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Dear Me,
If you are reading this, you’re probably twenty-two and next summer marks five years since Mom passed away. With Mom gone, you’ve become sullen and bitter. Your life has become nothing short of drinking and partying. You never quite got over her death; nevertheless, Dad’s luxuries compensated for the loss.
You’ve built your hopes around Dad’s fortune, scarcely entertaining talks about the future—our future. Yeah, you have become reluctant and feel everything will work out ’cause Dad’s still around. Well, that will change in a few months. Dad suffered a terminal brain tumour, and the wealth you hoped to inherit was passed on to a relative he never talked about.
You grow up hating God and blaming Him for all your misfortunes. You still have that doubt about the existence of an all-loving God. All those unanswered silent prayers before you retire to bed each night, the litanies of desperate requests, and those teardrops at the foot of the altar.
Some things are about to happen that you aren’t ready for. Look, Amanda and I are not together anymore. We took different routes after that big fight. But you already know this since it happened a few months back. Amanda found herself some new company—good friends—friends far better than the likes of you and me. They helped her get her life together. Fast-forward five years into the future, Amanda is happily married to Uche, that dude you hated so much back in high school.
You’ve always dreaded the things you can’t see that you forget about the ones you can see—I’m talking about your friends. Wish you would open your eyes to the people around you. You won’t get it now, but someday, in the not-so-distant future, it will become clearer.
Remember when you won Bridgford Essay Prize, and friends gathered to celebrate? Well, wait and see what happens in a few months. Not one of them would be by your side, especially at the worst moments. They love to celebrate with you, then leave in times of need. Nobody in your circle truly cares. They only pretend to like you.
You go around seeking attention, losing your self-respect. You’ll find out pretty soon that having many friends doesn’t make you famous. It only adds to the number that want to see you fail. See, it’s not the number but the quality of friends that matters.
Oh, wait, I think you’re getting really uncomfortable. Let me change the subject. Remember that hungry old man you ignored at tailgate party? No? Of course, you don’t. It probably hasn’t played out yet. Well, that man starved to death, and it stayed on our conscience. Up to this moment, that memory still haunts us. What’s worse is how he watched as you drank lavishly—right after you asked him to piss off. Twenty bucks could have saved that man from starving. There is really a difference between being human and a human being.
Listen! True love is just a lie that both of us believed in. In a month or two, you will meet a girl, and you’ll confuse lust with love. In fact, you’ll cherish her with all you’ve got, and will even skip classes just to see her. You will find out pretty soon that she has been living with two other dudes. You’ll ask who they are, and she’ll claim they’re siblings. One night you’ll wake up to realise she has been playing you the whole time. By then, it’ll already be too late. She’ll be halfway across the country, taking with her half of all that you own. You’ll spend the next six months of your life in despair, trying to find her.
You never believed in Karma, but as you grow older, you’ll realise that your flaws will start to backfire at the worst moments. At some point, you’ll feel empty. Suicidal thoughts won’t be far away. When that happens, keep your hands tight and close to your chest. Talk to God in silent whispers. He’s the only one who listens—even when you think he doesn’t.
You and I are two different characters but have been down the same road in life. I wish I could tell you our future is nothing short of amazing, but I would only be lying. I have become what you were scared to be.
* * *
A lump sat in his throat, and he swallowed hard. The overhead fan, spinning like a whisk, did little to mop up the sweat that had gathered on his forehead. He still wasn’t sure what to make of the letter. It was just preposterous to believe he had received a letter, written by him, from the future.
Chioke stared at the letter frozen in between quivering fingers. There was no way a letter written in the future could have gotten to him. No science could explain that. Someone was definitely messing with him, and he knew without a doubt that it was one of his friends. It had to be.
A knock on the door drifted him back to reality. Chioke, petrified, stared long at the pewter-grey door, unsure of who was behind it. He walked toward it, slowly and cautiously, and threw it open.
There stood Eleven, smiling. He was dressed in a slinky collared golf shirt and black blazer, staring at Chioke, who only wore blue-striped flannel pyjamas.
