Short Stories

My First Love

     I still cannot remember how and the exact moment I struck up friendship with her, which by degrees, blossomed into a formidable love relationship. We were in our second year in university taking a four-year degree course in journalism and mass communication. Just like her name sake Abishag, who became king David's nurse when he grew old, her physique was flawless. She was a demure young woman with dark, inviting almond eyes and cute round cheeks. Her silky black hair almost touched her naturally well curved hips which progressed downwards to form the most amazing, shapely legs I had ever seen. Her potent smile and look left me hypnotized each time she stole ardent glances at me whenever we were in class. Her charm was ineffable, to say the least.      

     

      Initially, I never thought she was interested in me until she started sitting at a close range from where I used to sit in the lecture hall. Eventually, she began sitting right next to me. It was undeniable that we genuinely enjoyed each other's company. The spark of chemistry between us was organic. If either of us arrived earlier for the lecture, we would reserve for or wangle each other a seat. This not only spared us time and the  inconvenience of having to look for a seat in case one was late for class, but also ensured we sat next to each other. I was always thrilled at the prospect of having her beside me. During and after lectures, we compared our notes and corrected any mistakes and omissions made. Besides doing our assignments together, the two of us formed discussion groups for various course units and then invited other members to join us. The move was all grist to the mill of not only our academic performance but also the cementing of our relationship.

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     One Sunday morning when I was leaning nonchalantly on the balcony of our hostel, Abishag stealthily came from behind, slipped her soft arms gently round my waist and whispered “I love you, handsome,” into my ear. “Oh malkia,” I let out a groan as I wrapped her arms tightly around myself. As she laid her head on my shoulder, I felt her body begin to turn warm and then suddenly hot. Our breaths quickened. My heart raced as I deeply inhaled the fragrance of her soft hair, savoring the scent of her body. We were completely lost into our own world. We would have remained locked in that unprecedented, blissful moment long enough to go overboard, had I not politely, albeit reluctantly disengaged from her.

    

     When I  turned to face her, she outstretched her arms, inviting me for an embrace. She gazed deeply into my eyes and smiled affectionately. The sight of her was breathtaking. She looked so lovely that I was tempted to instantly draw her into my broad, muscular chest and hug her tight, but was afraid we would never break away from our clinch. Instead, I took her hands as I racked my brains to find the right words to explain, without offending her, why we had to be careful. “Malkia,” I began, using the Swahili pet name I had given her which means queen, “I've been crazy for you all this time.” “Then what's the matter with you?” she asked, with a puzzled look on her face. “We must exercise considerable restraint,” I continued, “lest we fall into sin.” Having explained myself to her, we both gradually began to regain our composure.

     “But can I at least take a photo of you?” she requested, while taking out a Canon EOS 650D from her handbag. “Sure, why not?” I agreed, as she pointed the camera straight at me. It was one of those rare occasions I had someone take my snapshots. Being a photographer myself, I was accustomed to shooting subjects as they posed or otherwise for photos, depending on the nature of the desired image. It therefore felt a little odd being the subject in this case. Nonetheless, I let her take numerous photos which we thereafter reviewed together. “How do you create the blurred zoom effect in a photo?” she needed to know. “Well, there are many ways for doing that,” I recalled from my practice, “one of which is to zoom while at the same time pressing the shutter release button.” I showed her the technique of controlling the amount of zoom as the effect was sometimes too much. We had much fun experimenting with the zooming, from out to in and the other way round. Besides trying to stop for a split second through the shots to see what results we would get, we also zoomed out fast then slowly. “The photos are amazing!” she exclaimed in delight.  

     “Then,” I went on, “you need to watch out for the light levels as too much light can over expose the photos, making them come out too light.” “And how do you go about that?” she asked. I lucidly explained to her how one reduced the amount of light entering the camera by having the aperture up high like F32 as it made the hole in the camera lens very small. I also tipped her on reducing the ISO to 100 as it made the sensor in the camera lens less reactive to light, thus helping in reducing over exposure. “All the while you are zooming in and out, ensure you hold the camera securely,” I advised her.

