Love is a kind of grief.
-Chimamanda Adichie, Americanah
Me: What will be will be
Marvin: Will it?
Me: We will have to see
Marvin: You don’t even believe in your own self, your truth; how then, my darling, shall I begin to believe you?
Marvin: What will be will not be. What you want to be, you go out there and make it happen. I want you, I am here– willing to do whatever it takes to have you. The question is, do you want me too?
Marvin: What has rain got to do with anything?
Me: Can you make it rain?
Marvin: I am not a fucking rainmaker baby. What the devil has that got to do with us?
Me: I want rain. Now. I cannot make it happen, you cannot make it happen. Look outside, it is piercingly bright. But I want rain. Can you make it rain?
Marvin: Sunshine, sunshine look at me–
Me: If I cannot make it rain, you cannot make me stay.
I have just finished reading Adichie’s “Americanah” and it has left me with a riot of emotions– a sad familiar longing, excitement for a love that triumphed, worry about the reality of it. I have often thought and said “what will be will be” and often too, I have believed it. Because I can safely say that Ifem and Obinze were meant to be together and that is why they ended up together. But, as I now vividly remember the words M once said, that now float in my head auspiciously: what will be will not be, you have to go out there and make it happen if it matters that much to you, I shrink in the knowledge of my own incredulousness. I am thinking, now, maybe this is also true. Because if Obinze had not gone back to Ifem (seven excruciatingly-slow-moving-months after), maybe they will never have got back together.
And maybe there is no set rule to these things and maybe we say “what will be will be” because our hands are tied and Faith is our only recourse, maybe because Destiny; maybe if two hearts are truly in love, and in sync, the Universe will make their silent wishes come true. Maybe, maybe…
Yet now I ask myself, wondrously, curiously, will what will be be?
© The Short Black Girl, 2017.