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The first thing I noticed about her was her skin. It was alabaster, smooth like butter and translucent. Her hair, a lustrous brown, sat full-bodied above her collar bone, flirting with her shoulders every time she’d throw her hair back and laugh, which was often.
Sitting in meetings with her at the prominent literary agency where we both worked left me feeling weak. Usually never short of things to say, in her presence, I’d marvel at her ability to drain all quips from my mind, leaving my mouth bone-dry. But I knew the cliché and I refused to succumb to the stereotype of being the young, ambitious 25-year-old who screws the boss.
I’d come out when I was 17 and been disowned by my parents. I’d moved to London and been in and out relationships and casual flings. She was 40 and had been married for 10 years, with three children under the age of 10. The agency we worked for also represented her husband, an esteemed writer, so I knew I absolutely couldn’t go there.
Except one night, I did. I’d been at the company for around two years, working hard to secure advancements for myself all the while struggling to relax around her. But she gave nothing away. No odd winks or lingering favouritism, just an aloof air of power.
Our team were out celebrating a victory signing, when I first felt her eyes on me from across the table. I instantly assumed I must be getting the wrong end of the stick. But several glasses of wine later, my mouth was on hers and she was pushing me against the bathroom wall, as we clumsily tumbled in a stall, fumbling with our belt buckles. How could she go from practically never acknowledging my existence to pouncing on me? I felt vindicated in my feelings for her; there must have been something there all along, she had just been very good at suppressing it. After several swift orgasms in the cubicle, we returned to the table and our unsuspecting cohort of colleagues.
Our relationship gained a momentum of its own and before either of us realised, we were sleeping together every day. Sometimes first thing in the morning before anybody else arrived at the office, sometimes during a quick trip to the loo before nipping to Pret, sometimes once the last person had left for the day and it was just the two of us.
All I wanted was to be with her full-time, and for it to be out in the open that we were together
When we were together it felt electric, my heartbeat thumping furiously. But she was also the manager, the lawyer and the HR at our tiny agency, which was still in its infancy, so everything had to be secret. Six months after our toilet cubicle frisson, we were post-coital and slumped on the office floor after having sex on her desk. While I tucked into slices of Franco Manca pizza she’d ordered on the company account, she held back, glancing at the floor, before blurting out that she loved me. She’d never felt this way before and had finally realised she was gay.
In the office, nothing changed. Both of us swore not to tell anyone else. I dodged questions from friends about my relationship status like bullets - the lies were worth it for the delirium I felt when I was with her.
My boss confided in me the ennui she felt in her marriage. The sexuality she’d neatly packed into a box. She’d been with a woman before; when she masturbated, it was to lesbian porn, and when her husband performed acts on her, she told me the only way she could get aroused was to imagine it was a woman doing those things to her.
When she suggested, out of the blue and six months into our affair, that she was ready to tell our company directors about our relationship, I was secretly thrilled. This meant it was real! She had an inkling our directors already knew and had been mulling it over for a few weeks, she told me. She wanted to be honest with our directors so they could help us to map out how to tell her husband without severing his ties to the business. They took it well, even admitting that we’d had chemistry from the offset. We were finally free to love each other.
Her husband reacted surprisingly well too, suggesting that they enrol in therapy to help both of them exit their long-standing relationship. I took this as my cue to make a commitment and said I would move to the suburbs to be with her and her three children, once her husband had moved out.
To know that I could finally come clean to my worrisome friends felt liberating beyond belief. I didn’t care about sacrificing my youth to move to outer London with a swarm of forty-somethings. All I wanted was to be with her full-time, and for it to be out in the open that we were together.
Except, two weeks after she’d told her husband, I learned that that he hadn’t moved out and neither had she. She texted me to say that she could no longer carry on seeing me. She told me over WhatsApp that it was too overwhelming for her to tell people, to be honest about who she was, and ultimately who I still am. She felt too bludgeoned by people’s expectations of her, too stifled by her shame, and told me that I should live out my youth while it’s still mine. Before I could reply, she’d blocked me.
The lies were worth it for the delirium I felt when I was with her
The next day, she also blocked me on iMessage, Instagram and Twitter, claiming it was best for both of us. Work was strange for a while, as we shuffled past each other, barely acknowledging the other’s existence, let alone what we’d shared. Our company directors feigned ignorance and, obviously, none of our fellow colleagues had known anything at all, meaning I felt increasingly isolated.
On my first day back to the office, I hardly looked up from my desk, intentionally turning my back on the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that surrounded her office and slipped out of the door as soon as the clock struck 6pm. In an attempt to distract myself from work, I began sleeping with an army of women, feeling numbed by a dizzying level of promiscuity in the wake of our split.
