Letters to HER | Page 3 of 3

We’re bringing to you letters written by women to women they love, miss, cherish or just remember. To celebrate the support women continue to show each other, this is #ToHER.

From: A woman who wants to remain friends with her crush

To: Danielle, her ex-crush

Dear Danielle,

I need to be freed from your bondage.

I met you on a dating app in 2021, and our conversations there were kind of boring. We both opened that app once every couple of days, and I don’t think there was anything about us interesting enough to get us to keep talking. Then we moved to Twitter, which I believe is the app of the unhinged. With Twitter came a new ease. We laughed a lot and shared tweets a lot. I smiled so much, my friends knew I had gotten a crush.

It’s weird because now that I think about it, I don’t know why exactly I have a crush on you. It’s not like you went out of your way to flirt with me or court me. We had normal conversations about normal things and you teased me constantly about how young I was. Sometimes you were vulnerable. I believe I didn’t keep secrets from people, but I knew those conversations we had weren’t ones you discussed so often. I felt like you actively involved me in your life — and although I shouldn’t have — I felt special.

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I tried so hard to fight how I felt because things like this never end well for me. The crushes always lose their interest for reasons I can’t explain and I’m right back to square one. So one day I texted you and told you I’d decided to free you from my bondage. There was an age difference we had that bothered you, so I wanted you not to worry or guard every action around me. I wanted you happy and free. But even though I’ve freed you from my bondage, I don’t think you’ve released me from yours.

I want us to be friends, but I don’t know how. I want to text you every day, but I’m scared you’d think this is me fighting hard for something that’ll never be. I want to double text and have proper conversations with you again, but all I feel is fear. I’m scared you’re telling your friends about the girl that won’t leave you alone or you’d find me embarrassing and my attempts at friendship ridiculous. I want to send you random pictures and tell you about people I like, but I’m scared.

You’d think I should be able to have this conversation with you to clear things up, but if it takes me three days to mentally prepare myself to tell you “hi”, how could I manage that? I miss talking to you randomly and knowing things about you. But I’ve messed up this exact situation once, and I don’t want to do it again.

Yours sincerely,

Lucy

ALSO READ: When Did You Have Your First Crush? 9 Nigerians Tell Zikoko
We’re bringing to you letters written by women to women they love, miss, cherish or just remember. To celebrate the support women continue to show each other, this is #ToHER.

From: A woman who should be called her sister’s wrapper

To: Labake, the firstborn

Dear Sis La,

I’m writing this letter to you because you’ve been the best sister to me. I want you to know how completely unimaginable life would be without you, Sis La.

You know I only call you Sis La to be annoying, so I’ll stick to Sis because I’m here to be sweet.

When mummy had me, you were 10 years, 9 months and 17 days old. I have heard story after story of what growing up was like for you and how things had changed a lot by the time I was born. Our parents’ poverty had reduced by the time I was born.

You didn’t grow up with much. So even though mum and dad made sure you went to the best schools, you knew what it was like to be an outsider inside. When I was off to boarding school, you made sure I never felt out of place or lacked anything. One time in high school, I got asked if I had parents because of how much of a big deal I made about our relationship. You were so present and still are.

One thing that hadn’t changed by the time I was born was you and mummy’s rocky relationship, but you did your best to shield me. I also tried my best to fight your battles too — especially with mum. On one of those days she beat you, I yelled until she stopped. We were the kind of sisters that stood up for each other.

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We shared a room even though you were in uni at the time, and I’ll never forget the letter you wrote one day you came back from school and I had left the room scattered. It was a threatening message to warn me to not mess up the room and you ended it with, “The terrorist is back.” LOL. You were never my terrorist, you were a haven.

Being a big sister isn’t the only thing you’re great at. When you got married, I cried like a baby, but I’ve loved watching you become a mum. Maybe all those years you put me first prepared you, but you are such a natural. I’m sorry I couldn’t shield you from the grief you felt when you tried to have another child after your son. That phone call made to mummy when you thought the baby was coming is still painful to remember.

On some days this won’t be enough, but I hope you read this letter knowing how deeply your son and I love you. You have one child of your own and the one mummy gifted you (me).

Sis, look at how far we’ve come. We now spend evenings in your garden gisting. (I’d call myself your wrapper at this point.) I’m old enough to move out, explore life and be on my own, but I’m scared. Although I don’t say it, I live in crippling fear of what my life is going to be like if I leave the comfort of your house, the comfort of your presence.