      As we took each other's photos in turns, I also guided her to focus and minimize the delay between pressing the shutter button, and the camera actually capturing the picture. “I can't wait to work with you in photojournalism projects next semester!” she exclaimed. Just then, it struck me how useful those photos could be in our computer project which required an individual to create a personal website detailing his or her profile information. We downloaded the photos from the camera to my laptop and then made an online back-up of them through the Backblaze online data storage service. Thereafter, we started working on the project.

     The following day, she called me very early in the morning, supposedly to wake me up and inquire of how far I had progressed with the computer project. “I'm done with creating the basic structure of your own project and developing the code for uploading photos.” “That's so sweet of you, babe,” she remarked, before asking whether we would still go jogging as agreed on the previous day. I replied in the affirmative: “In fact, I was getting into my tracksuit when you called.” We set off at a slow but steady pace, gaining momentum as we went on. It was an exhilarating experience running beside each other. At one point when she fell short of breath, I offered to hold her hand as I urged her on. “The slope is too steep for me,” she admitted, and requested that we stop for a while. But since we were not far from the top and I did not want the dawn to break before we had returned to campus, I coaxed her into finishing the rest of the distance. And so did the morning jog ultimately become a daily routine in our lives.

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     Besides I being an assistant head of the news department in the University's radio station and Abishag an editor with the University's newsletter, we both co-hosted a three-hour gospel reggae show in Swahili. I still recall her initial discomfort with Swahili but after thoroughly discussing our primary target audience with her, she sussed out the  importance of using it as our broadcast language. Since she was not as proficient in Swahili as I was, we began by writing full scripts for the show. Later on, after coaching her extensively, we settled on using semi scripts. She, in turn, introduced me to the Ge'ez language in which her father, an Ethiopian detective, was a scholar.

      Mr Damise Asfaw had met Abishag's mother in Kenya while on official duty. After courting for two years, they had gone to the Ethiopian town of Hosanna where he grew up, to solemnize their marriage before returning to Kenya. Abishag's paternal grandfather, a repository of Ethiopia's history, was among venerable relics of Bishops of the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church. Among the things she taught me was the Lord's prayer which she demanded I recite to her until I had fully mastered it. Whenever we ate together, we would say the Lord's prayer in Ge'ez which really intrigued everyone around. This is how it looked like in writing:

Our Father of heaven hallowed be thy name

ABUNE ZEBESEMAYAT YITQEDES SIMIKE

Come thy kingdom be done thy will

TIMTSAE MENGISTIKE WEIYIKUN FEQADIKE

As it is in heaven like this on earth

BEKEME BESEMAY KEMAHU BEMIDR

Our bread of each day give us today

SISAYENE ZELELE ILTENE HABENE YOM

Forgive us our sins and trespasses

HIDIGLENE ABESANE WEGIGAYENE

As we forgive who sin against us

KEME NIH’NNI NIHIDIG LEZE ABESE LENE

Lead us not o lord into temptation

EETABIANE EGZIO WUSTE MENSUTE

But deliver us and save us from all evil

ALA ADHINENE WEBALIHANE EMKWULU IKUY

For thine is the kingdom power and glory

ESME ZIAKE YEITI MENGIST HAYL WESIBHAT

For ever and ever Selah.

LEALEME ALEM. 

     The script writing moments were fun-filled. Normally, we would, in the course of the week, do intensive research on the topic we chose to discuss on the show. We read books, newspapers and journals in the library, searched on the Internet and consulted various people including our friends. After amassing enough information, we summarized it and then set on preparing the script. This mostly took place on Fridays afternoon at Abishag's hostel room where there were lesser distractions and disturbances as compared to mine. The relatively quiet environment enabled us to record our rehearsals for the show, edit and package vox pops and interviews we had conducted. Whenever we did profile an artist, we included our own exclusive interview with him or her. But in case we didn't manage to get a one on one interview with artistes, especially international ones, we downloaded their interviews from the internet and credited the source and the interviewer.

