He
said I rang his bell. And so I let him ring mine. And just like that I threw
the doors open and let him in. It only occurs to me now to wonder at the haste
of it all. Whatever this ‘it’ is that I am quickly getting sucked into. All I
know is that I sense the hallmarks of another exciting rollercoaster ride of a
relationship that will lead me nowhere in the end. It used to be enough to say
at the end of one such ride that at least I had had fun along the way to
nowhere. Now I am not so sure. I don’t like not being sure. I like everything
in black and white, my favorite colors. Like when he saw me at a distant relative’s wedding (in black and
white), and said clearly (in black and white) that I was so hot he wanted to
take me behind the bushes and have me right there and then, that he meant
exactly that and nothing more. I was sure.
And I didn’t let him take me behind the bushes.
But
I let him do other things. I let him buy me a glass of wine. I sat down at a
low glass table and let him sit opposite me.
I told him my name and let him smile at me and say things like ‘You
Joanne, You beautiful Joanne, You ring my bell’. And more importantly, I let
him make me break my I-don’t-associate-with-guys-with-hair rule. He doesn’t just
have hair; he has an unruly collection of sharp peaks on his head. But he also
has hands. And his hands touch. Boy, do his hands touch. And he has eyes. His
eyes have that twinkle that is an open invitation, dare and promise all at
once. I let myself accept the invitation
and get helplessly lost each time.
But I have questions. Like what happened to
romance? And wooing? And other such quaint eye roll inducing notions that I
secretly want so bad? I have an empty wine bottle in my house, with water in it,
on my bookshelf right by the door, for when I receive flowers. So far it has
gone unused. And so I have decided that things will be different from the
usual. The usual being that each time he calls after say ten days of absolute silence,
my heart does a dance and my body sings with longing for those hands that
touch. And I let him do things to me, almost against my will. I let him into my
house and cook him delicious meals. I let him into my bed and give him
unfettered access to every nook and cranny of my being. Yet I still don’t
receive flowers, and I buy my own chocolate.
Well,
no more. I am putting a stop to it. Does he know how much I hate to cook? Does
he know how much I hate to wait by the phone, all the while planning in my head
what I’ll feed him, what I’ll wear for him, what I’ll do to him, what I’ll do with
him? There are other questions I keep a firm lid on whenever they bubble to the
surface. Like where exactly does he live (Ntinda is a vague, big place) and how
come I haven’t ever been there once in the six months I have known him? Is
there a wife, kids? Who is he with when he is not with me? I could ask him. I
know. But maybe deep down inside I know the answer and not asking and therefore
not knowing is better than knowing for sure. Or worse still, he would lie to
me. And I would believe him, so help me God. So better again to not ask, and
therefore remove the possibility of being made a fool of.
But
I am being made a fool of all the same. He never picks up his phone when I
call, because apparently he works with his hands. Who doesn’t work with their
hands? I know he is not playing the guitar at noon, and again at one and two
and three and on and on until midnight. He doesn’t ever reply text messages
because he doesn’t like to type, it is such a hassle. I am all for giving each
other space, hell I like my space as much as the next person, but this is us
living in two different galaxies and colliding every once a week or month or
two months depending on whichever set of variables leads to him becoming aware
of my existence.
I am a reasonably intelligent lady who knows
what she wants and I wasn’t going to let him dictate the terms of this
non-relationship, so I did my research and found out where his alleged band
plays on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I was at the unbelievably-hard-to-find-place
in Kololo yesterday evening, Tuesday. I sometimes wonder if they tuck these
places in between residential houses and hide them behind thick shrubbery to
cultivate an air of exclusivity and keep the riff raff out. I drove around in
circles for twenty minutes before I saw the tiny sign post buried in the
surrounding foliage. It was very important that I remained out of sight. He has
said on several occasions that I am too intense. When he says it, he rolls his
eyes and shakes his head slowly and drawls, ‘Soooo many questions, jeez,
breathe, Joanne, take a pill and chill.’ Well fuck him and his chill crap. If
he wasn’t going to provide answers to my questions, I would find answers myself.
The guard at the small black wrought iron gate
smiled at me like we were old friends and helped guide me to park on the
pavement. Inside, it was one of those combination bar/ restaurant/gardens
places. The paved walkway from the gate led directly into the bar area with the
usual L-shaped bar with high stools around it and a lounge sitting area with
low couches in bright colors. The bar was separated by an arched entry way from
the restaurant area with wooden chairs and red and white checkered table
cloths. Two gentlemen sat on one of the couches at the bar, and there was a
white couple in the restaurant. On the
other side, the lounge area opened directly into the usual set up of white
plastic tables and chairs with umbrellas with beer logos on them. Further on
were the lawns, where a few people sat on big cushions on the grass, sipping
expensive looking drinks and nodding to the beat, a jazzy, waltzy, but
definitely African sound.
