A pimple on your upper lip is the first sign that promises tension within the four corners of your counseling room.

They have never bothered you, these skin irritations that compel discomfort, pus and sometimes blood. You were always careful to take the newest update when it came out to prevent these things. But someway, somehow, this particular one persists. It sits on the lip, arrogant and conspicuous, like a pompous (forgive the pun) man seized by the liquid fire he thought he had tamed in a bottle. The urge to touch it is almost as smoldering as the blackened scarlet resentment you feel for the blemish on what has always been deemed one of your greatest qualities: your lips. Your tongue, dancing atop the thrum of instinct, moves to moisten your lips. You lift your hands, opening the holographic database before you to go through the history of the two people before you.

These two, here because they believe love is no longer enough for them to stay. Your job is to remind them that love is not always a feeling, but a ritual sung in the heart of night and the sternum of morning. But one look within the cosmos they have intentionally left between them in the coal black leather sofa tells you this is going to be harder than you thought.

Most couples, when they come here, try their very best to convince you they’re okay. They sing songs as old as time, ones older than the sea and the chasm of darkness, the lyrics always sounding something like: we came here because our friends recommended it. We wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

They convince themselves so much, with a deluge of conviction that it is easy to have them submerged in it for another millennia.

Or four, if you were lucky.

You don’t see that delusion in this couple’s eyes. Within the timeless orbs, you see a solid, albeit craggy wall of conviction. To both parties, they have come here to seal the deal on their separation. They just need the blood of your concurrence to douse their pen in. The parchment lies in the weathered way they both look at you, the stiffness in their shoulders.

The all too obvious discomfort at being here, but the understanding that to be free of one another, this step has to be done together.

You almost laugh at the irony; two lovers coming together to finalize their separation. You pay homage to the drama imbued within.

‘’Mr. and Mrs. Agyeman-Swedru.’’ Your voice is clipped, burnished bronze, lined with years of repetition and even more years of practice. They both look up, their postures straightening even more. The possibility surprises you, but you mask it.

‘’It is my understanding that you two wish to annul your marriage after 500 plus years of marriage,’’ you add. Mr. Agyeman-Swedru gives an almost imperceptible nod. His wife’s nod, on the other hand, is clear. So is her conviction. It's very rare for couples who have been together for half a millennium to request for separation, especially considering that there is nothing new under the sun so chase after. But then again, breathing is known to taste like the underbelly of heaven when you’ve been held under water for more than a minute. 

You scan through the holographic document as you speak, feeding your brain with new information to use in a bid to diffuse the ticking time bomb nestling within each partner’s throat. Even from opposite the room, you can smell the lighted fuse, hear the tick tock that moves in tandem with the frosted sapphire song their hearts beat to.

‘’Can you tell me why you think this is the best way forward, Mrs. Agyeman-Swedru?’’ you ask the woman. She seems more convinced than her husband, her conviction brighter.

‘’Please, call me Anita,’’ she responds. Her husband turns to her. Her denuding of their surname brings forth lesions in his already cracking resolve. You fear one more terse expression from her would have him melting into the leather of the couch—becoming one with it.

You nod at her to go on and she sighs. Anita looks up at the ceiling, no doubt calling forth the strength to begin. You’ve seen it done many times, you can almost see the sparkle, the bridge that conveys this strength down on the shoulders of those burdened by love. This same bridge appears, trailing smidgeons of strength on Anita. She exhales.

‘’It's not a matter of why I think this is the way forward. It's simple fact, I believe.’’ She stops, no doubt allowing the taste of her thoughts to linger on her once silent tongue. You see the cloud of freedom brimming from behind her eyelids. You know the downpour is imminent. This isn’t just a woman who has a lot to say. This is a woman whose words have been embalmed in centuries worth of silence.

‘’Don’t get me wrong, I love the man sitting beside me, but I have grown weary of loving him,’’ she confesses, more to him than to you. His shoulders sag just a bit, but more than enough for you to realize he has been wrestling with the possibility of her confession for centuries. The truth has knocked the wind out of him. But he stays put, earthbound, almost unmoving.

‘’Why do you think you have grown weary of loving him?’’ you ask. She smiles at the question. You smile back, gnashing your teeth as the burden of your pimple makes an appearance. Anita looks at the man beside her before returning her gaze to you. ‘’I grew weary of him when I realized he deserved better than me. Better than I could ever be.’’ You say nothing, which prompts her to continue. So she does. ‘’You would probably ask me if he in any way made it clear to me that I wasn’t enough for him, to which I would tell you no. Not intentionally at least.’’

‘’What do you mean, when you say not intentionally?’’ you inquire.

‘’It wasn’t said outright, but it could be heard. In every pause before he would respond to something I did that upset him. You know,’’ she pauses, looking at her feet, clad in richly polished Ahenema slippers, ‘’I used to count the number of seconds that passed before he would air out how what I did made him feel. It was always longer than the one before.’’

Mr. Agyeman-Swedru looks up. He’s clearly fighting the urge to speak. To swallow what he’s hearing.