Thanks for being the best big sister, Sis. If there’s another life and I, unfortunately, happen to come back to this damn world as an older sister, I want to be a lot like you.

Yours always,

Ibukun

ALSO READ :9 Nigerian Women Talk About Their Relationship With Their Sisters
In March, we’re bringing to you letters written by women to women they love, miss, cherish or just remember. To celebrate the support women continue to show each other, this is #ToHER.

From: The woman who lost weight and gained a friend

To: Lydia, the best gym buddy ever

Dear Lydia,

The moment I saw this story, I knew I wanted to write a letter to you, the woman who became the big sis I never had.

In 2021, I registered at the gym because I hated my body and wanted to change it. Little did I know I’d gain a friend for a lifetime. I came to the gym to burn calories from eating puff-puff, but I ended up with a partner in crime.

Two months in and I met you, Lydia. The first time I saw you, our trainer, Ukeme, was trying to get you to do burpees, but you looked like you were dancing. From Ukeme’s face, I expected he’d walk away the next minute. I was laughing hard on the inside. You reminded me of my first day with Ukeme. Before I knew it, he asked you to work out with me. In between each soul-sucking set, you’d make funny jokes about Ukeme and it made me laugh. It was the first time I laughed through Ukeme’s exercise routines. That’s how we became Ukeme’s troublesome clients.

From the first day, we were inseparable. We spent the next year getting closer. I’d keep a Yoga mat beside me while working out, and everyone knew it was for you. We’d gist as we worked out and talk about the struggles of sticking to our diets. It felt good knowing I wasn’t the only one haunted by puff-puff. Whenever I wasn’t at the gym, you’d call to find out why you’d look for me and if you weren’t at the gym, everyone asked me about you.

I had other amazing gym friends, but my relationship with you was different. You were my first older friend at the gym — a whole 13 years older. Before you, I had so much anxiety about talking to older people. They were always serious. Not being able to crack a joke without overthinking made me nervous. You, on the other hand, were relatable. It’s so funny how we were so in sync that if something happened at the gym, we would look at each other at the same time and laugh. You became the big sister I never had.

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Remember how you’d call me your baby? I really enjoyed the big sis flex from you. Sometimes they were as huge as getting me my first Apple watch. Other times, they were as little as giving me money for my first piercing. Let’s not forget the puff-puff you’d buy for me after Ukeme’s drills. You made the gym feel like a home away from home.

The best part of our friendship was experiencing it outside the gym. Your birthday shoot in October 2021 is my favourite memory of us. We’d been friends for eight months, and it was one of our last hangouts together. The hardest part was knowing it would all end in January 2022.

One of the things we talked about was your japa plans. Nigeria is the ghetto, and you wanted something better for yourself and your kids. I understood. Understanding didn’t keep me from tearing up like a baby though. Is it selfish to say I wanted more than one year with you? Well, my tears the night before your departure must have said it all. I didn’t want to do the gym solo.

Lydia, I miss you so much. No one makes me laugh as hard while Ukeme tries to kill us. Thank you for being the best gym buddy, friend and big sis all wrapped in one. No matter what happens, no matter where we both live, you will always be my friend.

This letter made me realise that I need to call you. Running to do that now.

Till we meet again,

Dammy.

ALSO READ: How To Make Friends: A Zikoko Guide
In March, we’re bringing to you letters written by women to women they love, miss, cherish or just remember. To celebrate the support women continue to show each other, this is #ToHER.

From: A woman who wants to be a better gist partner than her mum

To: Patience, her mum

Dear Patience,

I’m writing this letter to you to reminisce on our 53 years together. Since you passed in 2018, I’ve missed having someone to talk to. I miss having someone that understands me.

P.S: Calling you Patience is strange, so I’ll switch to “mum” now.

I always knew we’d be friends, mum. You trusted me — from the start. When I was five, you trusted me to clean and watch my little sister. When I was 11, you trusted me to watch over the five more kids you had. And you tried your best to make sure I wasn’t stressed. Before you’d leave for work at 6 a.m., you’d make breakfast so I’d only have to think of lunch or dinner. At night, you’d ask about my day. “My small mama, wetin una do today?” you’d say. And I’d proceed to pour out my frustrations. No matter how tired you were, you’d listen to every bit of my rant. You made it easy for me to become your friend.