    The very first time we went to the studio, Abishag could not hide her eagerness to learn how to operate the radio console. She was deeply perplexed by the many control buttons. “Don't be intimidated by the controls that govern the console board,” I reassured her. “It looks so complicated,” she said and then asked what role it played. “The console board is where all the inputs come together and get mixed into the final broadcast signal,” I told her, before continuing, “The important thing is to understand that every button pushed and every knob turned has a specific function.” After explaining to her the specific functions of the various buttons and knobs, I proceeded to demonstrate how they worked. “As you can see, the board is broken up into columns which are actually channels. For each channel, you have to select which input you are going to use.” “Is the input the one you want broadcast?” she asked. “Certainly yes,” I replied. I loaded a compact disk in the CD player and activated it.

     Then, I selected the CD input on the board, turned on the channel and raised the volume bar. She was really intrigued when she heard her favourite song Mirror You by Chevelle Franklyn play. “But you must always watch your volume level on the indicator,” I cautioned her. “Can't I adjust it to my preference?”she posed. “Yes you can, but for us, we max out the music at the vertical. Other stations max out at the red point.” I explained. “What would happen if you exceeded the red point?” she probed. “If you go past that, you will have crippling, which happens when you are broadcasting something so loud that the downstream components cannot handle it,” I explained further. “And how do you turn off the broadcast?” she queried. “That's simple,” I answered, while at the same time demonstrating, “You just press the off button beside the on button. Repressing the on button yields no change.” After orientation, we got down to airing the show. The target audience's reception was ecstatic especially after I invited Abishag to introduce herself and announce she would be my co-host from then onwards.

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      Of all the moments we shared together and the new things I learnt from Abishag, among them crocheting, the most memorable was when she taught me how to ride a motorbike. It was during one of the long holidays and she had invited me over to her place. That is the moment I got to meet and interact with her family including Wudasie, her twin sister. “So you are the renowned gospel reggae DJ,” began her mom, as she ushered me into the lounge upon my arrival. Before I could even answer, she went on, “My daughter Abishag talks non-stop about you. It is a pleasure to welcome you to our home.” “Thank you. I'm humbled and honoured,” I answered. 

    Everyone else seemed pleased to see me except Abishag's dad, but when he learnt I could play chess, his face lit up and he ordered his chess board to be brought him immediately.       After taking a scrumptious breakfast which could tempt even the most jaded palate, Mr Asfaw and I got totally engrossed in playing chess until late in the afternoon when Abishag came to pick me. “Dad, you need to release Mr DJ so we can go riding as we had planned,” she requested. At first, he was reluctant to stop playing but when she insisted, he gave in. “Okay, okay, he is free to leave,” he said, then turned to me, “I would be much obliged if you found time to play with me again. You are an excellent player.” “It will be my pleasure, sir,” I replied, as Abishag and I left.

      When we got outside, I spotted a Honda CBR 600 parked within the compound. “Sports bike is the most popular motorbike class,” Abishag informed me, and then went on, “They not only have fast, powerful engines, sharp styling and handling, but also bear aerodynamic fairings.” “Does that mean a novice rider like me needs to be extremely careful with it?” I had to be certain. “Definitely yes, since they are built for speed and blistering acceleration,” came the reply. Then, the lesson began. “Normally,” said Abishag, “The first thing to do is warm your motorbike. Currently, the bike is in first gear.” “Is there any specific purpose of it being in first gear,” I asked. “Yes there is, so that the motorcycle does not roll backwards and forwards,” she answered, and then told me to sit on it. “To get it out of first gear, squeeze in the clutch lever, put your left foot underneath the gear shifter and lightly lift it up.” I did as I was told. “It has indicated neutral,” I observed. “Yes, the bike is now in neutral position,” she confirmed. She then instructed me to lift the gear shifter to second gear and all the way to the fifth gear. “Some bikes have sixth gear,” she remembered.

      “To get it back to first gear, put your foot now on the gear shifter and push downwards, a step at a time, from fifth gear to fourth, third, second and first,” was my next instruction. “So, from second gear by pushing the gear shifter down halfway, it will go to neutral position, right?” I sought confirmation. “Yes, it will go into neutral,” she replied, and then warned, “Always pull in the clutch lever when shifting the gear.” Thereafter, we warmed up the motorbike's engine when it was in neutral position and I needed to know why it had to be in that position. “If you start the engine when the gear in not in neutral position,” Abishag explained, “There is a possibility of crashing, unless you are holding in the clutch lever.” She then showed me how to actually ride and brake the bike.

