By Doreen Akello Download pdf epub html
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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