If the tales of Garri were ever told from Garri’s perspective, I imagine it would go something like this:

If Garri were a human being, she would confess how much I cared for her.

She would write sonnets, anthems and poems about our love. Books of no fewer than two thousand pages would be printed and sold daily, each one describing our romance in greater detail than those old books ever could.

Forget Romeo and Juliet.

This was bigger.

Volumes upon volumes would be published. Manuscripts would litter editors’ offices, publishers would beg for mercy, and the whole world would know what an experienced lover I was.

How else could I explain it?

Love-hate relationship? No. Not at all.

Couple goals.

We would have films made about us. Billboards with our pictures plastered across every wall. People would point at us and say, "That is what true love looks like.”

What wouldn’t I give Garri?

Gifts came as if I were counting grains of sand.

Coconut. Groundnut. Sprite. Ice cream. Salt. Maggi seasoning cubes. Beans. Sugar. Crayfish.

Whatever it was, I shared.

And we fit perfectly.

Hot? Egusi soup. Okra soup. Ora soup. Pottage beans. And more.

Cold? Garri milkshake. Garri cake.

And then there were those special nights when we went raw beneath the moonlight.

Just Garri and me. No interference.

At least, that was what I thought.

The haters were loud. They swarmed my dear Garri with tales of infidelity.

Stories of me going out with Pounded Yam during the New Yam Festival. Holding hands with Plantain Flour at a wedding. Having Amala behind the school ICT block.

Fabricated stories. Wild evidence.

“Then why do you smell like Akpu?”

Babe, it is not my fault her smell rubbed off on me. We all know she smells strongly. Probably why she is also called Fufu.

But Garri never cared much for explanations. She cared about loyalty.

And then came the allegation that nearly destroyed us.

Semo.

From the very moment Semovita and her twin sister, Semolina, entered town, Garri and I became strangers.

Our quarrels doubled.

Garri called them cheap, chemically inflated imitations of herself. She hated how quickly they were stealing her popularity, especially the rumours that she caused blindness.

“Propaganda,” she called it.

Personally, I had my own thoughts. Imitations? Yes. But refined ones. Soft. Smooth. And, allegedly, nutritionally enhanced.

Garri was furious. “They are empty and light,” she said. “They cannot carry you after a hard day’s work.”

She went online. She joined forums. She found nutritionists. She made jingles.

Everywhere you turned, there was Garri.

*”When I had nothing, Garri dey for me. Now I still have nothing, Garri dey for me. All-night talks, Garri dey my side. Dey tell me, ‘Just calm down, to dey drink, dey go’

Bad hair day, Garri dey for me. Bad score day, Garri dey for me. And when I thought the world was out for me— Garri dey my side. Dey tell me say dat e dey for me.”*

The advertisements continued.

“My G, wetin I no go do for you? I go dey put groundnut and sugar, milk and honey go dey. Pure water, ice one, that one go dey. And if anybodi com my side dey try yab me— ‘Garri dis, Garri dat.’ See your mind go dey!”

“Garri dey. Garri dey. Garri dey…”

The commercial ended with a picture of Garri looking warmly into the camera.

I stayed silent through all of it. I watched her wage war against the flour dynasty. I watched the media houses pick sides. I watched her fight for relevance.

And then, one afternoon, a friend took me out. I did not know he had invited the twins.

We had fun. Semovita and Semolina were prim and proper. Delicate. Presentable.

The waiter came. He placed the bill on the table.

₦25,000.

My friend paid. He smiled. “They are worth it.”

Across the table, Wheat hissed. A new fellow I had never even registered before—Corn Flour, perhaps, or Potato Flour— threw daring looks at Semovita and Semolina as he passed.

I knew immediately those sisters were not in my league. The price alone had told me enough.

When I got home, Garri was waiting. She had pictures. Pictures of me with the sisters.

They were on her lap. Taken by Mrs Rice.

That nosey woman who had no business monitoring my relationship when she could barely keep her own marriage to Beans together.

There was nothing left to say.

Garri left me. Just like that.

But every now and then, she comes by. She sits beside me. She tells me about the old days. The nights under the moon.

She recants our history as though she is trying to remind me of something I have forgotten.

-END-

From the table of the "Friendly Poet", Chinonso Achugbu