To My Favorite Short Man

So here we are: another October 10. It's been 11 years since I could see or hear you dismiss my ever-enthusiastic "Happy Birthday" with a wave of your hand and a mutter about how people are always so unnecessarily excited about so frivolous a thing. 11 years since I could see the twinkle in your eye that told me you secretly enjoyed the attention, even my birthday hug and kiss.

I'm upset because my memories of you, of us, are getting more and more blurry every year. I'm going to have to write things down before they disappear completely. I don't really remember what your voice sounds like anymore. I only vaguely recall how warm and woody your room used to smell because of all the pipe tobacco, and how the smoke obscured the light of the bedside lamp. I remember typing lessons at your office, and my pathetic short stories that you were always so happy to read, and the day you let me "edit" someone's first attempt at a novel so I could tell you my opinion afterward. Clearly, you didn't think much of his work, and it wasn't very appropriate reading for an 11-year-old, but boy, did I feel important!

I remember how you never drank more than half a bottle of beer at any given time, and how you always ate with a fork and knife, even when you were eating pounded yam with Mama's catfish soup and piagara. Weirdo. And there was the time I was (allegedly) rude to someone and wouldn't apologize, so you tried to make me kneel down and apologize to you after she left. Looking back, that was hilarious. I was about 10, we were almost the same height, and we must have had almost the exact same look of stubborn anger on our faces as you willed me to kneel and I willed you to piss off. I finally apologized three hours later, with hot tears of frustration streaming down my face. You patted my back, we forgave each other; it was over. Good times, good times. The last time I saw you, you were in a cell at Bori Camp. It was too hot, the walls of the building were various shades of brown, and they only allowed one person in to see you at a time. I couldn't really talk to you because I was scared and a bit upset, but just when I was starting to warm up, we had to leave. We've since talked about what I wanted to tell you that day, so I won't bring it up again. But don't forget what I said. I meant it then, and still do now.

So those are the memories I have to hold on to. Those, and I try to remember your birthday and your death-day, so we can have a little chat about times gone past. You'd have been 65 today (eek!), but in my mind, you're still in your 40s, playing football and table tennis at the club with young men half your age and giving them a run for their money.

To think that all I have left are memories.

You weren't perfect, but I love you. I love that you were always gentle, and that you always seemed to know everything. I love that you engaged my mind at every moment, never caring that I was young, never caring that I didn't yet understand everything we talked about. I love that you made up games for us to play that would only have been fun to a kid like me because they were always about words. I love that you gave me the gift of words, though the transfer was cut short by those immoral, illiterate yokels who took you away from us. May they never have a moment's peace.

So, Jeje, this is just to say that I miss you, with your short self. Happy Birthday. I hope you're happier now, wherever you are.