I FOUND HER NYSC KHAKI WITH HER NAME TAG STILL INSIDE MY WARDROBE AFTER 6 MONTHS

It still had her name tag.

AMARA E.

RIVERS/23B/0123

Six months later, I could still read it clearly.

She left it behind the day she came to pack her things after we broke up.

She was in a hurry.

Or maybe she left it there on purpose.

I have asked myself that question many times.

I don't know the answer.

For six months, I avoided that side of the wardrobe.

I only opened my own side.

My three shirts.

My two trousers.

My old jeans.

Everything that belonged to me.

Her side stayed untouched.

Like opening it would mean accepting that she was really gone.

Last Saturday, there was no electricity.

My phone battery died.

The room became too quiet.

So I started cleaning.

Not because I wanted to.

Because sometimes silence forces you to face things you've been avoiding.

That's when I opened her side.

Her khaki was there.

Folded neatly.

Under it was her white NYSC crested vest.

Under that was her small brown journal.

I picked it up.

I shouldn't have opened it.

But I did.

The first page said:

"God, please let this posting favor me."

I smiled.

I remembered how nervous she was before NYSC.

Page 5:

"I met a boy today at camp. He is from PH. He has a funny laugh."

I stopped.

I knew that boy.

Page 22:

"He said he will wait for me till after service year."

My fingers tightened around the journal.

Page 41:

"I think I'm falling. Is this too fast?"

Then I reached the last page.

Page 78.

The handwriting was different.

The ink was darker.

"He didn't wait."

I closed the journal.

I didn't cry immediately.

I just sat there.

On the cold floor.

My back against the wardrobe.

Holding six months of memories in my hands.

I remembered her first day at camp.

How she hated the khaki trousers.

"I look like a police officer," she complained.

I laughed so hard that day.

I remembered how she wore my oversized shirts over her uniform because she was shy.

I remembered her praying every morning before parade.

I remembered how excited she was when she got her Abuja PPA.

And I remembered something else.

She waited for me.

For eleven months.

I couldn't wait for two weeks.

I blamed the distance.

I blamed Abuja.

I blamed the new environment.

But the truth was simpler.

She didn't leave because she stopped loving me.

She left because she got tired of loving someone who wasn't showing up.

I folded the khaki carefully.

I placed the journal back underneath it.

I didn't wash the uniform.

I didn't remove the name tag.

It still carried the smell of her Roll-on and the dust from NYSC camp.

I closed the wardrobe.

This time, I locked it.

Not because I wanted to forget her.

But because I finally understood something.

Some doors are not locked to keep someone out.

Sometimes they are locked because you know if you keep opening them...

You will never learn how to walk away.

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