to see you when you were alone. Why she was so light. Why she was so evasive. Why you never really found her. And so, you screamed into the wind.

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A year later.
You are standing in front of the headstone now. You place the bunch of flowers in your hand on the mound. And then you sit. And you start telling her of the new songs Lord Huron has sang. A sad smile playing on your lips.

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A/N: I think I might have surpassed the ideal short story length, haha.😂 This story was inspired by the song, The Night We Met by Lord Huron.
Image designed by me