This was six months ago. I heard recently that she and her husband were in therapy, working to reconcile and renew their vows and, surprisingly, felt nothing. Then I met somebody new and, as though she had a censor attached to me, my boss unblocked me and texted to ask how I am. I didn’t reply, I don’t need to go back to the secrets and lies, however thrilling they were.
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I was pleasantly surprised when she invited me into the house after I had introduced myself and said I wanted to speak to her. I gaped as she led me into that magnificent compound. I was nervous, confused and at the same time afraid. She excused me for some minutes in order to put her things into the room. I lied to her that I was alright when she asked what I cared for. I was, in fact, very hungry and thirsty, but her very presence was more satisfying to me than a royal banquet. But I was still afraid. What would happen if her father came and asked me what I wanted in the house? Would I be able to tell him? How was I going to start it? Thought after thought came racing through my confused mind like the well fed puppies running about playfully in the compound.
For a moment I forgot my mission and watched the two hairy pets chase each other round the compound. They were of the same size and one could not tell the older one from the younger. Their brightly coloured fur was what differentiated them. One would chase the other to one end of the compound, and as if a well communicated gesture, the fugitive would fall. The superior in this case would pounce on it with its jaws wide open, only to hold it tenderly and playfully. Then after sometime, it would turn and run while the one on the ground would pursue it to the other end of the compound and repeat the same playful fight. It was then that I understood the literal meaning of the Akan proverb: “If you fall me and I also fall for you, we call it play, says the dog.” But would the object of my interest in that house ever fall for me, I thought?
Inside one of the rooms hummed Nigeria's Francis Afunuro's Songs of the Saints. It was my favourite album not because of the originality of the songs but because of the musician's ingenuity. These were popular hymns which had given a good rhythm and the musician's compelling voice made that piece of music spellbinding. I never fail to admire the Nigerians for that. No wonder our music shops and bookshops are filled with their music and books. This very track, which caught my attention so much was entitled, To God Be the Glory. It was usually sung at wedding ceremonies so the rhythm seemed to add some level of urgency to my mission. It calmed me down as I took time to go over the message I had rehearsed a number without times ever since I met her in the library.
When she finally appeared, my heart missed a beat and my mind went blank as never before. She took her seat at the other side of the table, opposite where I sat masking the fear that almost paralyzed me. We introduced ourselves briefly and it was now my turn to say why I was there. It was not an easy task and every vestige of courage seemed to part company with me. Even my throat failed me when I wanted to clear it. She sat still, wearing neither the faintest smile nor a frown. That brief moment of confused silence was like a decade to me. Then I remembered my favourite lines in Nartey Lawe's poem, So Many Rivers to Cross.
I have reached a stage In life, Where, Going forward is perilous Flinching back is cowardice Remaining still is suicidal But I'll persevere! For life without a challenge is worthless.
So I persevered! “Lily,” I called, for that was her name. My voice quivered and faltered. But I persevered. “I know this whole business of my being here may sound very silly, but that is how stupid love can drive even the wisest and most intelligent of men into. I cannot hold it any longer so pardon me if what I'm going to say will hurt you in any way,” I managed to say. I think how I started it did the trick. I had learned this trick of attacking one's glaring weakness in such a seemingly defenseless situation from one crippled cobbler at Kete-Krachi Lake Side called Major. Anytime he picked a quarrel with someone, he would first tell his opponent his (Major's) weakness or pitfalls. “I know that all that you can say about me is that I am a cripple and I'm this or that. What about you?” he would begin and then launch into a tirade of insults. His tongue was as hot as small pepper and no insult from his victim made any impact. So I picked his approach and at the end of the day, I praised myself for a good job well executed. I told her how I felt the very first time I saw her in the library and how thinking about her had enslaved me. Then I told her my intention. My voice was steady and confident. The presentation was coherent, to my utter dismay.
“Hmmm!” she sighed. “You said we met in the library and where you said you stay is quite far from here.”
“Yes,” I said. “How did you get to know my house?” she asked. It was an opportunity I was waiting for and now that she gave it generously without knowing. I seized it and used it to the fullest. Prolonging the conversation itself was more than a privilege but narrating the whole story of how I got to the estate that evening added another weight of credibility to what I had said about my longing for her.
She sighed again, cleared her throat and spoke. “I cannot tell you anything now. Give me some time to ponder over it and get back to you,” she said in a voice that did not give the slightest clue about her stance. I obeyed. What else could I have said? I asked for her number and instead of giving it to me, she took mine and advised that it wouldn't be proper for me to come to the house again.
