Carry-On Hearts… Her Cheapest Way to Travel Away From Him
The very first item Amara sold after the breakup was her engagement gown.
Not because she was broke even if she needed funds, but because it seemed like wiping away a past version of herself that was no longer present. The dress was white and fragile. Just, like the future she had envisioned with Tunde.
Her next item, for sale was her sofa.
And then her TV.
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Then there was the coffee maker he had insisted they buy with both their money because he believes “Sunday mornings are meant for coffee and leisurely kisses.”
Her flat echoed with emptiness by the close of the week.
By the close of the month her chest did as well.
The separation itself was silent. There was no yelling or smashed dishes. It was simply a composed heartbreaking statement shared during dinner, like a server mentioning a dish is no longer available.
“I no longer believe I want this existence ” Tunde stated, his gaze locked on his plate. “. I don’t believe I want it alongside you.”
Amara had given a nod. She invariably nodded when unsure of how to draw a breath.
He left two days afterward. Carried his books, his clothes and the future they had been creating since college.
She was quiet.
Three weeks afterward at 2:14 a.m. Amara purchased a one-way ticket, to Morocco.
She kept it to herself.
Not telling her mother, who continued to call Tunde “your husband.”
Not telling her closest companion, Zainab who thought recovery called for group messages and wine.
Not even herself, not really.
She simply realized it was time to go.
She searched “ways to travel cheaply after a breakup”, on Google and chuckled when the search box recommended ” baggage charges.”
Her account contained ₦430,000.
She had no employment as she had abruptly resigned a fortnight ago.
She didn’t plan any itinerary. All she had was a backpack, a camera she hardly understood how to operate and an increasing ache that wouldn’t stay silent.
It was almost as if she was Learning to Travel on a Budget
Morocco was chaos and color and noise.
Amara lodged in hostels permeated with the scent of incense and tales from the past. She quickly mastered traveling opting for night buses rather, than airplanes, street snacks instead of dining establishments and communal dormitories instead of hotels.
She discovered that suffering didn’t vanish merely because the money switched.
In Marrakech tears fell as she drank mint tea because the waiter smiled too much.
In Fez she roamed through alleys tight they seemed like veins throbbing with a vitality just, beyond her grasp.
Beneath the stars of the Sahara, which seemed as if they could tumble down she at last rested free, from any thoughts of Tunde.
She documented all of it.
Every feeling.
Every mistake.
She nearly messaged him every time.
Her notebook weighed more, than her backpack.
It went on until she had a Bounce That Was Never Meant to Count
Their meeting took place in Lisbon.
His name was Luca.
Italian intonation. Gentle chuckle. A tendency to gaze at others as if he were tuning in to something profound.
They met each other in a hostel kitchen at midnight each attempting to prepare pasta using borrowed cookware.
“You move as if you’re fleeing ” he remarked nonchalantly mixing the sauce.
She stopped suddenly. “Is it really that noticeable?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Yes.”
They walked all night along the cobblestone roads exchanging tales they had not intended to reveal.
Luca was likewise journeying, resting on buses retouching photos, for money pursuing something he wouldn’t admit to.
They never made any commitment to each other.
They knew they were only passing time.
One day extended into three.
Three into a week.
One week of playlists, private jokes and fingers that align effortlessly.
Amara convinced herself it was a rebound.
Temporary.
Harmless.
Necessary.
She convinced herself she was free to go at any time.
Love, Soft and Dangerous
They journeyed jointly.
Spain.
Croatia.
Hungary.
Always on a budget. Always improvising. Always choosing connection over comfort.
They rested aboard trains.
Missed buses.
Meals intended for a person shared.
Luca showed her the way to capture pictures that conveyed narratives.
Amara showed him how to remain with emotions without dismissing them with humor.
Occasionally during the night she would awaken confused not recalling her location or the person she was turning into.
She ceased to ponder over Tunde.
That frightened her greatly.
During an evening, in Budapest Luca inquired, “Do you think timing matters?”
She paused. “I think bad timing is fate, in disguise.”
He gave a smile. “That’s… true.”
She thought she was finally healing until she realized the past hasn’t finished with her.
Amara discovered the email in Prague.
Subject line: “Are you happy?”
From Tunde.
Her chest caved inward.
She didn’t unfold it away. Instead she strolled beside the river observing couples clasping hands questioning when love turned into something with an expiration date.
That evening she revealed everything to Luca.
About the engagement.
The existence she’d left behind.
The worry that her joy was merely temporary.
He paid attention silently.
Then he uttered words that broke her down.
“I don’t wish to be your distraction ” he expressed.
She was unsure of how to respond.
Since she wasn’t prepared to make a decision.
Not him.
Not herself.
Not the future.
That night they had their argument.
It wasn’t loud.
It was worse.
It was honest.
They parted ways in Vienna.
Amara took a night bus by herself.
She wept quietly leaning against the window observing cities fade into silhouettes.
She thought she was silly.
She had slipped more.
Weeks later in Istanbul she, at last checked Tunde’s email.
I committed an error.
I believed I desired freedom. It appears I simply lacked the knowledge to fight for love.
I’m attending therapy. I’m making an effort. You remain on my mind.
If you return someday… I will be waiting here.
Her hands trembled.
Simultaneously her phone vibrated more.
A message from Luca.
I am currently, in Rome.
There is something I need to share with you.
It is urgent.
Amara gazed at the monitor.
Two lives.
Two men.
Two versions of herself.
She reviewed her account balance.
₦87,000.
Barely enough for one ticket.
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She burst out laughing uncontrollably.
Journey she mused resentfully yet love eternally demands the complete cost.
She reserved a plane ticket.
Not to Rome.
Not to Lagos.
Somewhere else.
Somewhere unexpected.
For the first time Amara understood something both frightening and liberating:
She wasn’t obligated to repay anyone.
The aircraft touched down at daybreak.
When Amara entered the arrival hall, drained and unsettled her phone vibrated more.
One message.
From an unknown number.
This number is unfamiliar, to you.
However I know who you are.
We encountered each other one time prior, to your departure.
I believe you ought to be aware—
Luca is not the person you believe him to be.
She gasped.
A different message arrived right away.
A photo.
Luca.
Standing beside someone else.
A person she knows.
Tunde.
Together.
Smiling.
The timestamp read: two days ago.
Amara’s legs gave way as the airport announcements faded into sounds.
To be continued…
