We had a different story.

We didn't grow up as baby neighbors. Your momma wasn't my momma's friend and there was not a single shot of your face in our family album.We met at the village river. I was not swimming like the other girls. I had my legs in the water. I do not remember it all too well. I was so scared of water, even then. Before in the future, I will watch my brother taken by the waves.

Oh I remember now- I did not have my legs in the water. I must have read that scene in a novel. I was running around the brink of the water;  throwing snails at my friends. Perhaps they threw some back at me. Or maybe they didn't. But they gathered in a circle and whispered among themselves. Perhaps about their irregular menstrual cycle. Or why they didn't like the new English teacher from out of town.

She was too short. Her hair wasn't grey. She had dyed it. She probably must have stolen the dye from her grand daughter when she last visited for Christmas.

That's when I saw you. Or rather, when you realized you had been caught staring at my naked friends. And, or at me. You appeared somewhat confused. Terrified, maybe. I didn't look away as most girls did back then when a boy looked at them for too long. And even now, I still don't know why. Maybe it was the giddy feeling I felt seeing a male uneasy. You shifted from one foot to the other as though you weren't sure whether to move or keep your feet planted where they were.

You looked away first. And just when I had decided you were worth a snail ball, you turned. And you run. I saw you run. But you said "No. I didn't run. I jogged. It's like a slower way to run".In the future, you will say "I never run. I run, Squark? How could I run from something as beautiful as you?"

Squark. You never called me Salma. Always Squark. Because before you jogged or run, you saw me squat. As if to pick something but you couldn't tell. I lied. I told you it was something about your shorts that made me squat. You were shorter then. And I couldn't tell if you were just too small for the khaki or that they belonged to your father. I wanted to see what kept the shorts from falling. A rope? Your mama's scarf? Certainly not a belt. We were both too poor to afford one.

Somehow you believed the story. Somehow Squark came to stay.

After the river, I saw you again and again. At the town's well. At the market square. And once I could swear I saw you outside my window but you said that wasn't you. I don't believe you.We didn't talk much. You were too shy and I didn't care. We were nine year olds. Or ten? It all didn't matter then. We had friends who spoke for us.

"Do you like Morris?"

"Do you think Maurice likes you? "

"I saw Morris look at you at the well. Did you too see him look at you?"

And from your end, I wanted to believe your friends said things like "Salma is such a nice girl. See how she walks about in that red dress. Look how she holds her head at the center like pineapple. She's too fine, Mor. Too fine for you"Ah wouldn't That be a fine thing to be said about somebody! About me. Instead, this is what they said:

"But no, not Salma. The wild one with the birthmark? That one? No, Morris. She's crazy. Not the crazy one, Mor".

Fair enough. Almost too true but fair. Which was why it made no sense when you came to me in April. Seven years after the river and we still felt ways about each other. Seven years and our friends still spoke for us. Some gave up on the thought of us ever getting together.

"Oh they're fine alright but..."

After every but was a "Salma". Salma is too stubborn. Salma can't be handled. Salma will say no.

All this and you still showed up in April.

I was working on cocoa seeds my momma had left out to dry in the sun. Salma. You said my name then. Your voice was steady. Steadier than I had anticipated. You looked down at your feet a lot. Half the time, you looked at the cocoa seeds. Or was it my hands? I'm not sure which. Your voice was low. You were going somewhere far.

Columbia or something. I had read stories about those distant lands. Fancy towns, fancy English language. Fancy people, fancy everything. You had had a scholarship. You were going to study some fancy course. Biochemistry or something that had to with wearing a lab coat.

Was I going to be okay? You carried a parcel for me in your bag. Will I take it? You would come back. You promise. And when you do, would I want to marry you? Would I?

And while the brightest boy I had ever known opened up his heart and tried to put into words feelings he couldn't yet fathom, the whole time, I stared. At his shorts. No rope. No scarf belonging to his momma. Only I saw maize husks, tied into knots from one end to the other, forming a thread of some sort.

And when I finally lifted my head to look at your face, I said something silly. I know it was silly because you laughed.

"Don't freeze in their cold"

You insisted that those were the exact words I had said when I looked at you.

Don't freeze in their cold.

As though we had our own kind of weather. One that wasn't too cold for you. One that was just enough when we were together.

I did not go to the airport. It was in the capital town and I couldn't afford getting on a train. Lies. I was running away from the need to feel. To cry. Or say good bye. Or hold hands and listen to uncomfortable promises.So I stayed home. And for the first time, I sewed.

It was a scarf for your belt hole.