Dear Joana,

Great stories you told me, must emote. The must do something to the audience: either makes them laugh really hard or bring them to the junction of tears. Some members of the audience can hold tears back while others will lose several tear ducts without noticing. Such is the uniqueness embedded in the individual nature. At other times the story leaves them in between. This, you had made me understand but in different words.

As I wrestle keys on my keyboard. My heart is severed, bad enough to steal my joy. And this is precipitated on the blitheness with which you approach our relationship.

My love, the news of your animation video coming out tops out of 300 videos submitted from 59 countries brought tears to my eyes. It didn’t come as a surprise to me but rather as an affirmation of believe, I held firm. They believe in the awesomeness of your artistic outpour. A careful eye for details, which many artists long for.

Joana. Just yesterday I was listening to a radio drama; BBC's Letters from the front. Fine drama! Just two characters: a soldier and his lover. The soldier recounts his experience of having to ride on a bike to the enemy front to retrieve something as bullets whistled pass his ears. He had to pull hard on the throttle to escape death. The set up inspired me to create something with two characters. You remember I have always wanted to write a powerful drama with one or two characters.

Joana. It’s been two years since we last saw. I miss you so much my bones crunch. It is the thought of seeing you by winter that keeps me sane. Last night it was bad. Real bad! I couldn't write. Music tasted sour, as reading flashed memories of you to my head. And when it does, it colors my heart with momentary sweetness. Soon it melts away like ice under heat. As I write a certain pain that I do not understand wells up inside my chest. I feel like I have wounds there. Just that this pain is more severe than the ulcer pains I nursed two years ago. I have left you countless of emails. But you never replied. Not until now. The pain of having to wait for a mail from you messes me up.

Just this morning, my email alert sounded. And when I flip through a chain of emails I saw your name. My heart leaped up, a certain sweet and crazing sensation enveloped me. Pulse racing up and down. Joana your love has done this to me. It has crashed my wall and damaged my defenses.
I opened your email. And it reads:

Hey Juls,
I just read your emails. Sorry I have been super busy. I love you so much. But you gat to get hold of yourself and do some work. Don't let love reduce you to a poltroon. Below is the link to what I am working on. Tell me what you think about it. Can't wait to see you by winter, the thought of seeing you sends adrenalin down my spine. Love you.
Joana

I read it through and read again and again. Then I watched your animation video a couple of times and write out my critique.
Your email warms my heart and alley my fear of losing you. The disturbing thing is the way you use “love” and “poltroon” in one breath. Needless I say. Joana, I come from a lineage of great warriors and I bear in me, the warrior spirit and soul. My grandfather, whom I got the name Awugo from is a celebrated war hero (dead though, still lives through me) who brought home heads of war leaders. I do not know you for wrong use of words but this time I think you did.

Joana, it was two years ago in Virginia that we met. Been amongst the fifteen artists selected for the residency program in the summer of that year in Virginia, was the biggest kick my career had yet gotten. For you it was not. The residency program hosted: three playwrights, four fiction writers, one creative nonfiction writer, three 3D animators, two poets, and two scriptwriters. I was the only black man.

Each artist had a flat to him/herself and a studio for working. Our flats were separate and isolated, but the large common room occasionally united all the residents. Not all residents had time for watching TV and catching up though. It was mandatory to pick/cook your food in the kitchen and eat at the dining table with the other guys. It is at this point, in between/after the meals that we discussed about the projects we are working on. Critics are chewed at, but essentially collaborations were forged.

It was at one of the sessions like this that I met you. At first it wasn’t love, I could sense it, a certain kind of connection that made easy conversations and intense discourse. We disagreed on most topics but admired each other’s engaging arguments. I remember how fascinated you were by the plot intricacies of my play: Miles To Exile. As time pass we were craving each other’s company more often than usual. We became very close, sharing same bed more nights than I recall. You taught me how to use some animating software: how to create, build and rig characters. More than anything you were always on my toes to finish up my writing.

Along the line came Abhinesh, a Fijian who was fond of saying "bula".
When you asked him of the meaning, he said it meant “hello”. "Bula" which is pronounced mboo-LAH is the single most important word in Fiji. Aside from “hello” it also means: how are you? It’s a sunny day, take your time, have a good day, hope you and your extended family are well? Sometimes it can also mean: goodbye, buy me a drink, I am bored, I am hungry or I have run out of conversations”. He will go to cure our curiosity. Abhinesh is a scriptwriter with a peck for making storyboards. He will stay awake all night, storyboarding different scenes for an idea that stroke him. And yet be awake by 5:00AM to begin writing. One hell of a passionate artist with the drive and resilience I told him will break him sooner than later. It sure did. Last year he was hospitalized for damage to his brain: a situation caused by lack of sleep and rest.

When I was not in my studio, which was a 15 minutes’ walk from my flat (that is if I decide against driving the car provided). I spent the time exploring cultures and brainstorming on ideas to work on with Joana and Abehinesh. Brilliant pair!
I remember the first time we kissed. My eyes were closed, and when I opened them, yours were still closed. I figured you had gone deeper than I did. In my mind I will wonder what was going through my Brazilian lover’s mind as we kissed. When we paused to catch our breath, you called me “Juls” no one ever called me that. It sounded nice and sweet, then you bent your neck and whispered into my ears that it was the best kiss you ever had. It was then it occurred to me that I was kissing a foreigner. And I had brought my “A game” on. My people in Africa will be proud of me I know.

As I sit here in front of my computer, building words with letters of the alphabet. All that remains with me is the memory of you and the times we shared.