Chapter 3 The shape of leaving

Chapter Three: The Shape of Leaving

Esi stood at the edge of Kotoka International Airport, clutching her passport like it might vanish. The terminal buzzed with life-families saying goodbye, children clinging to their mothers, students with bulky suitcases, and businesspeople barking into phones. And her, caught between two lives, between a home that had never fully held her and a world that might. Her mother didn't know. Not really. Esi had told her she was going to a legal conference in The Hague-"just a few weeks," she'd said, her voice steady from years of practice. Her mother had nodded, said a prayer for traveling mercies, and tucked a small bottle of anointing oil into her bag, as if that alone would keep her safe in the West. And still, she had packed for longer. She'd stared at her reflection the night before, suitcase half-full, wondering if the woman in the mirror looked brave enough to leave everything behind. Not just the land and language, but the version of herself carefully built to please: the obedient daughter, the quiet friend, the woman with no visible scars. She had Kemi's address scribbled on a slip of paper, tucked inside a novel she didn't expect to read. Kemi hadn't responded to her last message. But that hadn't surprised her. Their love had always been a dance between reach and retreat. Maybe this time it was her turn to reach. On the plane, Esi kept her eyes shut most of the flight. She pictured the canal streets Kemi had described, the galleries, the strange ease of kissing someone without fear. She didn't believe in perfect worlds-but she believed in Kemi's voice. And that was something. When Kemi opened her door and saw Esi standing there, two hours after sunset with a suitcase in hand and rain streaking her cheeks, she said nothing at first. Her mouth opened slightly, her fingers gripped the doorknob like it was the only thing keeping her upright. "I wasn't sure you'd still be here," Esi said, softly. "Or that you'd want me to be." "I didn't think you'd come," Kemi whispered. "Neither did I." Kemi stepped aside. Esi entered slowly, eyes scanning the room-half studio, half home. There were canvases everywhere, half-finished pieces leaning against the walls, colors spilled like secrets across the floor. The place smelled like eucalyptus and linseed oil. And Kemi. They stood in silence for a long beat. Then Kemi walked up, gently brushing her knuckles against Esi's. No hiding now. No corners. No shadows. "You look taller," Kemi said. "I feel lighter." It was the closest thing to a confession either of them had managed in months. Later, they sat side by side on the floor, legs stretched out, two cups of hot tea between them. Outside, Amsterdam hummed with a quiet Esi hadn't known cities could have. "I've been painting you," Kemi said, staring at her tea. "Almost obsessively. Trying to remember every detail before time could steal it." "Did it help?" Kemi smiled. "It just made me miss you more." Esi reached over, taking her hand, slow but sure. "I don't know how to do this," she said. "Not out loud. Not without hiding." "You don't have to know," Kemi replied. "We can figure it out. Together." Esi leaned her head against Kemi's shoulder, the weight of home and history still clinging to her, but not choking her this time. For the first time, she wasn't loving in whispers. She was loving in the open, even if her voice still shook. And Kemi, warm beside her, squeezed her hand once. "I'm glad you came," she said. "I think," Esi whispered, "I'm finally ready to breathe." Outside, the sky was midnight blue, the stars faint but visible. And inside, two women sat surrounded by art, by possibility, and by the soft unfolding of a life they'd almost been too afraid to reach for.