Eleven’s smile slipped away. “Are you kidding me?” he blurted out. “Tailgate party is only fifteen minutes away, and you aren’t even dressed?”
Chioke, serious-faced, walked up to him, holding the letter to his face. “Seriously, a letter!” he said with barely contained rage. “Of all the pranks you could come up with, you wrote me a stupid letter. How lame!”
It wasn’t the letter that upset him, but what was written on it.
Eleven recoiled in shock, momentarily confused. “What are you going on about?” He took the letter from him and glanced through it. He was taken aback by what he saw. “How could you think I’d write something like this?”
“Don’t get defensive, Eleven. I know you did it.”
“I get it. It’s April Fool’s Day. But why would I ruin my chance to make a joke out of you by writing this?” He seemed fiercely defensive. “There is many a prank I could pull on you. Why would I choose this one? I mean, this is pretty easy to figure out.”
He paused, puzzled as to what to say. “You didn’t write this?” he asked, deadpan.
“Seriously, who pranks a person on an April Fool’s Day, pretending to be from the future?”
Chioke knitted his brows, searching his face for any trace of dishonesty, but found none. He wasn’t sure what scared him more. The content of the letter, or that it didn’t come from Eleven. He’d found the letter lying outside the kitchenette, just beside the door. It was obvious someone had left it there. He fell into deep thought, trying to figure out who among his friends could have done it. Then, it clicked. Flint. Of course, it had to be him. Only Flint knew about the bad breakup with Amanda.
“Where’s Flint?” he asked suddenly. From the way Eleven looked at him, Chioke reckoned that was not the question he had expected.
“He’s already at the party.”
Without a word, Chioke stepped out into the chilly waft of the night, shutting the door. The wind blew hard, and the moon hid behind a cloud as if it didn’t want to witness what his rage might lead to. It was a serene, late-autumn night. A few nocturnal animals hooted and howled in the background.
“You’re going to the party dressed in a pyjamas,” remarked Eleven, as if Chioke didn’t know what he had on and needed to be told.
Chioke snatched the letter from him and walked past. He never uttered a word. Eleven followed behind, barely able to keep up with his swift strides. “You can’t go to the party looking like that. That’s social suicide!”
Chioke paid him no attention. He came and stood by the side of the lone tar road, lifting a thumb for a ride. An old beat-down yellow Toyota Prius pulled up beside him, and he hopped in, shutting the door behind.
Eleven couldn’t hold back his surprise. “Are you hitchhiking?”
The driver looked over his shoulder, peering through the window at Eleven. “Isn’t your friend tagging along?”
“He already has a ride,” Chioke retorted, a hint of contempt creeping into his tone. He never tossed a glance in Eleven’s direction as he fastened the safety harness.
“What’s wrong with you?” Eleven hollered behind as they left. “Your car is parked in the garage!”
Chioke let out a heavy sigh, wiping the sweat off his tired face. He only just remembered that he had a car—the one his dad had gifted him on his twentieth birthday—parked under the carport alongside his large apartment.
He lifted his hand to tap the driver’s shoulder, to ask him to pull over. On second thought, hitching a ride to the party seemed like the best option. He wasn’t in the right state of mind to get behind the wheel.
“Where are you headed?” The driver studied him through the rear mirror.
Chioke gave him the address on a small notepad. They became blanketed by silence afterwards. The driver didn’t seem too eager to begin a conversation, and Chioke appreciated it.
The houses around thinned out and trees started appearing. They drove past a small sign stationed on the left, and it read “Bridgton St.” He pushed his hand into his deep jacket pocket and pulled out a photo. He stared long at it with weak, unsteady eyes. In the picture, two people with radiant smiles—Amanda clinging behind him. They looked very happy.
This very time of the day, a few months back, finishing up from work, Amanda had stopped by the house. She wanted to surprise him but found him with some other girl. They both had half-filled glasses and were having a good time. The smile Amanda had worn on entry was quite gone. Chioke never noticed her presence until the door slammed.
Her tears trailed behind as she dashed across the tarmac toward the car. She quickly started the engine when she saw him hurrying through the door, shirtless. She sped off before he even got anywhere close. The tears blurred her vision as she watched from the mirror as he trailed behind, beckoning her to stop.