I had thought I might be a tad overdressed for
a Tuesday evening band performance, but I needn’t have worried. Had I been
inclined to join the small crowd on the cushions, I would have blended in
perfectly in my strapless black sequined cocktail dress and red heels. The bar
was dimly lit. The dais from which the band played was raised and was
illuminated by bright, multi-colored spotlights. From one of the high bar
stools, I could watch without being seen thanks to a strategically located
pillar. And there he was with his glorious peaks of hair and his hands that
touch strumming away at the guitar. My heart did its little dance. The band was
real! So may be everything else was real. The barman asked me why I did not sit
on the lawns like everyone else. He said I would ‘experience’ the band better.
I told him I was just fine where I was and to keep the margaritas coming. Oh
joy, the band was real!
I
stayed for the one-and-a-half-hour performance behind the pillar, experiencing
the jazzy waltzy definitely African music and sipping margaritas and scanning
the sparse crowd for any woman who might be his wife or girlfriend. The performance
ended. The lead singer, a really short guy with waist long dreadlocks and a
voice to commit murder for, wished everybody a good night. The band
disassembled and packed up their equipment and got off the dais to go interact
with the small crowd. I watched him saunter down the steps with his guitar case
strapped to his back. I watched for any tell-tale signs of more than mere
fan-musician interaction with anyone in the crowd. He was friendly enough, he
smiled, shook hands, talked for a few seconds and moved on to the next person
with no undue familiarity, no hugs, no kisses, no lingering touches.
Except for one light skinned lady with pink
lips and a halo of curly hair. My stomach turned upside down. She got up from
her cushion and did a little jig and gave him a full-on hug. She chatted with
him for several minutes, her hand on his arm and looking up at him (adoringly?
I couldn’t tell from that distance). They hugged again when the conversation
ended. As she sat back down on her cushion, I noticed that her short flowery
dress showed off nice legs and a shapely behind. Way more shapely than mine.
But he was walking away from her, from the lawns to the regular sitting area.
He joined a group of guys at one of the tables and ordered a drink, put his
guitar case down next to him and leaned back in the chair. So probably not a
girlfriend then. Or a wife. May be just
an affectionate acquaintance then. Or an old school friend. Or a cousin
perhaps. The room was starting to spin a little when I got up to go to the
toilet, careful to approach it from the opposite side to where he was seated. I
had to take a less direct route, through the restaurant and round the back of
the bar. I ventured one last peek from
behind the pillar as I paid for my margaritas. He had a Nile Gold in front of
him and was laughing with his friends, not a lady in sight. Especially not a
pink lipped halo haired one with nice legs and a shapely ass.
That
was last night. Today my post jazzy waltzy definitely African music filled head
is a swirl with speculation. So I got the answer to the band question. But,
that leaves the even more disturbing question of the pink lipped halo haired
lady. She is all I see when I close my eyes. I don’t even know her and I hate
her already. I almost don’t care if she is his sister or aunt or cousin. She
got to hug him full on while I watched from behind the pillar. Plus sisters,
aunts or cousins don’t generally show that much enthusiasm for brothers,
nephews or cousins. They don’t get up and do little jigs. Who the hell is she?
That, in addition to the other things that have been there from the beginning,
that are refusing to be kept a lid on. I still don’t know where he lives. He is
still not answering my phone calls. I am still being made a fool of.
I yelled at the new girl a few minutes ago.
Apparently I was supposed to have her contract ready for her to sign. She
reminded me really nicely and I laid into her. I told her you know what
sometimes things don’t go our way. That’s how life works. Shit happens. Things
are not always what they seem, or how we expect them to be. Do you know how
adults handle it? We take it on the chin; we suck it up and move on. And I
slammed my fist on the desk. She looked like she might cry, and slinked back to
her desk. I need to apologize to her. And give her the contract to sign. I am
the nice one in the office; I can’t have her thinking that I am the
stereotypical mean administrator. And I really need to take back my head space.
I
start to scroll through my contracts folder so I can update and print her copy
when my phone rings. It’s him. In the split second it takes me to answer the
phone, my heart does its dance, my body sings with longing and I know what I’ll
feed him, spicy grilled chicken with lots of garlic. I know what I’ll wear for
him, a black sheer chemise with pink lace detail. I know what I’ll do to him, let’s
just say my mouth will be involved and it won’t be talking.
