If by some chance you happen on these letters, know that I waited for you. And if you don’t find me, it is not because I stopped waiting. It would be that my body simply surrendered one day from the pain of losing you.
It would be that one day I found myself standing on the edge of Station Hill, and unable to stop myself, I ended up dead at the bottom. - Bessem to Fatimatou
Dear Bessem.
Come closer. Sit down. Take my hand.
For two days, I have walked through your story, learning about your love for Fatimatou. Your journey reminded me of a line from Eloghosa Osunde’s Vagabonds! Have you read it? You should. It doesn’t have all the answers, but it will comfort you in the way only certain stories can.
It will sit with you, hold your pain, and maybe, just maybe, walk with you through healing. Okay I was sidetracked, the line I wanted to share is this: “There is nothing harder to let go than an already gone thing.”
That is the sum total of your pain, isn’t it? How does one let go of Fatimatou? A girl you deeply loved and married. Bessem, how did you hold on for so long, dedicated to finding her, so certain she had not left you? I admire that resilience.
Was it hope?
Hope is such a fickle thing, a gamble, really but it also keeps you moving. Keeps you sane.
Your kind of love is already hard in deeply homophobic places like Cameroon. When it is fueled by religious extremism, it becomes a death sentence.
Just look at Mahamoud and what he did to Fati. Bessem, it broke my heart too. I felt it with you. I imagined those final moments before her body gave up, the life fading from her eyes, seeing what was coming yet powerless to stop it. Bessem, my heart didn’t just break, it clenched. It twisted. And hurt badly before coming apart at the seams. Even I, who met Fati only through your words, have been drowning in this grief. I cannot begin to imagine what you have endured. What you are still enduring.
For days, I sat with your story, unable to move past it. How does one move past something like this?
So I stayed. And I grieved too.
I grieved for what could have been. I grieved for Fatimatou, born to parents too passive to protect her. I grieved for the life she was denied, for the kind of world she was forced to navigate. But like every other person with second-hand pain, I moved on to other happenings and somehow that fills me with guilt because we should be able to stay with you in this, shouldn’t we?
Grief is a strange thing Bess, It lingers, stretching endlessly. Everything, every scent, every sound, even the air you breathe reminds you of what has been lost.
I am sorry, Bessem. You and Fatimatou had something pure. I felt it too. I hoped she would be found. Somehow, I thought Mahamoud had taken her away for an exorcism. And for a fleeting moment, I wished that were true because now, knowing what I know, even that would have been a kinder fate.
Bessem, I have imagined Fatimatou, and she reminds me of Kena from Rafiki. Have you seen it? The Kenyan film that was banned? I picture Fati like Kena, authentic despite the battles she fought, at odds with her community but unwavering in herself. So comfortable in her supposed masculinity, resenting dresses.
You said something in one of your letters to Fatimatou that gave me a lot to think about: “I’ve learned that to truly love someone is to step back and let them bloom, and that is how you made me feel. I’ve also learned that masculinity does not belong to men, the same way femininity does not belong to women. It’s innate which side a person leans toward. I regret that I did not always make you feel like you were perfect, because in my eyes, you were.” This is so powerful.
There are so many Fatimatous and Kenas in the world, people whose bodies do not conform to society’s rigid expectations, people who cannot hide even when hiding is the only way to survive. When I search for an image of her, I see Kena. Is that even fair? I hope it does not offend you. There is a vulnerability in that stoic character that makes me want to reach into your letters and breathe Fatimatou back to life.
I wonder how much pain a human heart can bear. I try to measure it, to make sense of it, but I cannot. I wish grief were something tangible. Something you could hold. If you could hold it, then maybe, just maybe, you could tear it from yourself and throw it far, far away. But grief is not a thing you can touch. It is a shadow that lingers, a weight that does not lift.
And yet, if your letters are anything to go by, Fatimatou may never have received them but we did. We bore witness to your love, to your devotion, to the years you spent waiting.
What manner of love is this? A love that endures. A love that believes. They don’t make them like this anymore, Bessem. They don’t.
So come closer. Let me help you lift this weight. You do not have to carry it alone anymore. We have read your story. We have shared in your burden. Let us carry it with you now.
Relax your shoulders, Bessem. Lay your head here.
Rest. You have been fighting for too long.
Struggling for too long.
Searching for too long.
Lay your head on my lap and rest. Rest, Bessem.