Maybe if she had waited a while longer, she would have found that Corinne wasn’t just some girl she’d caught him flirting with, but his sister whom she’d never met before. Corinne had moved in from out of town the night before to spend the weekend with him.
The inevitable breakup happened the following morning after he’d called to explain, but she never quite gave him a chance. He could still hear the abusive words she rained on him. He could still feel the ripples trailing down his spine at the rage in her voice. Only once did he fight with Amanda, the one time that ended their sixteen-month-old relationship.
Fast-forward five years into the future, Amanda is happily married to Uche—that dude you hated so much back in high school.
Chioke replayed the sentence in his mind so many times that, rather than mere words in a letter, it resonated in his ear. He couldn’t imagine how Amanda would end up with a guy like Uche. It wouldn’t make any sense. Why would Flint write something so improbable? He wondered if, deep inside, Flint wanted to see them get together or if he simply just wanted to upset him—these being the only two explanations he could think of as to why he wrote this.
“I am searching for God,” the driver disrupted his thought. “Know where I can find him?”
The man was focused on driving, but he could see that his question had startled him.
Chioke wasn’t sure he heard him right. “What?”
“I said, I’m searching for God. Do you know where I might find him?”
Their eyes locked on each other in the rear mirror. Chioke wasn’t sure how to answer that question or why he even asked. “There is no God,” seemed like the reasonable response to give, but then he wasn’t ready to enter into an argument with the driver. “You’re asking the wrong person,” he said dismissively, looking the other way.
Closely studying his face through the rear mirror, he saw that his eyes were immensely sad. “You don’t believe in His existence, do you?”
Chioke wasn’t ready to begin a conversation, but the question forced a response out of him. “Does he?” In a world full of illusion, so many are searching for something to believe in, and so many others seek a supernatural being to look up to for guidance and protection. That’s where God enters the picture. The belief in God is only for those looking for some reason to hope in this wildly spinning world. But what about those who had long given up the quest?
“Tell me, does this ‘God’ really exist?”
The man’s heart flailed away at his chest wall upon hearing this. “Doesn’t the Bible say he is closer to you than you think?”
Can you believe this guy? Where was God when his mother got sick? When Amanda left? Endless nights, he’d prayed, but they all proved fruitless. No one gave ears to his prayers.
“How can you assert the existence of a loving God amidst the sufferings, shootings, pandemics, and myriad crises engulfing our world today? If God is as close as you claim but never moves a finger when we suffer the worst ends, what does that tell you about Him?”
The man returned his gaze to the road and remained silent for a moment. When he looked up in the mirror again, his face was calm, his voice measured. “How can you ever conclude that belief in a loving God is incompatible with suffering? Surely, God loved Job, yes? And yet He permitted that patriarch to endure horrific afflictions.”
He flinched, feeling a cold shiver travelling down his spine. Many things came flooding back, memories that he thought he had long left behind. The sight of his mother lying on her sickbed, her face an ashen mask of pain; candles burning in the corner, and at the centre, a crucifix; and nurses rushing into the room at the sound of a beeping meter only to announce his mom’s departure.
His eyes threatened to let out tears. “That’s insane! Why would a just God allow unmerited suffering to be visited upon the innocent?”
Of course, in one sense, the driver understood the problem. Chioke was simply protesting against what he took to be massive injustices of his suffering. In that instance, the man knew Chioke had once been fervent in the service of God.
“It is no coincidence that every day we hear of a new tragedy. Our finite and historically conditioned minds cannot allow us to fathom how suffering aligns with God’s designs for humanity. Suffering may befall anyone, serving as either punishment for sin or a means of spiritual purification for God’s beloved. Our imperfect understanding of the purpose behind human suffering cannot allow us to appreciate such a beautiful mystery. God loves us, even more than we know,” the driver claimed. “He will not allow us to be tested beyond our power to remain firm. Open your eyes, boy! Don’t you see God all around you?”
