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Dear Bolu,
I'd known Nimatu since junior high, although we never talked much. She always wore a white hijab, which you'd find is a distinctive piece of clothing in a predominantly Christian school. She was quiet, brilliant, soft-spoken, and she stood out like her grades. I was quite the opposite—troublesome, dull, chaotic, and I stood out for the wrong reasons. If three people got into trouble and you had the names of two of them, you could rest assured that I was the third. I spent more time in the Guidance Counselor's office than anyone else because I seemed most in need of counselling. I was a bad boy, but thankfully, I got better. I am here, after all.
Nimatu is beautiful—she always has been. Her hijab would wrap around her head, hiding half her cheeks and half her forehead, revealing what you can only conclude was a carefully crafted round face. I recall that at the tail end of high school, she was responsible for overseeing the punishment of tardy students as part of her prefectship. I was seldom punctual, so every other morning I’d be welcomed by her haloed face just inside the school gate. “You’re late, again”, she’d say, with eyes that hinted at disappointment rather than judgement. “Yes, Nima. I am”, I’d reply as I feigned to pick the litter on the school grounds as punishment. I’m confident she knew I wasn’t picking anything, but she never gave me a stick for it.
On one of those dreadful Monday mornings, I arrived late and didn’t find her at the gate. It was unusual, but I was glad I didn’t have to act like I was getting punished so I trod on in the direction of the classroom. A couple of strides later, I looked back and saw her enter the premises. She was late, and I was going to tell her. This would be my little victory, and not even the gates of Hades could stand in my way. This would be a good morning. As I made my way back towards the gate, I stumbled on the surprising realisation that she'd begun picking litter. She didn't have to punish herself—I certainly wouldn't if I were in her shoes. She was the Punctuality Prefect for a reason, and she had a solid claim to a get-out-of-jail-free card. I wondered why she forfeited that claim and as I got closer to her, my dream of a little victory gradually faded. I'd found a deterrent less daunting and yet more potent than Hades' gates—I'd found respect and adoration for Nimatu.
When I came upon her, I could see a stream of wispy hair run down the right side of her face close to her ear. Her hijab had failed to adequately encircle her face and as a result, I was allowed a rare revelation. "Nima, I see you're growing sideburns just like me", I said, with my hands running down my cheeks. She chuckled, restored her hijab to its appropriate position and the halo returned. I joined her to partake in our collective punishment, and never again did I fail to pick litter when I got to school late. We talked more after that day. She would later tell me that they're called "baby hairs", not sideburns, and I'd argue that that couldn't possibly be right because she wasn't a baby. I'm sure you agree, dear friend.
Two decades have gone by and Nima and I are as close as you can imagine. We're a couple in all but the legal definition of the word. She's loosely connected to her faith but she still wears the hijab and observes the fast every year. I'm not much different—I say Amen only when people pray for me, and I only pray for others on their birthdays. We work together and as journalists, it means we travel together. We pursue stories that are too good to be true and document the momentous experiences of human societies. We were there when the first wave of the plague hit West Africa and we broke the news of the only confirmed UFO sighting in Southeast Asia. When The Pyramids' hidden chambers were discovered, we were on the ground covered in dust, sand, and the history of a marvellous civilization. Nima and I have made a little name chasing miracles and wonders, and reporting them. So when Dr Krychowiak called on Tuesday to say that there was a phenomenon we had to see in Bruges, we knew it was something big. We left London without delay and made for the famed Venice of the North.
We got to the city around noon and rendezvoused with the Polish doctor at our agreed spot. Shortly after, we were taken to an undisclosed location I surmised was north of the city. When we arrived, it was apparent that we were at some sort of observatory. We were curious about what exactly we would be observing but any attempt to get an answer out of Dr. Krychowiak was futile. His responses were often a combination of "you'd see" and "it's difficult to explain", and we gave up on our inquisition. We wound up at a laboratory, and it became clear what we would be observing.
