"Oh, for you oh, you oh — I'd leave it all."
— Budapest, George Ezra

I am writing this with the last drops of creative juice in me. I might go barren after the last sentences of this letter dry up in the prefrontal cortex of your head.

Epic stories have been told of the undying soldier who, at the behest of his maiden, performed enormous feats — feats so wondrous that a thousand years later they are still told to babes and men alike. I have no incredible feat to announce. Nor am I a man of valour. What I am is something greater: I am blessed with your presence, your aura — whether a smile, a small frown on your brow, or the sound of your deep-seated laughter.

Today, 31 years ago, you were born to Mary and Ayodeji Junaid. I used to ponder about the circumstances of the world at the moment of my own birth. 1995 was a particular year in Nigeria — Abacha the dictator ran the country with crushing might. I picture the environment as you made your first cries: the thrill inside a musty labour ward, a doctor relieved to see you kicking, and a father with emotions unspoken, being told his baby had his head — a childish shape, a little humorous to look at.

I wonder if he cried his eyes out seeing his gem. I am blessed to have been entrusted with that gem.

This note is not about me. It is about all the years that have sailed by. I have known you for less time than you have been on this earth — but I will swear at my trial that I have known you all my life. And you, me.

May is the signpost of summer's entry. I have always considered it significant that you were born on 25/05/1995 — the fives, a complete palm. And complete, symmetrical, was the woman I met in September. The thing about symmetry is that it never goes away. Your achievements, friendships, and accomplishments line up around you — not like some delineation of dutiful work, but as parts of you that have taken various forms:

Fear  ·  Anxiety  ·  Hope  ·  Grief  ·  Happiness
Safety  ·  Joy  ·  Grit  ·  Carefree  ·  And so much more

Writing used to impress you — at least, the last attempt did not. I am not confident this will either. But after everything, after all the times you wanted things to be perfect, to be the centre of the world, to be met with intention — the only thing I can promise is intention. I intended this to speak to you in ways I have been unable to — deep inside your heart, where everything is quiet. The place you go in those moments before the ships of slumber arrive.

One of my first windows into your world was through thexpositions.wordpress.com. You used to write — and yes, I am using your own words back at you. I hope you find time to do it again. It is interesting that the people around you keep trying to get you to write.

The theme of this little website is the centre of the universe. I do not know if I make you feel like the centre of the world — but you are the centre of mine. On this blog, I want you to put your words into the everlasting space that is the internet. And if you ever want to turn it into a newsletter — for friends, colleagues, or something else entirely — I am, as always, your forever willing partner and errand boy handy boy.

On your 31st, I wish you this: the year of being the main character. Standing up to bullies. Breaking down in tears while simultaneously looking up ways to file official complaints. Confidence in the respect you have absolutely earned. And a husband boyfriend who finally, properly, listens to you.