Do you believe in love at first sound?
Well, I do. Although I’ve always been the pragmatic type, my keen, analytic mind quick to rationalize any seemingly confusing situation, I have recently had a change of heart.
Once, I was a heathen, a staunch unbeliever in the power of love to take hold of one in mere seconds, to wrap around one’s heart in an iron-like grip. Now, I believe in the magic of love, the transformative capacity that a single glance at love’s anointed subject can bring to the most stolid of hearts.
Before I begin, you must first permit me my obvious frailties in advance. As you read my tale, you may feel stirrings of frustration and annoyance at my inability to grab the bull by the horn on occasion. I’ve always envied the stony-hearted members of my species, ones with the brazenness to talk up the sauciest damsels and have them smiling shyly after only a few minutes of conversation.
Unfortunately, I am not like these fellows. I am in love with fictional characters, and my dreams consist of multiple romantic and erotic scenarios that I dare not attempt to actualize in the waking world.
My tale begins in the second week of the annual national rigors known as the National Youth Service Corp Orientation Camp. It would have been better named “The Trials of Pre-Adulthood,” as the idea of an “orientation” speaks of a prolonged intellectual enlightening rather than a grilling military drilling enforced on the fit and the unfit, the latter category to which I obviously belong to.
Perhaps, my peers to the south of the country had it easier in their respective camps. For we received news of daily social and bodily gyrations, the latter of which was utterly banned in this annoying Sharia state.
Not that I could do anything if the opportunity arose, anyway. Never had a more prudent soul than I walked the face of this earth since the Savior Christ.
Nevertheless, we were permitted just one social gyration in our camp. It was moderated under the watchful eyes of the strict military supervisors, so there was no room for excess. Still, it was noisy and stuffy enough to elicit some rare excitement in my soul.
Amid the height of the show, I went outside the hall of festivity, seeking some fresh air and half-quiet to place a phone call to a relative. I was some ways off from the buzzing hall, and the noise here was much reduced, the atmosphere nonetheless busy with the comings and goings of small groups and pockets of people chatting excitedly with one another.
That was when I first saw her.
To say that I saw her here would technically be an untruth. I did not exactly see her, at least not at first. Rather it was her voice that drew my attention.
“… he’s been sick since he got to camp. I advised him to call his parents to come to take him home”
That voice. That sultry, calm voice I now associate with warmth, happiness, and safety. Even now, as I reminisce on the old times, on the night that kind fate first brought Aisha to my life, the sound of that voice rings familiar, a delightful tune that brings me out of besetting darkness upon its first note.
The second time I heard the voice was on the final day of the camp. I’d gone the remaining few days without seeing her. It was a large camp, and the initial effect of her voice, at the time, was not strong enough to have me take the trouble to find her. However, so often did I start at the sound of any female voice bearing the slightest similitude to that distinct tone that I began to chide myself for mentally what I now understand in retrospect to be an unconscious obsession.
The threads of fate are a strange thing. Many fear it, perhaps due to its reputation for being a vengeful master. In my case, I’d probably done some kind deed in a former life, prompting fate to deal me a much more favorable hand than most of my male peers.
I heard the voice again on the final day of camp, this time right behind me.
“Hello…” The voice sounded hesitant, like the words were forcefully coming from her mouth.
I turned back sharply as my mind was injected anew with external stimuli it had only very recently begun to forget. And, just like that, the charm was back on.
I hadn’t managed to catch a glimpse of her face the first time, but I was somehow sure it was her. That voice had not gone out of my head yet. At least, not totally.
“Hi there…” I replied in a hesitant tone that matched hers.
I snap out of my nostalgia, bidding myself the strength to sit upright and not allow the weight of my feelings to weaken my spine, sending me slithering to the ground in grief. No, I had to be strong. The tears kept rolling down my cheek as I slowly became aware of my surroundings.
The clergyman sounded solemn. His words would certainly cut deep, spoken in a slow, grating baritone that punctuated every consonant and elaborated every vowel.
“…from dirt we come, and unto dirt, we must return…”
Again, I zoned out. I cannot claim to remember everything that was said in the dimly lit halls of the church that evening. Neither can I particularly recall what was said to me as everyone filed out of the building, away to the cemetery only a few blocks away from the church grounds.
Everything was a blur up until it was time to cast dirt into the freshly dug grave. It was here that I heard her voice again, clear in my head. I do not know if those around me heard it, but from their expressions, I don’t think that they did.
The voice was as soft as it was when I’d first heard it over fifty years ago, cutting deep into my soul.
“I love you forever,” she said.
“I love you,” I replied, despite failing to give voice. It was over as soon as it had begun, and suddenly, I felt at peace, a sudden calm coming upon me as the ceasing of a violent gale in the high seas.
True, I would never see my dear Aisha anymore, never rest my head in her lap while she twiddled with her Kindle; never argue over whose meal was tastier, mine or hers; and never run my fingers through her thick hair, kneading softly on the scalp until she fell asleep.
Even more, I’d never hear her soulful voice again; hear it rouse me from bed on my lazy days, summon me sternly when I’d done something wrong, and declare undying affection after we made love.
As I leave the cemetery, now aware of the milling throng of well-wishers, mourners, family, and friends, I can finally breathe easy. My replies are surer, my voice stronger, gait more consistent.
And, in my heart, I know that Aisha loves me forever.
I am happy. I am at peace.