We were on the other side of a room enclosed entirely by clear, seamless glass panels. Inside the room was a man, a woman, and a boy in a setting as homely as one could manage in a laboratory. On our side of the room, there was no shortage of people—we were about twenty-something. Some wore lab coats, others suits, and there were a number of conspicuously dressed security agents. Still unsure of what the article of interest exactly was, I implored the doctor to put us out of the misery of our ignorance and he finally obliged. "How old would you say the boy is?", he asked. "I'd say about twelve", Nima responded almost immediately. I was inclined to agree. He couldn't have been older than fifteen or younger than eight. "Right", Dr Krychowiak said. "Here are the details of his birth", he continued as he handed over an electronic tablet to me. What met our eyes shocked Nima and me into disbelief. The boy had been born the previous day. Impossible.
Mrs Grundy, it appears, had felt uneasy in her sleep two nights before so her husband took her to the hospital in the wee hours of the morning. She was heavy with child and they suspected that the baby's birth was due. The doctor confirmed their suspicion, and the most spontaneous vaginal delivery of a boy ensued. Not too long after the delivery, the nurses noticed what appeared to be a malfunctioning weight scale. They placed the newborn on a baby scale and observed that the weight reading seemed to increase every second. They tried two other scales, and the observation was the same. The doctor was informed, and he confirmed that the baby was noticeably getting bigger and heavier. They ran a bunch of tests to ascertain what could possibly be wrong, but each one turned out fine. He was just a healthy boy who'd begun teething after an hour and walking an hour later.
His manners and growth seemed to follow the normal progression of a normal child's, only that it happened a few thousand times faster. Two nurses fainted when he spoke his first words three hours after his mother had him delivered, and another nurse was fairly certain she had just witnessed the first few hours of the life of the antichrist. There was panic in the hospital, and it didn't take long for the doctors to inform the Ministry of Health of the scary development. The result was that the Grundys were transferred to the facility Dr Krychowiak drove us to, and they've been under close observation since. The boy grew so fast, the doctors gave up on changing his clothes and trimming his hair. They simply let him wear a hospital gown, and his hair grew out beautifully.
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By Tuesday morning, which was the day we arrived, he'd crossed into adolescence although he was in fact, just a day old. He also didn't have a name yet, and the Grundys didn't like that. They'd been rather calm about the whole situation, knowing their boy wasn't like others and yet, desiring only to care for and nurture him. He was their first child, and they poured all of their love into him. We made arrangements for men of the cloth to officiate the christening of the boy, but they all declined. "I will not partake of such evil", said one Reverend Borjan. I suppose deep down, we don't all believe that the Lord God made all things bright and beautiful, and all creatures great and small. The boy was eventually christened without a priest. Mr Grundy named him after himself—Grundy and his wife called him Solo. I'm not certain why she chose that name. She may have been fascinated with Star Wars. She may also have recognized that like that great monarch of Israel, her son was wise beyond his years—or perhaps more aptly, his days. He spoke and wrote as reasonably well as any boy of his stature would, and we watched it all play out in awe.
Wednesday came, and by then we'd gotten used to Solo's dynamic appearance. He was way past puberty and had grown into a man as tall as his father. He spent most of the day reading at a tremendous pace and asking questions of his folks who never left his side. We were not allowed to interfere, and the only external contact outsiders made with this biological puzzle resulted from the regular blood samples they had to retrieve. Solo seemed to recognize the absurdity of his own life and he valiantly accepted it. What normalcy he could find, he cherished. He enjoyed potato chips, so he was never far away from a pack. When he watched TV, it was usually an episode of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air or a clip of the wonderful Bernie Mac. He sang to John Lennon in the shower and drank lots of water. He moved around quite a lot and when he stood, he swayed like Captain Jack Sparrow, in Nima’s own words. Solo lived like the eyes of several curious minds weren't on him. He read Shakespeare so he knew of stirrings, feelings, and love. He slept with the radio on, and when morning came, he said he dreamt of a wife he had in another life. "If one had to dream their life away", he said, "then there's no dream more perfect than last night's and in it, no lover more divine than Imogen."
