On the cold dreary night, we were set to leave the water’s depth for good, do you remember what you asked me? Well, if you have forgotten, I haven’t. An avalanche of fright shrouded my insides, blocking any question knocking at the lid of my heart. The sky was feathered in a black robe. Little sparkling stars bobbed from the windows in their abode, rooting for our safety. The wind whooshed, sang, and mumbled arcane words. Chill gusts lifted all the hair on my skin, and flayed our dark seaweed-entwined hair. After climbing out of the water, I quickly peeled off my coat, slipped out of it with dexterity, and put on jeans, a parka, and a blue snapback. You fumbled with your coat, unable to come out of it. I helped you out, folding our coats in a satchel housing the rest of our items.

Deep down I was scared too, but I had to be stalwart. Cruel men with vicious dogs were trailing the shore, eager to ensnare us in their hold. Fishermen too were somewhere in the shack, waiting to capture us in their nets.

Is Mama not coming with us? You asked as we ran away from the shallow water massaging our feet. The whispering breeze waved us goodbye, asking if we would ever return. I refused to look back. Your questions were becoming a trench: gluing my feet to the ground, pulling me into a hungry quick sand. When I noticed the crashing waves and foamy welcoming waters were beyond our reach, I clasped your frail hands, gazing unflinchingly into your eyes.

It’s just the two of us on this journey. There’s no one else but us.

My words pricked you that night. Harsh and poignant words emanating from the mouth that you thought spilled untainted love. And so we kept running. My hand wove in yours. Your sobs like an incongruent song from a bunch of amateur choristers. We ran away from the waters—our home, never to return there again.

• • • •

We lived in a single room for weeks. The building was marooned in a buzzing area filled with bloated curses from the inhabitants, throbbing night music from scary-looking rugged speakers, obscenities, bawling dogs whose mouths did not shut all night as if calling our attention to a wraith. You whined about anything and everything. Fisayo, the water for bathing isn’t salty. The food carries a stench that will make me sick. How come this area has no beach? I patted your back, feigned a smile. Where we were was not as conducive to happiness as the vast sea we had to ourselves weeks ago. I was also nostalgic for the water hyacinth, the sea horses sharing a spot on my counterpane, and the dolphins serenading us with melodies from the sonorous voices. Here, we would make a home for ourselves, hopefully finding a human-man, getting married, and having kids.

• • • •

I returned from the daily hustle to find voices creeping out of our room. I was mad at you for disobeying my orders. At least I gave you the courtesy of not embarrassing you in front of your guest. You fought back with an arrow of words from your vocabulary quiver: why do you keep me here like I’m a fucking slave? I ignored you, rummaging through all the items in the bag where our coats were supposedly meant to be safe. There, I found them both—yours and mine sleeping on each other.

That night a cascade of thoughts fell on me. Some pierced me like questions in a courthouse. If I had no plans of returning to the sea, why am I still holding on to the coat? Perhaps I still yearn for the feel of saltwater on my skin. You were fast asleep on the left side of your body, folded hand on chest, mumbling gibberish.

• • • •

The decision to let you go was one that still haunts me until today. The night seemed colder without you by my side. Mama wouldn’t be happy that our strong bond of siblinghood has been severed by such irrelevant things as boys, pleasure, and your gigantic desire to be around the sea. If we ever see Mama again I’d tell her the way things worked on land is different from in the sea. I will tell her about the boy you met: the one with an afro and overgrown stubble on both flanks of his cheeks. I’m certain she will not approve of him.

• • • •

It’s been four months. Gbemi, you no longer reach out like you used to. Please keep your coat safe. And your coral bead bracelet, too. You know it’s an heirloom that can never be traded. So much has happened since we last communicated. I met a girl. We are in love. I can imagine the lineament etched on your face right now. Fisayo the saint, in love with a girl. This cursed land changed me the same way it did you. You should meet her. Both of you are sweet and stubborn.

• • • •

Gbemi, there’s a video of you trending online. People are calling you a mammy water. They say you swam in the raging water amid turbulent waves. This ostentatious act will get you killed. Your identity as a selkie could be uncovered. Please stay away from the water.

• • • •

On the night we left our home you asked if we would ever return. I should have answered you. Mama said we should never return. The waters have been polluted. Human-men were bent on capturing every last of our kind.

It’s a year already. I haven’t heard from you. I’ve sent you tons of text messages. Please reply. Stay safe. Keep your coat away from humans. And please stay clear of the coast.