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THE DAY THAT LOVE DIED (PART 1) BY KWAKU GYAMFI.

THE DAY THAT LOVE DIED (PART 1) BY KWAKU GYAMFI.

**This is another fiction series by Ghanaian author, Kwaku Gyamfi**.

It was a day after Christmas. The
house was quiet. Kwame was alone in
his room as usual. His parents were
not talking; it made him unhappy.
They had been quarrelling for some
time now. Actually, they were always
in one battle or another. He wouldn't
be surprised if they trigger World War
Three. The conflict affected Kwame.
What could he do? He had to wait for
time to fly past fast or pray to the
dwarfs to come take him to sugar candy mountain.

The difference was so
wide that they couldn't partner to
give out gifts to neighbors; they did
that every year, even through their
previous fights. Kwame was
depressed. As an only child he had to
carry the weight alone. With no face
to turn to and no eye whose look will
tell him; I know, I understand.


Kwame was reading a book when he
heard his phone ring. It was Adankey.
She called to find out whether Kwame
had spare time. She wanted to take
him out. She did that often. She
always gave him short notice. He
sometimes thought she thought he
was never busy.
He allowed it because she was good
company.

Kwame had known Adankey
forever; since he could chase the
wind and stomp his feet. She was the
only similitude of a sister he had ever
known. She did things one would do
for him. From bathing him to
periodically checking on him, as he
grew older. She wasn't one to lie.
She did not just make her thoughts
clear but transparent. She once told
him to go use a deodorant when she
smelled an objectionable scent
coming from him. That was how
things were with her. Adankey was a
big sister and a checkmate. They
once lived in the same house and she
played the motherly role when
Kwame's mum wasn't around. She
was years older than him.


Adankey told him she would pick him
up in an hour. It was close to 4 p.m
then. Kwame had his bath; he wanted
to smell fresh, like a rose. He ironed
his dress shirt. It had been a long time
since he had last recieved a
Christmas present, he thought.

In the past, he
was given clothes. Maybe it's because
I am growing, he thought. Kwame
wore his shirt and got ready for the
meeting. He had some time to spare.
He returned to his book. He was
reading Nicholas Spark's book, Dear
John. It enriched his solitude. It
drove him further down the well of
loneliness. His heart was not broken
but torn, and freshly so.

It wasn't
lacerated by lost love but by no love
found. He yearned for a face he
couldn't see even in his dreams. An
object so obscure. He looked forward
to a smile that wasn't there. She, who
was to take his breath away, was
absent. He stared at the book and felt
tears running down his face. He cried.
It nearly grew into sobs. He had to
gather himself. He had to stop crying.
He did not want to throw up. That
happened whenever he did that. That
wasn't going to happen today. He
was going have fun and as his
classmates would say 'happy'
himself.


Kwame heard a car horn. It must be
Adankey, he told himself.

 

(TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK ON #FICTIONFRIDAY).

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