Illicit

Perfectly imperfect. Just like seventeen years ago. She gazed at me with those lopsided lips of hers that she hated but I’d sworn was her most attractive feature. She looked at me now just like she had looked at me then. With adoration. And want.

I, on the other hand, was no different than a man. I feasted shamelessly on the oily sheen of her skin, no doubt the same kind of cocoa butter she’d used then, and the meticulous black lining of her large almond-shaped eyes. Her eyes were a light gray, but I’d already read in the magazine when she switched her medicated glasses for contacts. Her sun dress flowed majestically around her, the colourful splashes of pink and purple complementing her already goddess-like features. She was perfect. Just like that day. The day it all crumbled.

The Church had since emptied of its members. The stragglers left were those in the Sanctuary Unit, who from time to time, would sweep the same spot just beside me. She sat across me at the other end. Her hat was huge and constantly slipped down her face, shielding her already bespectacled eyes. I made the first move to walk up to her and cursed myself for that singular act for nearly two decades. Maybe, if I hadn’t approached her that day...

“Hey, can I sit beside you?” I asked already making myself comfortable beside her.

“Sure,” she said, barely looking up.

“Uhmm...my name is Grace, I’m the Bish —”

She let out a chuckle. “I know who you are, Grace. I don’t think there’s anyone who doesn’t.”

“Oh,” I said, taken aback by her directness, and smarting a little because she still hadn’t lifted up her face. “How come I don’t know who you are, then?”

She looked up then and shrugged. “Maybe you didn’t want to know?”

I wasn’t prepared for how speechless I’d get when she looked up. Her glasses were wired and looked out of place, but I could see her large brown eyes framed with thick, bushy lashes like stars just behind them. She was the most beautiful person I’d ever set my eyes on. My thirteen year old self was confused. And enraptured.

“I gu...guess tha...that’s the case,” I stuttered, physically wincing at how idiotic I probably sounded. The doors opened then, and my chance to redeem myself flew out the window.

“Sharon, let’s go.” I turned to see a tall, gaunt woman walking in front of my Dad. She looked frail, and her wide eyes seemed too large for her oval face. I immediately knew whose mother she was.

Sharon hopped out of her chair and followed her mother, who not-so-gently dragged her along. I hoped she would spare me a second glance but that was not to be. I looked at my Dad who stood beside me. “Daddy, what did she want?”

“Assistance,” he answered absently.

“Doesn’t she have money?” I enquired, unable to keep the concern out of my voice, but Dad merely ruffled my hair and walked back through the doors leading to his office.

I became friends with Sharon. And I guess that’s because a few days after that fateful Sunday, she arrived on my doorstep with her mom, two medium-sized boxes beside them. Dad had employed Sharon’s mom as our live-in house assistant.

I wasn’t supposed to, but every waking moment of my holiday was with Sharon. We laughed and talked for hours and my attraction for her grew in leaps and bounds. I hated myself for it because I knew it was unnatural. There had literally been a Sunday school class dedicated to warning us against the dangers of lesbianism, but there I was, spending the few moments I was not in her company fantasizing about her. I didn't care

The day I confessed my feelings to her, she simply looked at me with bewildered eyes and ran away. I’d already begun panicking, thinking she’d tell her mom who would in turn tell my parents and ruin my life forever, but few minutes later, she came back and gave me a kiss on the lips. That had pretty much sealed the deal. I fell hard and I fell fast. We were careful and we were discreet. It was the best two months of my life.

Until it all crumbled when my Mom walked in on us with hands deep where they shouldn’t have been. We thought they would be too busy entertaining Dad’s Minister friends, and got careless. Too careless. Mom went ballistic, yelling her lungs out while Sharon’s mother rushed into the room, quickly accessed the situation and immediately started giving Sharon what I would describe as the most brutal beating I ever thought I'd see in person. I watched in horror, unable to do anything even as Sharon pleaded with me with her eyes to make it stop.

I looked at my Mom, expecting her own physical retribution. Craving more than anything to feel even a fraction of the pain Sharon was going through, but she merely looked at me, hands covering her lips and tears running down her eyes.

That was the last day I saw Sharon. I don’t know what steps my parents took, but they said not a word to me, and barely two weeks later, I was boarding a flight to Montreal where I would finish my secondary education, and spend the next two decades in Dad’s parting words, “re-evaluating my life.”

Fifteen years of careless hedonism in search of something I couldn't get later, I was back to Nigeria, and looking at the woman who for five long years after that fateful incident, I had pined relentlessly for.

“So, she began,” her voice washing over me like melted butter. “Are you going to say something or what?”

“Uh...uhmm...” I started, smiling sheepishly when she started laughing.

“I see you still stutter.”

“I see you’re still as gorgeous as ever.” I’d regained my voice, and charm too from the looks of it.

She bent her head shyly, but by the time she looked up, the light in her eyes had gone, replaced with a panicky expression. “I’m married, Grace.”

I noticed the ring then. A large, square-cut diamond sitting elegantly on her dainty fingers. “Oh,” I said, a tight knot already forming in my belly. “That’s lovely. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” she said, awkwardly. “What are you doing here, though?”

“It’s a book event,” I bit out. “I’m an author. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, my uhmm...husband owns the organizational.”

Right. I should have known. “Good for you, Sharrie,” calling out the nickname I’d given her back then in an accusatorial manner.

“Yeah,” she replied coldly. “Welcome back. Have a good night.”

I grabbed her hand before she could make a full turn, but she yanked it away immediately, looking around cautiously. “Don’t!” she seethed.

“Please, Sharon,” but she was already walking away. Shoulders back, head held high towards a smiling man at the front of the hall who I assumed was her husband. I hastily left the meet, no longer interested in it. One thing was sure, though. I would talk to Sharon again, and I would get her back if it was the last thing I did. The love of my life wasn’t slipping from my hands the second time.

Jhymi🖤

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