The Final Journey

A story of old once was told about a young man whose love had surfed the winds and battled the waves. It was said that his passion for Nanaama had echoed much beyond the shy, round, reflective moon, for it bounced off the surfaces of meteors and distant stars growing brighter with each new tangent.

So incandescent was his love for this lady that all the powers that had attempted to extinguish it stared vanquish in the face. He tried to avoid the wars but they inadvertently crossed his path. He fought with such valour and tasted sweet triumph, although the pain was unbearable. I happened to hear of this person and followed his tracks until I arrived at a house in a city called Accra.

Quite a modest house, I would describe it but the striking semblance of heaven on earth was stunning. It had a well-trimmed lawn that was dotted with flower shrubs and rose stems that seemed to display a spectra of colours enough to cast a thousand rainbows. The hedges were wild and unbehaved with bougainvillea vine clutching over wall space that did not look like it had been painted for a long while as it blended with the magnificence of age and beauty of nature.

I rang the bell but the silence was loud; not a word. I rang again and again and, after some ten minutes, again. I was startled to hear the softest, sweetest and most musically tuned voice a parakeet could sing or a robbin could chirp. The voice sounded like it was soaked in honey and blended with rose syrup that gave it such resonating magic, crisp and refreshing. What on earth? I thought I was going to meet a beautiful teenage gal as I imagined and pictured her in my mind; and all that within a few seconds that created a synapse in time – in history.

The entrance door was opened and I was shocked to see an elderly lady, eightyish I reckoned, but had an aged beauty that seemed to glimmer with a smile, which exposed pearly teeth: white, solid and full. She queried, “Who are you and what is your mission, son?” I could not help but wonder what beauty she had in her prime days that made her man go crazy in love to the extent that flowers bloomed at the memory of it and grass turned greener with the mention of this wild passion, reminiscent of another incredible story that brought into being the Taj Mahal.

“Mummy,” I began, “I am a young man in love and…and….” I could not finish my statement as tears swelled in my eyes rolling like thunder in the sky. She smiled as an old man gracefully approached to stand by her side. He gave her a light kiss on the cheek; a kiss that smacked of a love still burning in the cinders of time and still causing commotion in veins that carried the energy of youth. He was bald but still looked handsome. His features were clear cut and defined with a few wrinkles that told a tale with each. He spoke with the vibrancy of fresh blood and I could not help feeling awed at the love that sparkled in his eyes for his beloved lady; I assumed that they both were the couple I was searching for.

They welcomed me into their home and “Mummy” fetched me some koko and pinkaso fresh off the fire, crispy, hot and so delicious (koko is porridge as it is pronounced in local Ghanaian parlance and pinkaso is the name given to onion rings fried in pastry dough and sweetened); you know, the elderly, they say, cook the best and obviously so.

The old man was welcoming and hospitable: his demeanour portrayed an aging soul still generous and giving. I could not help but wonder if such people existed in the world today amongst the overly material youth, as he handed me a back rest to support my spine. I sat in an old armchair on which history was written and a thriving love story etched.

“Daddy, are you Fadi?” I inquired. Now I have become comfortable enough to ask questions that even went somewhat deep. He nodded in affirmation and, oh my GOD, when he stared at me I saw pure and true emotions saddled in the subconscious. I went on, “Are you that famous man who loved with such madness that you have been described as the Romeo of the 20th century?” Hitherto, I had never heard a laughter coming out of an elderly fellow with a roar to which tune the ostriches danced and the swans romanced. It was comforting, the heartiness in his joy, as he began telling his story, albeit the wildest love story in neo-history.

He said, “What do you want to know, son? Is it about my love for Nanaama or my madness for her? Where do you want me to begin?” He turned to look at the lady sitting next to him clutching his strong but weakened hand, “This is the Nanaama of my life, the Nanaama of my soul, the Nanaama of my dreams; this is the lady I dream of every day; I dreamt of her yesterday and I am still dreaming of her today. She is next to me in flesh and blood but I still dream of her; we have children and grandchildren and great grandchildren but I still dream of her. I want to take her to the islands of the celestial world and swim together in the clean and clear waters of space where I could love her until “Thy Kingdom Come”.”

He stopped to wipe a tear that rolled freely down his rosy cheeks, his hazel green eyes sparkling brighter than before as if the tears that were brewing washed the pair of crystal eyes, coloured and deep. Turning to Nanaama, who had stretched her hand to wipe another tear, he said, “If I had the opportunity to wind the clock backwards, I would not love any other woman. I love you so passionately that even at this age of nineties, I cannot imagine life without you. I wish we could live longer and keep one another until the stars fizzled out of the sky and the galaxies burned into extinction and the end of time became nigh.” He turned to kiss her frail lips as she, also, could not help her tears.

She laid her hand on his cheek as they kissed slightly, telling him of the intensity of her love too. I watched in awe and I was dumbfounded. I thought that I should leave but I was glued to my chair; I wanted to hear more but then something struck me as not normal. The old man gradually lowered his head to her bosom and then towards her lap resting on her womb; the irony of wishing for life that was being extinguished.

“Fadi, Fadi, sweetie, what is the problem, is anything the matter?” She was frantic now as if by natural reaction, she knew what was coming. In her frailty she bemoaned, “Oh GOD, my world is shattering; Fadi, Fadi, Fadi!” Sadly, Daddy, just passed on. Suffice it to say that it was only befitting that he should do so in the arms of the one whom he loved with such passion; he was mightier than a pride of lions in his quest to vanquish the world, yet a baby in Nanaama’s arms, even in his old age. I struggled to stretch his limp body on the sofa as mummy (Nanaama) wailed silently in her world of love that would see a funeral more like a wedding in which she would read a Eulogy as if to bid the world farewell, for she would also pass on a few days later.

Such was the love of this man for Nanaama; such was his passion. Is there any similar true love in the contemporary world of today? It is over to you to know that love is a gift and no matter what the circumstance may be, it is worth sharing with the person who loves you so.