Untitled Admiration

Etsey sees her before she sees him.

He's standing by the drinks table at the wedding reception, holding a bottle of Alvaro he hasn't opened yet, when his eyes sweep across the crowd gathered under the white tent and land on a woman in a blue kaba outfit talking to the bride's mother. For a second—less than a second, just a flash—he doesn't recognize her. Then she turns slightly, laughing at something, and the angle of her jaw, the way she tilts her head, hits him like a punch.

Selase.

Five years. It's been five years since they last spoke, and here she is, thirty feet away, at his cousin Drue's wedding in Accra, looking exactly like herself and nothing like the girl he remembers at the same time.

He should have known she'd be here. Ama and Selase were in the same hall at Legon. Of course she'd be invited. But somehow in all his mental preparation for this trip back home—the questions about his job in Lagos, the introductions to relatives' children he's supposed to marry, the inevitable conversations about when he's moving back to Ghana—he never once considered the possibility that Selase would be here.

His hand tightens around the bottle.

Selase knows he's here before she sees him.

Drue mentioned it last week, casual, like it was nothing: "Oh, Etsey's coming in from Lagos for the wedding. You remember Etsey, right?"

Remember. As if it's a question. As if she could forget.

She spent the whole morning getting ready trying to decide if she should just skip the reception. She went to the church service—that was enough, wasn't it? She could say she wasn't feeling well, that work called, that something came up. But then she'd be admitting that he still had power over her, that after five years she still couldn't be in the same room as him without falling apart.

So here she is. In the blue kaba her mother insisted she wear because "you never know who might be watching." Her hair is braided in a style that took four hours yesterday at the salon. Her makeup is perfect. She looks good. She knows she looks good.

And she absolutely cannot turn around right now because she can feel him looking at her.

Etsey watches her excuse herself from the conversation and head toward the buffet line. She moves the same way she always did—purposeful, like she knows exactly where she's going even when she doesn't. He remembers that about her. The confidence that seemed effortless, that made everyone around her want to follow.

They were inseparable once. Best friends from Form 2 at Achimota School all the way through university. People used to joke that they were the same person split into two bodies. They had their own language, their own references, their own world that nobody else could fully enter. When his father died in their third year, she was the one who sat with him in the hospital corridor at 3 AM, not saying anything, just being there. When she got into the nursing program and cried because she didn't think she was smart enough, he was the one who reminded her of every single thing she'd accomplished.

He doesn't remember exactly when it went wrong. That's the thing that haunts him. There was no big fight, no dramatic betrayal. It was a series of small things. Missed calls. Canceled plans. Conversations that used to flow easily started to feel like work. By their final year, they were polite acquaintances who used to be best friends. By graduation, they weren't speaking at all.

He moved to Lagos for work. She stayed in Accra. They deleted each other from social media or maybe just unfollowed; he's not sure which is worse. And that was that. Five years of silence.

Etsey takes a long drink from his bottle and makes himself look away.

The buffet line is long and Selase is grateful for it. It gives her something to do, a reason to keep her eyes forward and her hands busy with a plate she's filling with jollof rice and chicken she doesn't actually want.

She wonders if he's still looking at her. She wonders if he's going to come over. She wonders what she'll say if he does.

Hey, Etsey. Long time.

How's Lagos?

Yeah, I'm good. Working at Ridge Hospital now. Internal medicine. It's fine.

All the neutral, surface-level things you say to someone who used to know everything about you and now knows nothing.

The worst part is that she's thought about this moment before. Late at night when she can't sleep, or sitting in traffic on her way home from a double shift, or scrolling through old photos she should have deleted years ago. She's scripted it out in her head—what she'd say, how she'd act, the perfect balance of friendly and distant that would show him she's moved on.

But now that it's happening, all those scripts feel useless. Her heart is pounding and her hands are unsteady and she's acutely aware of exactly where he is in the room even though she's not looking at him.

"Selase!"

She turns. It's Drue, glowing in her white dress, pulling her into a hug.

"I'm so glad you made it," Drue says. "Have you seen Etsey yet? He just got in yesterday from Lagos."

Selase smiles. "Not yet. Congratulations, by the way. The ceremony was beautiful."

"Thank you! You have to come say hi to him. He's right over—"

"I will," Selase interrupts, gentle but firm. "Let me get some food first. I'm starving."

Drue gives her a look—she knows, of course she knows, everyone from their university days knows but she doesn't push. "Okay. But seriously, talk to him. It's been too long."

Too long. Five years is too long to not speak to someone who used to be your best friend. It's also not nearly long enough.

Etsey is cornered by his Uncle Charles, who wants to know why he's still not married and whether he's met any "good Ghanaian girls" in Lagos. He's giving his standard diplomatic answers—I'm focusing on my career right now, Uncle. When the time is right—when he sees Selase walking toward the exit.

She's leaving.

The thought hits him with unexpected force. She's leaving and he hasn't said anything to her and in five minutes she'll be gone and it'll be another five years before he sees her again, if he ever does.

He excuses himself from Uncle Charles mid-sentence and follows her outside.

The evening air is humid and thick with the smell of rain coming. Selase stands at the edge of the venue grounds, looking out at the cars parked in neat rows, trying to remember where the Uber dropped her off.