Remember how angry I was about Bri storing her clothes for days? You laughed about it so long and hard, that I couldn’t help but join you. You knew how to get me happy, and I wish I did more to know about you. Because now that I think about it, mum, you never let out your frustrations during that time. I didn’t know what a day in your life was like even though you listened to every narration of mine and reminded me not to take life so seriously. I wish I could have our special times alone again, if only to ask you, “Wetin you do today?”.

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My favourite memory as a teen was following you to your store. I was always a quiet kid, so you were my safe space. While the other kids went off to play after school, I just wanted to be at your store. Call me a mama’s girl or whatever, but now that you’re gone, I’m glad I stayed to help you count the gallons of palm oil you didn’t sell.

Did you love our walks back home? Because I did. I got to hear you talk about yourself a lot more. Things like not knowing when you were born. Your parents only remembered the year 1951.

Knowing more about you made me feel closer to you. You told me about meeting dad. How he lived so close to you but not realising until the random day he said hello. Of course, you had to add the part about waiting till marriage to be intimate. All your gist made it easy to forget I was quite the loner as a teen. When I went to university, it stayed that way. We didn’t have phones to keep in touch, but we’d write letters to each other every month.

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Even in adulthood, you were my closest friend. I got married, had two kids, and we became closer. You stayed with me during my pregnancies and made it so much easier. With my first — Ebere — you indulged my cravings for ewa aganyin. Every morning, you’d wait outside for the woman selling it. With my second — Nduka — you stayed with me when I found out he had down syndrome. You let me cry on your shoulders and comforted me.

Thank you for being my mum and friend when I needed it the most.

Now that you’re gone, I’ve had to learn to talk to other people. Mostly my daughter though. She’s 23 now, and I’m trying to be her gist partner. You would have been way better, but I’m trying.

I won’t talk about the moments you were sick because you deserve to be remembered as my rock. This is one last letter to you. Only this time, you won’t be the one reading it. Thank you for 53 years of love and friendship — I can’t fit it all into a page.

PS: Beyond the gist, I miss eating your special corn moi-moi.

Forever in my heart,

Onyeche

ALSO READ: 7 Types Of Friends Every New Mom Needs To Survive
In March, we’re bringing to you letters written by women to women they love, miss, cherish or just remember. To celebrate the support women continue to show each other, this is #ToHER.

From: A woman who never wants to forget her best friend

To: Evelyn, her best friend

Dear Evelyn,

One might say we were an unlikely match and I’d understand. In fact, I had the same sentiment when my family moved into the neighbourhood and I saw you for the first time. You were loud with a bubbly personality, all the things I wasn’t.

But to our parents, we were so similar. The same age, from the same ethnic group; to them, it was the perfect recipe for a great friendship.

“Go on, talk to her. She’s the same age as you.”

You beat me to our first words to each other. Typical you, so intentional and sweet. Whenever we fought, I’d make up my mind to come to you, but you’d beat me to it. I’d find you at our backdoor, obnoxiously calling out my name to ask me for something you obviously didn’t need and then we’d be friends again.

The details of our first conversation are insignificant but symbolic. I was too young to know it then, but it was the beginning of the greatest friendship I ever had.

From that day, we stuck together. “Thick as thieves” was child’s play to us. Siamese twins were more like it. Although we went to different schools, we always left the house together. We literally started our periods at the same age, 13 I believe. We gossiped about the boys toasting us, well, you, because you were the beautiful one; the one everyone adored and loved. I was honoured to be your friend.

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When I started writing this, I thought it was just a letter to a friend, but as I wrote, the words revealed something else, something more.

Do you remember?

The first time we kissed? We were playing mummy and daddy; we were only playing pretend, but it felt so real. We did it as a joke, but from that day things changed. We’d sneak in quick kisses and pecks whenever we could find time away from prying eyes and ears.

Do you remember?

The time Aunty Kelechi caught us and threatened to tell our parents? We cried and begged her for weeks not to tell anyone and that we had stopped that “’bad thing” as she called it. We didn’t, but still, the thrill of the pretence was just as fun.

Do you remember?

All the times we’d spend learning Nicki Minaj’s rap? From Moment for Life to Roman’s Revenge God, I miss the old days when we spent all of our time dreaming of what we’d be like as adults… It’s not as fun as we thought it’d be, ba?