‘’He didn’t say it outright, but I sensed it in the stiffness of his hugs after we had a long argument. Arguments are nothing, if not the building blocks of every good relationship, but it only turned our ground into quicksand.’’  She wrings her fingers.  The silence that possesses the room is palpable—you feel its breath brush against the pimple on your lip.

‘’Did you ever draw Mr. Agyeman-Swedru’s attention to it? The chasm that was growing between you two?’’ She shakes her head, looking down in what you can only assume to be shame.  Not fear, because in this room with three people circling around a very deep chasm, the only one nestling fear within is the husband.  ‘’Why not?’’ you ask.

‘’I don’t know why, I guess I just didn’t want to nag his ear off or add on to the multitude of things he has to cater to. He’s a busy man, always has been.’’ You shift in your seat, moving your hands to make a mental note in the database. Her eyes lift to meet yours, no doubt attempting to decipher what you’ve written down, but you both know it's impossible. The wireframe makes it possible for only the therapist in the room to see the notes being made. Her eyes, still holding remnants of burnished sunlight, implore you to say something back to her. But you look up and continue to write down your assessment.

‘’While consideration of your partner’s feelings, stature and profession is a commendable trait, it becomes harmful once it begins to chip away at the serenity of your relationship. You know as well as I do, living on this earth for more than a millennium, that communication is a key facet in healthy relationships. And you’ve had a good amount of time to fashion your words, to tailor them in a manner that would make you feel heard and also make Mr. Agyeman-Swedru understand.  Is there a reason why this was not possible?’’

She parts her mouth to say something, but stops herself for a beat. You wait patiently for her to find the best way to respond.

‘’There’s this line from Jane Austen, hidden in the pages of a story I have long forgotten, but the phrase has clung to me for so long. It goes: And sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself because I could find no language to describe them in.’’ 

You nod, recalling that line and how it clung to you too, for different reasons. 

You turn to Mr. Agyeman-Swedru. His eyes, a gray dawn, stare back at you. In those eyes, you know, once swam excellent mornings. But now they have become two lackluster orbs, despite the many updates to his wireframe and his core. In his soul, the man is no longer happy. No advancement in technology can wipe the dent of gloom. You turn back to Anita, who adjusts her position in the chair. You can’t help but notice that she has moved a fraction closer to her husband. You wrestle with a small smile. Even as she plunges the blade of her grief into his chest, she also draws closer, sharing in the agony. You see the potential—the first sprout of a verdant bloom of possibility that maybe, just maybe, all hope is not lost.

‘’And now as we congregate here, how do you feel? What do you want to say to Mr. Agyeman-Swedru?’’

‘’I don’t know if he would like to hear it.’’

‘’I would.’’ His voice makes its first appearance in the room. It’s an emerald whisper, thrumming with an inundation of warmth and affection. You feel the brunt of his yearning for understanding. It almost caves your chest in. Anita turns to him, looking him in the eye with unadulterated abandon. They share that look for three heartbeats before she turns back to you. She takes a breath. ‘’Well, I might as well then.’’

‘’Jo, from the first day I met you, I knew you would be the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. It was written in your affection for me, your patience and above all, your consideration. I think we can both agree that the ghosts from my past were more recalcitrant than we anticipated. They bit through the bastions of our efforts. At my efforts. The poison was far more potent. It still is. My reflection in the mirror almost every morning when you were out working reminded me of that. ‘’

She clutches the material of her deep blue Kaba, her fingers digging deep into the fabric. You watch, making a mental note once again. This time, she doesn’t notice, or she doesn’t care to. There’s too much going on, a battle of wills taking place within her.

‘’Everyday for the past millennia, I have shed the belief that time heals everything. I don’t think it can heal my grief, Jo. This grief is too tricky, a fox adroit in artifice and all time can do is to weather its bones and dilute its antics. Nothing more. My pain was too strong, too heavy to remove and too present to ignore. And I should have said something. Lord knows I should’ve but- ‘’ her voice shatters, a rough blackened sound that escapes from her throat. You stiffen, knowing she has reached her limit of control. Your first instinct is to tell her to breathe, but you know once she stops to breathe, she may never finish. And if she doesn’t give her demon a name, she may never bend its bones to her will.  So you make her wade through it, and she does.

‘’But I just couldn’t. I just never felt it would change anything. I felt too hopeless, too set in my ways, too certain that nobody would ever love me truly. That everything was temporary, that one day you would wake up, stare at me and wonder why in all’s name did you end up with someone like me? Someone so broken—so unworthy.’’ She looks up, fighting the tears that begin to spring forth. It’s a waste of time, because you know, as well as she does, that they’ve been waiting for a long time. 

Mr. Agyeman-Swedru turns to her. His hands move on instinct, but he stops himself. You watch his comforting hand hover above the chasm between them and you will him to cross to the other side. To be one with her again. She turns to watch his hand and takes it, placing it on her lap. Warmth spreads through you at the gesture and this time, you smile.

