HiveComb

It has been a hectic day for me as a primary school teacher. The rain had poured nonstop that day. The air smelled of moisture, and the class smelled of blackboard chalk and dust. The school exams were almost here, and we had just a few days to wrap up things and set questions for the exam.

I was a new teacher barely three months in, in a small private school. Young, unsure, but loved the feeling of correcting mistakes with a red pen. It made me feel smart. Just a few minutes to finish with the scripts I was marking. That was when I saw the envelope. It was lying close to the bin.

One of my students must have dropped it by mistake. But I wondered what was inside. I ignored it at first and continued with what I was doing. I planned to pick it up later.

A few minutes later, I was done marking scripts and was locking up the class when I remembered the envelope I had seen earlier. I quickly rushed over and picked it up. I noticed it had no stamp, no name, nothing fancy, or to whom it was addressed. Just a neat line across the front, written in block letters:

“To Me at 25. I hope you’ve learned how to drive.”

I paused and chuckled.

I thought it was just a random letter or maybe a school or homework by one of the pupils. But I was sure I hadn't given my pupils such school work. I chuckled again, which colleague must have given his or her pupils such a class or homework. But as I had learned earlier, every school work has a way it shapes students. So I didn't quite put my mind to it.

I only took it to the lost and found box and put it there. Hoping that the owner will pick it up tomorrow.

It was a long time until I found another one while dropping a note in the suggestion box.

“To Me at 30. I hope you’ve forgiven your father."

I stood there for hours wondering who would be writing such letters. Because at that moment it felt like I was collecting someone’s diary, piece by piece. I would try to understand if it was coming from my colleague, but if it happens to be a student, then I find it weird.

I tried to find who owned the letters. Not to quench my curiosity but I felt whoever owned it needed help. Maybe someone to talk to. I stylishly asked fellow teachers, but from their answers, it wasn't any of them. I even held onto the letter, hoping the owner might show up somehow, asking for it.

But until the day I resigned as a teacher from that school when I found a better job. I didn't find who owned the letters or where they came from. It became like a small secret between me and the unknown owner writing her heart out to the future.

Not until a few years back did I return home from Lagos to celebrate Christmas with my family. I was walking through the Mall on a Saturday evening with a few of my siblings when a little girl in her early twenties walked up to me.

"Miss Zerah!" She had called hugging me.

I returned her hug first before pushing back a little bit to stare at her face. Maybe I could get a glimpse of where I knew her from. But yet nothing rang a bell. I guess she read my face as she explained who she was.

"I was one of your pupils years back at Proper Foundation Academy." She pushed her glasses in as they were slipping off her nose. In her hands was a book.

"Oh, how are you, Jennifer?" I finally asked as I remembered the face. She was the smartest yet quietest student. She barely socialises with others. Apart from an older face and features that showed how puberty had blessed her, there was really no big change in her.

"I'm fine Ma'am. It's nice to see you again." She avoided my face.

I reached for her hands just to make her feel relaxed. "Same here. You must be in university now."

"I just finished secondary school."

"Oh, I see."

There was a little silence.

Then she asked. "Ma, do you mind if I take a picture with you? Just to show others that I bumped into you."

I smiled. "Of course."

As she struggled to get her phone out of her bag. She dropped the book in her hands. I bent over to help her pick up the book on the floor which was spread open. That was when I caught a glimpse of the words written there.

“To Me as a Mother.”

I froze for a few minutes. My mind quickly flashed back to the letters I had seen as a teacher. Then my face curved into a smile. She was the one who owned those letters.

I quickly picked the book up and pretended like I didn't see anything. I smiled at her as I handed her back her book. Then I turned to the camera and smiled while she took the photo.

"Thank you, Ma'am. It was nice seeing you again."

It's my pleasure."

She turned to walk away but I held her back. "Jennifer, wait. Here let me give you my number." I reached for my bag and brought out my pen and I scribbled my number on the receipt I had in my hands. "Feel free to call me if you ever need to talk to someone."

She smiled.

I returned her smile, handing over the paper to her.

"I will Ma'am. Thank you." She hugged me one last time and walked away.

I watched her till she was out of sight. Then I returned to the conversations I was having with my siblings.

Well, till today, her call never came. But till today I still randomly remember her and her letters and wonder why she wrote them.

[Image Source](<a href="https://pixabay.com/photos/board-desk-pen-surface-table-wood-1854180/ "https://pixabay.com/photos/board-desk-pen-surface-table-wood-1854180/"">https://pixabay.com/photos/board-desk-pen-surface-table-wood-1854180/)