He was annoyed, even more than he was surprised. How could anyone defend something that is only a product of the imagination? How could anyone justify the actions of an abstract being? Humanity as a whole was becoming more spiritual. After relying on reason for so long, humans seemed to acknowledge the mind’s limitations and strive for something abstract.
It was sheer curiosity that prompted him to say, “I don’t understand why humans are such complicated creatures. If God is all around us, how come you are still searching for Him?”
The man must have been expecting the question. “It is a fact that He cannot be found by merely praying to Him; only those who seek can find Him.” The man sounded less like a driver than a preacher.
Chioke found it strange that of all the drivers he could have stumbled into, he got picked up by this guy. It occurred to him that, perhaps, this encounter might not be a result of coincidence.
“I don’t think God hears me. I have no reason to believe he does. Next time you talk to your God, you tell Him to stay the hell away from me. I’m managing just fine on my own,” he said, hoping to bring the conversation to an end.
The driver felt a sudden spasm of anger. “I should toss you out right now,” he was tempted to say, but kept his rage under control. A barely audible sigh came out of his lips, but other than that, he made no noise. It’s always like this. When you speak the truth, they hate you. The more you talk about God, the more they hate you.
Studying the interior of the car he was in, Chioke was on the verge of saying, “You wouldn’t be stuck as a petty driver if there was some God up there,” but cut himself short when he heard loud music emanating from the distance. They were getting close. Chioke felt relieved. As they drew nearer to the party, he sat up straight. He couldn’t wait to get off and go as far away from the driver as possible.
“Could you let me off behind that auto, please?” He couldn’t wait any longer.
With no objection, the driver pulled up behind a McLaren Senna. The maroon body of the car parked in front shone in the light. Chioke recognized it as Flint’s car. He threw the door open and got off quickly. The driver took off before he even had the chance to express his displeasure with the ride.
Chioke stood there and watched him drive away on the straight, narrow road before finally taking a sharp turn into the next street. The driver had made him resent his choice of hitching a ride down to the party. He wished he had driven himself instead.
He shrugged as he motioned toward Flint’s car, trying to forget his conversation with the driver. He knew it wouldn’t just go away. Not anytime soon. As miserable as he felt, somewhere deep inside, there was a part of him that yearned to believe there was a God out there in the universe. If so, how does he find Him?
Chioke came and stood by the large gate, which bore the inscription “tailgate.” He was positively wonder-struck at the crowd. He observed the large ballroom adorned with red ribbons. Just beside it, there were towering buildings glittering with bright silver lights. A sweet melody swept through the busy atmosphere, and it seemed to come from inside the buildings. In the sky, the moon hung over them, providing a natural disco ball and lighting.
Chioke saw many friends; they arrived by the dozen, each climbing out of expensive cars. Some of them were on the side of the road, walking in groups, or by themselves, or as couples, hand in hand. They wore expensive dresses that would be discarded after the night was done. Everyone looked his or her best, everyone except Chioke.
Embarrassed by what he had on, he thought to turn around, but the letter in his hand beckoned. He needed answers, and he needed them right away. Flint’s car parked outside only reaffirmed his presence at the party. He then proceeded toward the gate. Only inches away, he heard a voice call out to him. He turned and saw a grey-haired beggar dressed in tattered clothing.
The loathsome beggar sat at the side, looking up at him with a strangled expression. He appeared sick. His trembling hands held out a brown cup toward him. “Please, help me.” His voice came out strained and weak. “I’m hungry.”
Remember that hungry old man you ignored at tailgate party? No? Of course, you don’t. It probably hasn’t played out yet. Well, that man starved to death, and it stayed on our conscience. Up to this moment, that memory still haunts us.
Chioke, drenched in fear, remained frozen. “It can’t be,” he mumbled inaudibly. Goosebumps covered his skin. His hair stood on end as he trudged toward the man. Panic struck his brain after he got a closer view of his face.
“It can’t be.”
It wasn’t the sight of the beggar that struck fear in him, but the thought of knowing about this moment before it happened. The letter had described many misfortunes that were to come: His dad’s inheritance being passed on to a relative unknown to him, Amanda marrying a guy he hated all his life, his friends leaving him, and his relationship with a girl he is yet to meet, who’d run away with all his possessions. Was his future self really trying to send out a warning to him?