‘’I’m sorry I messed things up. I’m sorry I asked for us to go our separate ways, but I felt and still feel like it’s the best thing to do. Because I don’t know what to do with this pain. These feelings. And I don’t want to rope you into it. You have been nothing but helpful, present and loving. You deserve better. Far better than the woman you married on 16TH June, 2022.‘’ You hand her a pack of tissues and she takes them, smiling at you despite all the pain she just released into the room. She wipes her eyes, only to have new tears make an appearance.

‘’I knew my silence was hurting you, but you would drop dead than take initiative in ending what we had’’—you wince at the tense—‘’so I decided to take matters into my own hands.‘’ She ends, turns to the man she still loves and it breaks what remains of her resolve. She looks away, places her face in her hands and sobs quietly.

‘’I think we should take a breather, before we continue,’’ you say, in your best attempt at a neutral tone. You feel it doesn’t quite sell it, but you doubt the two people in the room with you care.

‘’No, please let’s not. There are things that need to be said for a consensus to be reached. I have said my part, or most of it. Now I want him to speak. ‘’ She lifts her head and looks up at me. ‘’Please, let him speak, I’ll be fine. It was just-‘’ she pauses, -‘’a lot. It was a lot.’’

You nod and turn to Mr. Agyeman-Swedru who still has his arm on her thigh.

‘’Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Agyeman-Swedru,’’ you inform him. 

From since you could remember, and even before then, you have heard through the now withered proverbial grapevine of the power of the tongue. Its akin nature to one of the sharpest blades, capable of breaking down walls, crumbling the souls of seasoned warriors and even bringing loved ones from the dead. The tongue coerces gods, bargains with demons, can compel rain and even berate the moon. Very few have been able to hone the ability of the tongue, bending its power to their will to make their lives comfortable. Livable. Mr. Agyeman-Swedru was one of them. You had heard about him in the past; a world renowned writer and art curator, good enough to stand the test of time—it seems. His words have always moved crowds, calling forth tears from their morose eyes. His art curating skills were stellar, according to The Accra Times. So you cannot help but wonder how he didn’t notice the art of corruption taking place right under his roof. You reckon it could have been hidden quite well from him, but no, the woman he sits beside seems to have been in pain long before she knew him. Pain demands to be felt, but it also begs for attention.

‘’I’ve thought long and hard about what to say and how to say it ever since you stopped speaking. But my words fail me. It seems there’s no phrase on this plane that would perfectly express what I wish to divulge to you. So I think I’ll chip away at the glacier of emotions I’m feeling and take them down one by one.’’ He turns to you. You notice his hands leaving her thighs and returning to his. He needs to be whole—selfish, in order to speak his truth. You admire the decision.

The man who came here is not the same man who is going to be leaving.

‘’Anita, I have loved you even before I understood what the emotion meant to me. Love is worship, it is an intentional form of reverence. I think that is why the word is mentioned about 551 times in the Bible. Because even the one above the skies understands the weight of it. To love is to sacrifice—to  shed, to learn, to unlearn. But you never gave us the chance to fully actualize it.’’ He turns to her.

‘’I love you, but it seems you have always been in love with your pain. Your grief. It has consumed you wholly because you don’t know who you would be without it.’’

The realization hits her like a slap. You note the way Anita becomes stiff, no doubt processing the sting from the whip of his words. Even from opposite the room, you feel its wrath; its truth.  Its vermillion blaze singes her skin, burrows into her marrow and brands it.  Her grief has no choice but to acknowledge it.

It has finally received the first letters of its name.

‘’Now, I know you may not agree with me, and you may think my statements insensitive, I understand, but I also want you to understand that inasmuch as you’ve had to accommodate your grief in silence, I have had to accommodate you in confusion, ‘’ he adds, his eyes not leaving her face. Her eyes leak, but she’s silent, listening, swallowing. The weight of his words dents her cheeks.

He moves to take her hands in his. She allows him. You note the way she gives in, too tired to fight back, too denuded, stripped bare of everything she once was. Every thought that clothed her in dusk woven lilac.

‘’You never gave me the chance to prove you wrong. Your thoughts took up flesh and bone before my benefit of doubt had even sprung an essence. They ran, faster than I could catch up to. And now I don’t know if I can shout far enough for you to hear me when I say that I never cared that you were broken, I just wanted you to allow me to be there for you as you were finding yourself.’’ His hands begin to tremble, the strength of his words simmering through his very person. You say nothing, you do not wish to ruin this monumental moment; the cusp of what they could be once they exit the four corners of your office. So you retreat into yourself, leaning farther into your seat in a comical attempt at becoming inconspicuous, trifle.

‘’And right now, despite everything said here, despite the noticeable toll everything has taken on you, on us, I want you to know I still want this. I still want you. It's been you, Ni; it's always been you.’’ He reaches for her cheek and the side of her face collapses into his palm. Peace, a blossom glow colors her cheeks and her smile, albeit sad, breaks, gratitude to the fervor thrumming from within.

You watch them: broken people, different people than they were when they came in. The chasm that once held them apart has been covered by the bones of their old bitter selves. And you know what they say about everything being a cycle and how death calls forth new life.

So you watch them in the final streaks of a fading day. You smile and feel a slight tug on your upper lip. You know your pimple has popped and you can’t help but smile harder.