Around midday on Thursday, we noticed that he'd stopped moving as freely and as frequently as before. He looked much older than Grundy Senior, and his freshly shaven head was balding. His appetite had decreased significantly, and he needed a pair of glasses to read. We numbered about thirty that were now observing the Grundys, and we were well taken care of. We sat there all day watching and wondering about the implications of Solo's existence on our assumptions and conclusions on matters concerning genetics, biology, philosophy, physics, chemistry, evolution, faith and meaning. We only retired to our private chambers when Solo shaped up to sleep, and we were back to the scene of his spectacle before he woke up. Nima and I talked frequently, most times asking each other questions. Oh, the whats and the whys and the many hows that crossed our minds. The more these questions piled up, the more elusive their answers got and we knew that they'd remain so for many a generation.
Evening came, and Solo fell ill. He puked a lot, and the administered treatments did all but treat him. He went to bed early with the radio on, of course, and when he woke up the next morning, his health had worsened. He was bedridden all day except for the brief period he was wheeled around in the sun by Mrs Grundy per his request. It was the first and only time he partook of the commonplace gift that is fresh air in his short and lengthy life. That night he slipped into a coma, and we all feared the worst. Nima was particularly worried. The last few days had been intense, and we'd barely had time to breathe. "He's fine. He's probably dreaming", I said, as we turned in for the night.
No sooner had the sun risen on Saturday had we gotten news that Solo had passed away. We didn't say a word. We cried. As a boy, I'd heard of insects like the adult fruit fly that lived for about two weeks, and I'd always wondered how much of life they could possibly see, feel, and experience. I'd lived for quite a while, and I was yet to see a tenth of the world. So I pitied the fruit fly. To see a child become a sexagenarian in six days, however, was a different matter. It struck me as profound that in such a short period, one could live a full life and I bet the other observers of this phenomenon came to the same conclusion.
The burial followed on Sunday and Nima and I took one last look at the body of the most impossible testimony. We paid our condolences to the Grundys who were sad, but consolable. They'd been given a gift, they said, and they'd try for another one. After the funeral, we thanked Dr Krychowiak and promised to send him a draft of whatever we wrote in the coming days. We were chauffeured out of the facility and dropped off in the city centre.
Bruges was beautiful. We agreed it would be a travesty to visit such a city and not see the sights so we put on our explorer hats. It was great seeing the well-preserved Gothic architecture and postcard-perfect waterfront buildings that ornamented the city. It made me think for a moment about how we never encounter certain problems, and how all we can do is hope that whoever encountered them would provide optimal solutions to said problems. I, for one, will never have to worry about planning a city or designing the facades of buildings on a narrow street. I can only trust city planners, architects, and construction workers to do a good job, and in the same vein, they can only trust me to report news without bias.
Nima and I had spent most of our lives chasing miracles and wonders. As the train departed for London I wondered what it might be like to try to create a miracle of our own. Bruges would be a great place to get married, I thought, as long as Reverend Borjan wasn't the officiant. "Nima", I asked, "do you want to try for a miracle?" She nodded her head rather enthusiastically in affirmation and made me the happiest man in Bruges. "We'd call him Solomon. And if it's a girl, we may have to worry about her sideburns", I remarked, placing significant emphasis on the last word. "I've told you severally that they're baby hairs", she exclaimed as we laughed. "You know if I were to dream my life away", I whispered, "you'd be my Imogen". "I know", she replied, taking my hand in hers and placing her haloed head on my shoulders.
Fin.
P.S.
This came much later than usual. I’m sorry.
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Write you soon, merci!
- Wolemercy
This is so, so good. It's a lovely read, whether or not someone is familiar with the nursery rhyme. Well done.
Beautiful writing and story, as always.