Contemplating these issues, Chioke did something he hadn’t done in a long while. He put his knees to the ground, pressed his hands together and kept them close to his chest. And for the first time in five years, he dared to say, “Dear God!” How do you receive a miracle if not by faith?
He remained silent, pondering his request. It had been a long time since he knocked on God’s door and he wasn’t sure if He still lived in the same place. “Please, don’t make any of it come true.” His voice needled with bitterness and desperation.
He knew what he had to do to make everything right. Taking out his wallet, he emptied it into the beggar’s outstretched cup, making sure not a cent was left behind. His breath hitched as he did so. Just then, he felt something he’d never felt before—the sense of someone listening. At that moment, he knew there was a God after all, and He loved him.
Chioke’s eyes were drawn to a dark corner where a collection of violinists, harp players, and pianists had gathered. He found Eleven surrounded by champagne-bearing waiters and some friends he recognized. They were trying to suppress laughter behind raised hands.
Something wasn’t right. Chioke returned his gaze to where the old beggar sat. His brows rose when he found that the old man was gone—or so it appeared. Someone else was sitting there. It was Flint, or someone who resembled him.
Flint took off the torn rag he wore around his shoulder, pulled the dusty wig off his head, and scrubbed the mud off his face. His appearance changed drastically. He was no longer the poor old beggar Chioke had met just a few minutes ago.
Chioke became aware, peripherally yet almost overwhelmingly, that it was all staged. The letter, Eleven being at his house earlier, the old beggar, and the party—it was all part of Flint’s prank.
When Chioke turned around, he saw that he was getting the most attention from the laughing audience. They were taking pictures with their phones. He was especially embarrassed by the pyjamas he had on.
Flint turned to him, raised his left eyebrow and smiled. “Happy April Fool’s Day, Chioke.” His tone was slightly condescending. The giggle on his face revealed that he was enjoying the moment.
Flint walked up to him slowly, stopped, and glanced over at something lying on the floor. It was the letter. Chioke clenched his fist and found that he was no longer in possession of the letter. It must have dropped.
An odd, slanted smile etched along Flint’s mouth as he took it and continued toward him until he came nose-to-nose with Chioke. He checked his face and could see beneath his mask of composure that he was clearly annoyed. Flint kept his posture straight and his words calm and his face neutral and was mentally congratulating himself.
“I got you this time, didn’t I?” There was silent laughter in his voice.
Chioke was momentarily relieved that it was all just a joke, yet felt so furious. Flint had gone to great lengths to make him look like a fool in front of everyone.
Flint, very pleased with himself, turned to look around at the audience. “I never knew Chioke could be this scared of the future.”
A ripple of smothered laughter washed across the crowd.
When Flint returned his faintly amused gaze to him, a blow he hadn’t expected found his face. A series of punches followed after Flint hit the ground.
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AUTHOR BIO:
Jeffrey Ogochukwu, a mechanical engineering student, is an avid reader who is obsessed with dark and twisted stories, with a bit of romance tossed in. He is an emerging writer with only a small scattering of published pieces. He placed second in the November edition of D’Lit Review flash fiction contest. His writing has appeared in the 2022 Kepressing Anthology Prize, Spillwords, and The Red Mud Review. You can visit him at jeffreyogochukwu.website3.me
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WHY WE CHOSE TO PUBLISH “A Letter from the Future”:
Author Jeffrey Ogochukwu’s title grabbed us immediately and posed such an interesting question that we hoped the story would deliver from that title. Then when the story opens with Dear Me, the reader knows something unexpected is likely coming. And that certainly proves to be the case.
From the beginning the reader is firmly planted in Chioke’s head and feels everything he feels. Then the reader is taken on a ride with Chioke to a completely unexpected outcome. Give us a story that’s different, unexpected, and not one we’re soon going to forget. That’s the kind of story we want to publish, and that’s precisely why we published this one.
(And of course there’s the bonus: When we received this piece some months back and realized it was also a perfect fit for our April issue, how could we not publish it?)