Something We Don't Talk About.

Sesan should remember.
It was his birthday, there'd been a lively party in his condo in downtown manhattan, everyone had been there.
His friends from the 'Igbo-In-Diaspora-Brothers' club had been there,his colleagues from the News station where he worked had come too, bearing large parcels, of sweets, cookies, sweaters, boots, and even home-made-food, He should remember that this had cause a little breach between his brothers and the colleagues, because the former had come empty handed.

After the party, he'd said it. "I Love You Asake"
His porch light had been turned low, but the sparkle in his eyes hadn't been dead. They had shined brightly, they had seen into her very soul, pulled out her heart, and caressed it gently.

It was hilarious now, that in Nigeria, that he'd forgotten. Was it the fatter women? The ones with snug outfits, that defined their melon-huge fronts, and sizable behinds.
Was it at Olusho's party? His frivolous best friend. Who made it a duty to cater to the luxury needs of his friends by arranging small get-togethers, stuffed with all kinds of ladies, and all kinds of drinks.

Had it begun with that girl? The one with fake brown hair, and shiny short pink dress. The one who made it a duty to shake her bum to the hit banger that'd spewed out from hidden speakers.
That night, Sesan had claimed to visit the toilet but had spent close to four hours there.

Maybe it was my retaliation, my affair with Olusho. He was the one I ran to, for consolation, and he'd given it in insatiable supply.

Maybe We just hadn't meant to be, because I'm here in a crammed tube station my bags clutched tightly in both hands. More were still coming, I'd made sure I'd packed all the things I could from our nigerian home of Three years.

But I still wonder, maybe we could have talked about It.