But
I push all that aside, I am done with that shit. I press the receive button, but
don’t say anything.
“Hey
baby, how you doing?” he says
“Hey.”
I hope it sounds cold, dismissive, like I wasn’t just pondering the mysteries
surrounding him just now, like I am wondering who the hell this is.
“What
are you up to?”
“Work.”
“Ah,
work. Always work. Boring. ”
“Well
some of us have to do it. Don’t you have a guitar to play or something?”
“No.
Can’t concentrate. There’s something else on my mind. Something else I would
much rather be playing. ”
I take a breath and plough on.
“Drums?”
He laughs. His laughter is like music. I have to bite my lower lip to keep
from laughing with him.
“Hey
what did you get up to last night?”
My heart skips a beat and my insides
freeze.
“Uhm,
I was at home. Why?”
“No
reason. I just thought I might have seen you somewhere in Kololo. ”
“Kololo?!
Nope. Not me. I was at home the whole time.”
“Hmmm.
And what were you doing at home the whole time?”
“Thinking
of you.”
“Oh
really? Thinking what exactly of me?”
“I
was thinking that it has been such a long time since I last saw you.”
“That’s
strange. I was thinking the same thing just now.”
“So
what to do?”
“How
about I come over to your place tonight, around eight.”
“Hmmm.
I am thinking a change of venue. How about I come over to your place?”
“Umm.
I kinda like the old venue. Why fix it if it ain’t broke, right?”
I
consider insisting, and then hear myself say
“Right,
of course.”
“Are
you sure you’re ready for me?”
“You
know I am always ready for you.”
“That’s
what I like to hear. I’ll see you at eight then.”
“Okay.
Eight it is.”
He
hums a bit of a song before he hangs up. I look at my phone and wonder what
just happened. And then the words of the song he was humming come to me. I don’t wanna brag, but I’ll be the best you
ever had.
I
turn back to my computer and start editing the new girl’s contract. Her name is
Eunice Nakubulwa. I recall the first Eunice I ever encountered in high school
and how I had looked at the name on the class list and wondered why anyone
would call their child that. It sounded like something one could die from. Still
kind of does now. I edit her contract and read it through twice before printing
and taking it to her desk. I show her where to sign and tell her to take it to
HR and give it to Rachel. I tell her I am sorry I yelled at her, she just
caught me at a bad time is all. She says its fine; we all have our off days. I
tell her it’s no excuse. She says it’s fine.
She seems determined to be cool with it, so I let it go.
I
replay the phone conversation in my head. I try to think of other ways it could
possibly have gone. I come up empty. I think of other conversations that follow
inevitable patterns. My mother is convinced that at thirty two, I am seven
years past my sell by date. The
countdown is on to my thirty fifth birthday when I will be a completely lost
cause. She has long given up on the idea of a wedding and just wants grand
children. These days on the rare occasions I happen to be in the same room with
her, she skims over the pleasantries before getting to the main point. ‘I don’t
understand (cue sad shake of the head and mournful voice), what’s the problem?’
My father has had two strokes in the past two years and is convinced he will
not survive a third. His approach is a little different. ‘My child, if I die
before your wedding, my soul will not make it to heaven.’ At least he still
believes there will be a wedding. It just has to happen before his third
stroke. I wonder how they would feel if
they knew about me getting laid tonight. They would not approve of my choice,
but I think they are past the point where that matters. They would look at the
bright side. Mum might think, ‘At least she knows how babies are made, we can
rule that out as a problem.’ Dad might
think, ‘Well he’s a man and she knows him, there might be a wedding soon.’
Thinking
of conversations with my parents is pulling me back down into a funk. I don’t
want to yell at any more people today. I focus on the warm glow of anticipation
that slowly works its way up through my body, and resist the urge to do a
little jig of my own (in your face, pink lipped halo haired lady). Tonight it’s
going down. I know. I know. I know. I should put a stop to it and take back my
head space and all that. And I will. Just not tonight. Tonight I will be
touched by hands that touch. And get lost in eyes that invite and dare and
promise all at once. And flowers? There’s an unoccupied bit of land just a
stone’s throw away from my house where I have seen some beautiful wild flowers.
I can always pick them fresh and put them in my empty wine bottle with the
water…. Oh, hell, who am I kidding? I’ll just live without flowers. They are
not oxygen. Or water. And I can buy my
own chocolate.
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Doreen Anyango is a Ugandan fiction writer who resides Kampala. She writes to try and find answers to life's big questions and to make sense of the world around her.
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