      I squeezed in the clutch lever and using my left foot pushed the gear shifter to first gear. I then eased out the clutch lever very slowly and at the same time throttled up. The motorbike started moving slowly. I was elated. Before I could move far, Abishag hurried to my side and shouted over and above the engine's noise: “Whenever you are riding in first gear and you hear the engine start getting loud, that means it's time to shift the gear up.” “What if I don't?” I quipped. “That can block the engine, eventually,” she answered. After practicing several times while she kept an eye on me, I got really confident and even invited her to ride with me. Without hesitation, she jumped on the passenger's seat, put her arms around my waist and off we sped.

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      Three months after we cleared undergraduate studies, Abishag's family relocated to Ethiopia when her father was given the mandate of heading the Worldwide Detectives Network in Ethiopia. At the airport during their departure, Abishag and I almost caused drama when we clung to each other and refused to let go. But when Mrs Asfaw finally separated us by pulling away her daughter from me, we vowed eternal love, to keep in touch and visit each other regularly. A fortnight later, Mr Asfaw called to inform me that Abishag had been involved in a grisly road accident that occurred at a place in the western part of Addis Ababa, locally known as 18 Mazoria in Kolfe Kerayo sub-city of metropolis. She and three other survivors had been taken to Bethzatha hospital where they were still recuperating from heavy injuries. I was distraught on hearing the tragic news and no sooner had he finished speaking than I was alarmed at the prospect of losing her. I resolved to go and see her immediately.

      This would be my second visit to Ethiopia. The first one was when my elder Rastafarian brother insisted on taking me with him to Shashamane during his pilgrimage, despite our parents' protest. I was only six then. When the Ethiopian Airline I had boarded touched down on Bole International Airport, I jostled fellow passengers toward the exit, much to their chagrin. It was while in a minibus headed to Addis Ababa that the call I dreaded most came from Wudasie. She informed me, amid deep sobs, that Abishag had just passed on. I let out a scream of grief which startled everyone in the minibus, forcing the driver to stop momentarily. A wave of despair pervaded my whole being and a barrage of questions filled my mind. How could she depart just like that and how was I supposed to live without her? 

     As I approached the hospital, I hoped and prayed that Wudasie had got it all wrong and that my Abishag had only slipped into a comma which she would come out of eventually. But when I reached the Intensive Care Unit, my worst fears were confirmed. Abishag's lifeless body lay there, the implanted cardioverter defibrillator having been deactivated and the food and fluid tubes removed from her. The deep sense of grief and loss in the room was palpable. Abishag's mother was missing and I learnt later that she had collapsed on seeing her deceased daughter and was being attended to within the same hospital.

      Mr Asfaw, myself, other family members and close friends started planning for Abishag's burial. According to the dictates of traditions and rituals, Abishag's family was supposed to express their grief openly by crying loudly and beating their chests, to cause physical pain as a way of showing the extent of their loss. Relatives and close friends would visit the home of the deceased and share in the outward display of grief, bringing with them food and drinks, as the grieving family was not expected to cook or do household chores. Normally, the burial would be conducted right away and people would meet at the church where a priest would preside over by saying a few words. The crying and beating of the chest would intensify as the procession made its way to the burial site, with the most intense display taking place when the casket was covered with earth. Usually, both men and women would shave their heads and wear black clothing while family members would not eat for at least twenty four hours.

      But being a staunch Christian who strongly believed in the infallibility of the Scriptures, and who had been away from his country for quite a while, Mr Asfaw broke with tradition. I totally recall sitting at the front row in church next to Wudasie who had rested her head on my shoulder. Her dad and mom who sat beside us were being consoled by esteemed male and female church members respectively. When time came for me to recite the poem I had written, eulogizing Abishag, Wudasie tightly held my arm and walked with me to the podium. A deathly hush fell over the church the moment I began speaking. “My lovely dove whom I treasured with all my heart, you have slipped out of my hands leaving me deeply hurt....” my voice trailed off as breathing became difficult. Everything started becoming hazy. The last thing I remember was feeling giddy and going weak at my knees. When I regained consciousness, three and a half hours later, Abishag's burial ceremony was over and people were conversing in low tones.