Do you remember?

The day before the last? You came over to collect a CD from my house. That afternoon, I roped you into playing football with the rest of my family into the evening. When you left, I told you not to stay up late watching it, since you had school the next day.

Do you remember?

That night. When the fire took you? No, you possibly can’t. That’s the burden for those left behind. They are forced to remember. To live with the memories or the betrayal of forgetting those memories.

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I watched from the street as the fire grew. It was late in the night and everyone tried to get you out. There was nothing I could do. I kept praying for a miracle that somehow, you’d survive. I watched my prayer disintegrate as many toiled and failed to rescue you from the fire. I watched them carry you away.

The other day, I passed by your house and tried to conjure up a memory of us together, but it’s been a decade since that day. but your face was missing. I could see us playing in the compound, I could feel the euphoria of the moment, but I couldn’t see your face.

I told someone about it, and they said that sometimes the brain pushes back traumatic images and memories to protect us. Dissociative amnesia, they called it, but it still felt like a betrayal; to you and to our friendship.

These days, I don’t remember us every day, but on the days I do, the weight of your absence is almost crushing. But I — with glee — bear its remembrance.

I’m sad I have to move on without you. I want to go back to playing pretend with you. Maybe we would have been brave enough to make a real family together; you’d be mummy and I’d be mummy too. I know I can’t have that now, but at least we have this letter.

I’m glad I get to share your memory with the world.

Love,

Kachi
In March, we’re bringing to you letters written by women to women they love, miss, cherish or just remember. To celebrate the support women continue to show each other, this is #ToHER.

From: The woman that misses an old friend

To: Chimdi, the friend whose values changed

Dear Chimdi (Chim),

Writing this letter feels weird because these are things I’ve never been able to tell you. It’s been three years of being friends, and in two of those years, this letter will be the most honest I’ve ever been about us.

I always saw you in church but didn’t really notice you because, well, we were in church. We finally spoke at a conference rehearsal in March 2019. That day was another chaotic Saturday of practising hymns, which I absolutely hated. Everyone did nonsense during practice if someone didn’t conduct them. We were 30 minutes behind schedule that day, and people were either gisting outside the hall or pressing their phones. I was getting pissed and decided to take the piss and lead. But I guess you were thinking the same thing because you beat me to it. Your voice, bringing the whole church/choir to order was effortless and powerful. I wanted to talk to you after that.

I started to notice you. I’ll never forget that blue skirt you loved to pair with a yellow blouse — thank God I taught you some style, sis. Your personality was as bubbly as the odd colours you loved to pair. You were everywhere. If there was an event or meeting, Fiona had to be there. Most of the time you were in a rush to leave after church —just a few “Hellos”, “How was service” and “Oh! Your dress is nice” greetings. Everything was still on the surface; I wasn’t sure you were a friend yet.

It had been six months of the light pleasantries. Crossover night in 2019 was when it really clicked. I admit I was a bit lonely then. I had just finished school and moved back to Abule Egba and life felt a bit bland. Thankfully, some church guys snuck in some alcohol during the service. We bonded over vodka on the church stairs while our parents were shouting, “Holy Ghost!” in the hall. Laughing over smuggled alcohol made me feel close to you, so warm inside. . That was the first time I wasn’t weighed down by the uncertainties of a new year during those final minutes of the previous year.

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We became real friends that night. I finally had someone I could open up to — a confidant. My favourite memory of us is still our first-night clubbing in Lagos. It’s one of the last moments our friendship felt… real. Real in the sense of being that girl, I could open up to and connect with.

That night, you dressed up in a fire bodysuit and leather skirt, and I had my slinky ruched dress on. I remember it like yesterday. There was no overthinking or fear. You trusted me enough to plan the night. We drank, toasted to the years ahead and danced all night. I was happy until that guy showed up. If I knew the moment wouldn’t last, I would have held you back when he walked up to say hi.

The night you met Fred*, our relationship changed. I could see he thrilled you. His beard, money, the parties, the clothes — they gave you a high. As the months went by, our conversations became stiff. You didn’t want to talk about getting jobs anymore or going to school for our master’s. It was all about Fred and the things he did. I was fine with your happiness, but the day I pulled back was when you mocked me for going to work. “Na you dey stress yourself for money now,” you said.

