To Curt

By Peace Nkanta

In love and war, one thing is customary – pain. Curt and I refused to understand this in the early stages of our marriage. He was a soldier who fought battles often and came home with wounds as souvenirs; then I – having been reminded many times why I was a nurse – would dress them and stay up soothing him to sleep with songs that emitted my throat sounding as though a congress of frogs gathered to party.

Sleep would elude me till he started snoring, then I would leave, my body sore from sitting in one position for hours, and head to the table to finish my cold meal. It lasted three years before I yearned for divorce.

There were tears in his eyes; love, desire, or something else I couldn’t have explained if asked, but he wouldn’t beg me to stay. I left.

One morning, I received a mail. Curt was dead. He had had deep cuts on the head and I was needed, but I suggested they find another nurse.

Now, the memories refuse to leave. When I cackle, it sounds like what it used to, each time Curt tickled me. My new husband doesn’t understand. Each night our bedsheets ruffle and I have to roar in intense pleasure, I go “Cuuurrttt!” It would cost me three marriages, and on a warm evening, with the piercing pain in my chest, I would look upon the world from atop a building and think that in life not everything is fair. R7�e=R

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