"Selase."

She freezes. Then turns slowly.

Etsey is standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, looking at her with an expression she can't quite read.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey."

The silence stretches. Five years of it, compressed into this single moment.

"You look good," he finally says.

"So do you."

Another silence. This one worse than the first.

"How's Lagos?" she asks, because someone has to say something.

"It's fine. Busy. You know how it is."

"Yeah."

She doesn't know how it is. She has no idea how it is because they haven't spoken in five years and she doesn't know anything about his life anymore except what she's heard through mutual friends, little scraps of information that she pretends not to file away.

"I heard you're at Ridge now," he says. "That's great. You always wanted to work there."

"Yeah. It's good."

This is excruciating. They sound like strangers. They are strangers. That's what five years does—it turns the person who used to know you better than anyone into someone you have to make small talk with at a wedding.

"Listen—" they both start at the same time, then stop.

"You first," Etsey says.

Selase takes a breath. "I just wanted to say... it's good to see you. That's all."

That's not all. There are a thousand other things she wants to say. *I miss you. I'm sorry. I don't even remember what we were fighting about. Do you remember? Because I've tried and I can't find the moment where it all fell apart. It just did. Slowly. Like erosion.*

But she doesn't say any of that. Because what would be the point?

"It's good to see you too," Etsey says quietly.

He looks like he wants to say more. His mouth opens, closes. She waits.

"I should get back inside," he finally says. "Uncle Charles is probably looking for me."

"Right. Yeah. Of course."

He nods. Starts to turn away. Then stops.

"Are you happy?" he asks.

The question catches her off guard. "What?"

"Are you happy? In general. With your life."

She thinks about it. Her job at Ridge, the apartment in Osu she shares with two other nurses, the carefully constructed life she's built that looks good from the outside and feels empty most days. She thinks about the friends she has now who are fine, good even, but who don't know her the way Etsey used to know her. Nobody knows her that way anymore.

"Most days," she says. "You?"

"Yeah. Most days."

Another silence. This one feels different. Heavier.

"We were really stupid," Selase says suddenly. "Weren't we?"

Etsey lets out a breath that's almost a laugh. "So stupid."

"I don't even know what happened."

"Me neither. I've tried to figure it out so many times. It's just... one day we were us, and then we weren't."

"Do you think—" She stops herself.

"What?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

"Selase."

She meets his eyes. They're the same as she remembers. Everything else about him has changed—he's taller somehow, or maybe just carries himself differently, and his face has lost the softness it had in university but his eyes are exactly the same.

"Do you think we could have fixed it?" she asks. "If we'd tried?"

Etsey is quiet for a long moment. "I don't know. Maybe. We didn't really try, did we?"

"No. We just let it go."

"It felt easier at the time. Less complicated."

"Yeah."

The rain starts then. Light at first, then heavier. They both look up at the sky, then at each other.

"We should go back inside," Selase says.

"Yeah."

But neither of them moves.

The rain is coming down harder now, soaking through her kaba, his shirt. Selase starts laughing; she can't help it. The absurdity of it all. Five years of silence and here they are, standing in the rain at a wedding, having the conversation they should have had half a decade ago.

Etsey laughs too. "Remember when we got caught in the rain after that concert at Alliance Française?"

"And we had to run all the way to the Legon gate because we couldn't find a taxi."

"You were so mad at me."

"You were the one who said we didn't need an umbrella!"

They're both laughing now, properly laughing, and for a moment it feels like no time has passed at all. Like they're still twenty-one and invincible and the best of friends.

Then the moment passes.

"I should really go," Selase says, wiping rain from her face. "I have an early shift tomorrow."

"Right. Of course."

She starts to walk toward the parking area, then turns back. "Etsey?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't be a stranger, okay?"

He nods. "Okay."

They both know it's a lie. They'll go back to their separate lives—him in Lagos, her in Accra—and the next time they see each other, if they see each other, it'll be at another wedding or funeral, another brief encounter where they make small talk and pretend the weight of their history isn't crushing them both.

But for now, in this moment, standing in the rain, they can pretend it's possible. That they could text tomorrow. That they could grab coffee next time he's in town. That they could rebuild what they lost.

Selase waves and turns away, and Etsey watches her disappear into the rain.

Inside, the reception is still going strong. The DJ is playing Stonebwoy and people are dancing and the bride and groom are cutting their cake. Everyone is celebrating and happy and exactly where they're supposed to be.

Etsey stands at the entrance, dripping wet, and thinks about all the things he didn't say. All the things he should have said five years ago, or five months ago, or five minutes ago.

I'm sorry. I miss you. You were my best friend and I don't know how to have best friends anymore because nobody else knows me like you did. I moved to Lagos because staying in Accra without you felt wrong. I still think about you. I probably always will.

But he doesn't say any of that. He just watches the rain and thinks about what a time it was, when they were young and stupid and convinced nothing could ever break them apart.

He goes back inside. Selase doesn't come back.

And five years from now, maybe they'll see each other again at another wedding. Maybe they'll make small talk in the rain and laugh about old memories and part ways again.

Or maybe they won't.

Maybe this was the last time.

Etsey doesn't know which possibility is worse.