It was not the day that you took the bus to your house holding proudly the new chairs you had bought for your new office. It was not that same day, in that bus when you received the phone call that whispered news of your mother’s death into your ears. It was not that day, when upon hearing the news you turned to the window and stared into a bright sky and wondered why life was so cruel, it was not after your co-commuters symphatised with you when you had reached your stop. It was not on that day.
It was not the romantic movies that drove your emotions, or the ghastly motor accident you witnessed on your way to the market. It was not the human brain matter splattered in the middle of the road or the recurring image of symphatisers around the dead mother of the child survivor. It was not the embarrassment you felt after you were booed off stage because your voice sounded like the screech of a broken door.
The day you wept was not the day you discovered that the man you loved and protected was not that into you, it was not when he told you he loved someone else instead. That was not the day you wept, for in all the days that marked your forgetting him, someone was there to hold and comfort you.
The day that you wept, they left you. ‘Let her weep’, they said ‘because it is cathartic’. You knew you would never stop. These tears would not stop so you heaved and you wept, your nose wept along and you smiled. You watched the tears fall on the tiny being you would later call Tola and you knew for sure that you would no longer be mocked.