Chim, that moment hurt me. You knew I was working so I could get by. I needed your encouragement, Fiona. I needed the friend I could spend hours talking to about anything.

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I hated having to filter our gist. Every time I opened up to you about a plan, it went left. But did I learn? No. I still ran to you for advice. I finally learnt my lesson after you convinced me to spend my rent money on a visa that I should have guessed wouldn’t work out. I started to hold back. I hate it, but I have to.

It’s weird not being able to open up to you and still call you a friend. We still drink alcohol together and go out to parties, but there is no depth. We don’t talk about the future we hoped to have anymore, the women we dreamt of being, the men we wanted to meet. I may have outgrown this friendship, but I’m too scared to admit that.

Regardless of the awkward shift in our friendship, I want you to know that I still love you, Chimdi. I miss the girl that made me laugh while we sipped vodka on the church stairs. You are kind-hearted, sweet and no-nonsense. In the middle of all the partying and nights out, I’m amazed at how you now take care of your family. I love that we can still share a drink and laugh at my balcony while we talk about the stress of adulthood. I know things are different and life will continue to impose unwanted change on us, but I’ll be happy for even a crumb of the moment we had that first night at church.

XOXO

Fiona

ALSO READ: “I Couldn’t Wait To Pack My Bags And Leave Johannesburg”- Abroad LifeLife
In March, we’re bringing to you letters written by women to women they love, miss, cherish or just remember. To celebrate the support women continue to show each other, this is #ToHER.

From: The woman that’ll never admit she has a best friend

To: Tega, the best friend turned flatmate

Dear Tega,

I tell anyone who cares to listen, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ve never had someone that cares about me as much as you do. You ask me genuine questions about my life and what I’m going through. It makes me grateful for you.

I cherish the day we met. It’s been eight years since I walked into my first lecture in uni and found you. I wasn’t expecting to find much; I was even ready to be the odd girl in class people made fun of for her accent and name, which had happened through school since I moved to Lagos at four years old Village girl, was the name that haunted me until I finished secondary school.

Inside, I wanted to finally have real friends. Friends that didn’t tease me about things I couldn’t change about myself. Honestly, I was fine with just one — a best friend, and I met you.

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I watched you pull out the seat next to me and turn to say a high-pitched hello. You were the epitome of ajebota. The by-force American accent, your fancy boots with the gold chain, and your chubby cute cheeks. Oh! That purple braids you had on was everything. Thirty minutes into sitting beside each other and you had asked me about fifty questions. Where did I live? Did I stay on campus? Why did I pick Urban and Regional Planning? Whenever my answers were vague, you dug deeper. I had never felt so seen, but I was stressed.

You tried to give me a little bit of yourself so I’d feel comfortable. “I live in Abuja and I stay at Honours hall,” you said. Then continued questioning me for most of the day. We talked about how we hated our course and the series of unfortunate events that led us there. We went for lunch together, walked back to my hostel together. Letting you in was so easy.

I’m writing this letter to you because I can’t think of anyone I’ve had more genuine moments with. From talking about the dumb boys we met — thank you for not judging me when I told you about the boy that hurt me. To being there for me even when I went back to him. Tega, thank you for letting me know I was strong enough to leave.

Even when we were done with school, and you moved back to Abuja, distance didn’t change your endless inquiries about my life. Yes, there were weeks we didn’t talk, but all we needed was one phone call or voice note. Thank you for pushing past the distance between us. You were miles away, but I never felt alone, Thank you for the days you forced me to get out of bed and chase dreams I thought were impossible. I’m so proud of everything you’ve fought for. I’m so proud of how you believe in yourself. Thank you for making me believe in myself too.

I admit when you decided to come back to Lagos, I had mixed feelings. First, I was happy I could easily see you again. The worry came when you asked us to live together. I was worried you’d see parts of me you couldn’t accept. The late nights, the partying, the drinking. I thought you’d hate the person I had become. Well, It’s been four months, and we’ve had a few drunk nights, so I’d say there are parts new parts about you I’ve gotten to see and love. Thank you for making our one-bedroom flat feel like a home. Thank you for accepting all the parts of me that changed.

I never imagined sharing a home with you, babe. It was a weird decision for me, but the truth is, I love it. There is no one else I would rather want to live with. Forget all my hard guy; you’re my girl for life

Ps: I’ll never admit loving you to your face and I’ll deny writing this letter.

Till the wheels fall off,

Sere

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