Found it in the canal.
That was the sentence my younger brother shouted as he ran into the house that evening, his slippers full of mud, his shirt soaked.
We live close to that big canal in Onitsha, the one behind the market. When it rains, it carries everything - pure water nylon, slippers, even goats sometimes. We were used to seeing rubbish there. But that day was different.
My brother said he saw a small black polythene bag floating, but it was not moving like normal nylon. It was heavy. He used a stick to pull it. Inside that bag was a small wooden box. Old, but locked.
My mama told him to leave it there, that it might be juju. You know how our mothers are. But curiosity will not let us rest. I told him to bring it inside backyard.
We opened it. It was not juju. Inside the box were old letters, like 20 letters, tied with rubber band, and a small gold wristwatch. The letters were love letters. From 1998. A man was writing to a woman named Nneka. His handwriting was so fine.
"Dear Nneka, I will come back for you after I finish my service in Kano..."
Every letter was full of promise. Full of love.
The last letter in the box was different. It was not from the man. It was from Nneka. She wrote:
"I waited. You did not come. I am marrying someone else tomorrow. I leave your watch in the canal, maybe water will carry it to you."
My chest pained me.
So this small box has been in that canal for more than 25 years. Love that did not survive. Promises that water carried away.
We kept the watch. We buried the letters. Because some love stories deserve to rest.
Till today, anytime I pass that canal, I remember. That water has seen many stories. And that day, we found one.
IMAGE IS AI GENERATED
