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Writer's pictureCAFTA Co. Writer

A Dance to The End of Love

Written by Wonga Tsalupondo

 

“Why are you even doing this?” I asked Kwame, who stood in-front of me draped in a sable black suit. One couldn’t overlook the fact that the suit was well-fitted; it clung on every part of his body, it accentuated his well-built physique, it was equally queer and manly, but more than anything… it was seductive. Much too seductive for a wedding of a supposedly straight man.


“As you know, my mother is frail. These might even be her last days on Earth. I want her to spend those days happy. Her being happy means seeing me getting married, to a woman. That’s what I gave her today. Happiness,” he said in response, with a voice absent of any boldness, “You should’ve seen her face. There was no disappointment nor disgrace.”


“So that’s what you see when you look at me? Disgrace and disappointment? And for you to put yourself in a situation like this, for someone else’s ephemeral happiness is just madness,” I said, furious. Fuming. Not only because I felt I was being attacked, but because I knew I was losing him to someone else’s hands. Someone less deserving of him.

“Not to mention how you are inflating her ego. It's just beyond me. It's crazy, but who am I, right?” I continued with what would soon be a verbal rampage, should I not be halted, “What you did today was not a role play, Kwame. You got married, you get that, right. So, you basically telling me that you will wait with bated breath for your mom to die, then you divorce the poor bimbo? Do you know how unconscionable that is?”


“That’s the thing... I won’t divorce her or anticipate anyone’s death. I’ll be starting a family with her. I know that would be my mother’s dying wish,” Kwame said.


“Can you hear yourself right now? All I hear is my mother this, my mother that. What the hell?! Are you telling me that at this age you at, your identity is still morphed to your mother’s?” This question, though it was rhetorical, I wanted an answer for it, alas, I knew I wouldn’t get it, because as soon as I’d posed it Kwame’s face kind of glitched. He was piqued by the question. His reaction, I expected, would be to defend himself, but he didn't. I ployed on pushing him against the wall (figuratively so). “Where’s your sense of identity? What do you want? Have you got no b—”


“Listen,” he said, cutting short, “I didn’t come here to be insulted and to fight with you. I don’t want to run around in circles, okay. I came here to make peace with you. This is my life, and this is how I’ve decided to live it. Not everyone is as privileged as you are, not everyone is as shallow and selfish as you are, okay. Some of us operate on a level that is bigger than ourselves.”


“I can’t believe you said that,” I said. I took a moment to catch my breath and to attempt to at least gather myself. I was the one in an uncomfortable position now. I was desolated by the revelations about myself, about the way in which he saw me. Every word he said sent a pang to my heart, it was unbearable.


“Since when is choosing your happiness selfish?” I finally said, “Each person is responsible for their own happiness; no one should be a gatekeeper to anyone’s happiness. And I’m sorry to say this, but your mother failed herself, therefore she failed you too. You being you should have been enough for her. Seeing you happy should have been enough for her. Your happiness shouldn’t have made her feel the opposite. That’s just not right and I don’t know why you can’t see past that. Look at what has come to be - a flipping comedy show. As for privilege... what privilege are you referring to? Privilege to be autonomous? I’m not quite sure what privilege you have next to my name, because as far as I’m concerned neither of my parents gave me the freedom to be me, which is why as soon as I could, I left what I used to call home with nothing but the clothes I wore. Not even a cent to my name. No connections nor relations. I had to start from nothing. Don’t tell me about privilege.”


“Well, I’m sorry. I’ve made my choice and I’m sticking to it - there’s no going back,” he said, his eyes failing to meet mine.


“When will your wakeup call be? When things suddenly go stale and bland between you and the bimbo, and you can no longer see eye to eye? As-if-things-were-sweet-to-begin-with,” I said the last words to myself more than to him, “Why are you even here?” I asked, though I’d already knew the answer to my question."


One thing I’ve learnt, is that scrutinizing someone’s eyes well enough you’ll get all the answers to your questions. Kwame made this process way much easier for me, mainly because I’m familiar with not just his eyes but his countenance too (and due to the fact that he’s bad at lying). But more than anything, his eyes gave it all away. He might not want to admit it to me or himself, but I could tell by the way he looked at me that he still wanted me, still wanted us, and that he regretted his decision, gravely so.


He stiffly walked closer to me, with his hands in his trouser pockets, this tighten the pants even more than it already was. The closer he got, the more nervous I got. Though I was wildly angry at him, I couldn’t resist the temptation of making love to him.


“Dance with me,” he said, reaching his hand out to me.


“But there’s no music,” I said.


“There’s no need,” he said.


We danced for quite some time. There was no music, no guidance, just us gyrating in a synchronized manner.


“Tell me something,” I said, breaking the silence, “I know for sure that when time has grown frail, you will loathe all these years, but I want to know... won't they haunt you?” My voice was surprisingly calmer and soft, loving even, and Kwame mirrored it gracefully. But he was taciturn for quite some time before he spoke again.


“Yes, you're right. I'll loathe them, and they will most probably haunt me, but I’ll cross that bridge once I get there. It’s going to be a long way there and I think by the time I get there - should I get there - I think I'll be better prepared then, for the haunt.”


“I pity you, Kwame, I really do. Peace is not something that you’ll be familiar with, it might be there sporadically, but it's not always going to be your friend. Peace is friends with those who are who they are, being themselves, that is. It’s honestly a shame,” I said.


“Please – don't ruin this moment for me. Let me enjoy it; let me be present in it, without you reminding me of my supposedly doomed future.”


“I'm sorry. But I need to say one more thing...”


“What’s that?”


He lifted his resting head off my shoulder to look at me, I wanted to do the same, but I didn't have the capacity to face the pain that I knew would manifest itself on his face once I have said what I wanted to say. I rested my head even more comfortably on his shoulder and spat out: “I don't want to see you again. This will be the last time you came here.”


“Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye,” he said, placing his head gently back on my shoulder.



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