“Wait until you hear from me,” she said finally. When she led me out of the compound, the sun had already gone to bed at the other end of the Atlantic Ocean. A taxi was returning from the next house and I had to board it. I had exhausted all the money I had, and what was left could only make do with a trotro, and not a taxi. And I knew it. But I stopped the cab and jumped into the back seat and waved Lily. She waved back and for the first time, I noticed a look of surprise in her eyes. As soon as we were out of her sight, I told the taxi driver that I would alight.
“Why, you no dey go again?” he queried in pidgin English. Even though some of them could speak very good English, they preferred to speak pidgin, especially to the young guys. Pidgin English was the latest fad among the youth. Right from the primary school to the university, students spoke it freely and well. While some spoke for the fun of it, others found it as solution to their grammatically handicapped sentences. Pidgin was no longer a preserve of the illiterate and semi-literate.
“Com sit make I carry you go and come,” he urged when I lied to him that I had left something I needed to pick at Lily's place. I had already alighted and was moving away from him. When I insisted I was not getting into the car again, he got the trick and became furious. Such tricks were no news to taxi drivers.
“Idiot!” he insulted. “You think say me I no sabi your plan? You no get money way you dey chase woman for East Legon. The girl you dey walk plus, you think say ebi poor fools like you dem class?” he cursed and hissed bitterly but I paid no attention to him. He drove on and I turned and made for the main road, which was about half a kilometer away.
I went home happier than ever before since I met Lily. I had not achieved my aim yet but for the first time, I had been able to clear my chest. As I lay on my bed that night, I reflected my encounter with her and saw her in my mind's eyes as if she were physically present. I didn't care about any messy impression I might have left in her mind. After all, our elders say where there is no shame, there is no honour. Besides, I had thought seeing her again was beyond the boundaries of my wildest imagination. I also reflected on my chances of winning this precious jewel.
It was at that moment that the reality of what the taxi driver had said dawned on me like day. Was I qualified enough to date that sophisticated young lady? She wasn't an ordinary young lady from an opulent home. She was a medical student who was left with only two years to become a medical doctor, the most respectable job in our part of the world. But from my little encounter with her, she was an exceptional young lady, or so I observed. In all our deliberation, she showed no signs of pride or arrogance. She looked shrewd and sounded very enlightened. No wonder she was reading medicine in the nation's premier university. At a period in the fashion industry when it was a not uncommon for young ladies to walk about practically naked, Lily was an exception, at least for the two times I had seen her.
Beauty wise, she was indescribable. I fed my eyes on her bewitching beauty when we sat facing each other earlier that evening. A once-in-a-life-time opportunity, I termed that encounter. Quite apart from those qualities, there was something about her I did not (and still do not) know. It was a magnetic force of attraction that kept my soul to hers. Even if every other quality of hers was scaled, I'm sure that invisibly invincible force would still hold me to her. But would she ever accept my weird proposal? Another batch of skeptical questions followed this thought.
Why did she decline to give me her number? Why did she have to tell me to keep off her house? Even if she agreed, where would I entertain her? Would she ever come to me after seeing my room? Could I afford to take care of such a high-class lady as the driver rightly said? Monkeys, they say, play according to sizes but that is how crazy love can cause even sensible men to do. I had just finished my first degree in Political Science and had been posted to a remote basic school to teach social studies for my national service. How well positioned was I therefore to handle her? Besides, getting a degree was in a matter of four years, but getting a job could be a decade.
A faint heart, they say, never wins a fair lady so I persevered. I knew my chances were thinner than the edge of a circumcision blade but I took solace in the biblical saying that “the just shall live by faith.” I also prayed. “God, if she is the right person, then let her agree to this proposal.” It never occurred to me that I could be a Mr. Wrong searching for a Mrs. Right. But it was usual. Men never think that way. So I prayed, though with little faith. I always wondered if God ever answers such prayers.
Three barren months had passed since I met her and nothing followed. I called every strange number that flashed me over that period but it was one person or the other, sometimes idiots. Sometimes it was callers who had lost their way but would not wait to hear who was on the line before they started narrating their family problems or gossiping.
Then one evening the call came. It was Lily's call! Credit: Manasseh Azure Awuni [ azureachebe2@yahoo.com ]. The writer is the SRC President of the Ghana Institute of Journalism. This is an excerpt from his unfinished novel “In Love with a Lesbian.” Read more of his works on www.maxighana.com
Development / Accra / Ghana / Africa / Modernghana.com
Author has 244 publications published on ModernGhana. Column: ManassehAzureAwuni
Disclaimer: "The views expressed in this article are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect ModernGhana official position. ModernGhana will not be responsible or liable for any inaccurate or incorrect statements contained in this article."
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