Step Into Hell With Me

There is a lot to be said for pretending. It can help you escape a multitude of pain. You know exactly what I am talking about. You go to bed one night and, just before you fall asleep, you remember a moment when you were severely embarrassed. You shake your head, abruptly gently, and, in the blink of an eye, you pretend it never happened.

You are safe.

You can start again.

That was the breath he breathed into me. Damien and I had become inseparable since the day he dropped me off at the house. We spent every waking day together, I mean, we had to work together, however, we made every effort to sit next to one another. We ensured group tasks were carried out together.

It may have been the anxiety associated with my friends Lana and Plimmy leaving the country which was causing what some may choose to call "quick attachment". They would be gone soon but at least; I would not have to be on my own. Everything felt just right like - when you feel the satisfaction of using the perfect ply tissue as a reward for not using the public toilets.

“Girl you are just glowing these days,” Plimmy quipped as she trolled through her clothes which lay distressed on the bed, whilst, their counterparts languished in the abyss of the corner of the room. I pushed a few of the clothes further onto the bed and found myself a nesting spot. Her style of packing is as troubled as her taking time to decide on items in a shop. An obedient grey large suitcase lays mouth gaping wide, next to the ever growing heap of clothes. It was a miracle how she managed to squeeze all these clothes into one small room. Her clothes outsize the room so it was not uncommon to often meet their acquaintance.

"A girl can never have enough clothes," was a motto that Plimmy lived by. i longed to learn from her. She picked up a black top from the floor and held it up to her chest.

“What do you think of this one?”

“It is cute,” I confirmed.

“What about – this one,” she picks up a red maxi dress off the floor and hands it over to me.

“This is really long and sexy,” I exclaim. “I can’t pull it off for one second!”

“Woman – you are my height and yes; you can pull it off because you will have lost that stomach. That is the only enemy of progress.” I looked down at my little size 12 belly declaring war for all the sins I had committed. My brothers’ wedding was coming up. What better motivation did I need than to lose some weight and play the part of the 'Grooms’ hot sister'.

“Yea, fair enough. I guess I have at least two months to burn some belly fat.”

“Great! You can have it. I am trying to get rid of some things. I can’t return with everything.” Imagine that, being from Africa, studying a post graduate course and paying it all off, paying off your rent and; having enough spending money that you can afford to leave some clothes purchased in England.

We were used to receiving clothing sent from my aunty in England. that was prior to my curious feet landed in the land we only ever saw on Mr Bean. Occasionally, we would write letters to her requesting dresses or shoes that we had only seen in magazine cut outs and hip hop videos on Channel O. I never dreamt it possible that one would come from Africa not in want of anything but education. Money issues for my friend consisted of lamenting over the price of a handbag, or finding extra cash for a holiday in Dubai. I had not mastered the art of managing school, working, living on a budget and being part of the cool crowd that I could not afford.

Free stuff.

Mummy would be proud. She had the magnetism which draws free things to her. Moving house? She would return with a few cutlery or furniture. It normally piled up on us but hey, it was free.

Giving clothes away? Charity begins at home. Mummy would be sure to know of a child, or a person to whom she could extend the clothes. Sure, she knew someone. What did it matter that they were in Zambia? She knew someone who would be going to Zambia. She could ask them to carry the items as a favour. Never mind that they would have to add the task of hunting the owner down once they are in Zambia, deal with the ever-changing collection times owing to ‘black timing’ and accounting for the items. This, my mother would say, was no trouble as that is what friends and family did for one another. Tell that to the people who eventually began to tire of her request and not take the items and as a good measure to avoid awkwardness, they accidentally on purpose forgot to mention their traveling plans to my mother.

I thought it impressive calling her that night with a list of free items I had been given. Wait till I tell her that some of the dresses and bags were designer. The world will be given the finger and, a sermon on how God provides.

“You see, my father in heaven provides just in time. When I pray, my father answers.” She normally points upwards to indicate the location of her ‘father’. Her eyes beam luminating the dark circles they are encased in. I normally wonder why God refuses her when she presents her request for a husband for me. Perhaps it was too easy, or, my mums request is so specific that God is not sure I would like it!

“So, what is going on with this your Damien?” Plimmy’s voice brings me back to the room.

“I can wear this red dress to my brothers’ wedding,” the dress lies feebly across my lap, waiting for me to determine its fate.

“Heh! My girl – you are out to catch honey and don't think I have not seen you dodge my question. Is this wedding not in Zambia?” I nod sheepishly.

“Are you trying to kill the elders?” she lets out a triumphant giggle and childishly wiggles her hips as though she heard a rumour that she was to be comedian of the year.

“I am not trying to kill the elders, but have you noticed that you and Lana do not even worry about the men in your lives? You cry for two minutes and move on. You say you are walking away, and you actually do!” she laughs out even more dropping to the floor. “Some of us have to add a little extra spice.”

“Spice ne – Spice fyah!” she sits up and looks up at me. “Wahala. It is because you want to piss your aunty off. You know that slit is only for your boo on something like – valentine’s day. Besides, we walk away from men because there are plenty more.”

“You got me – but even so; I cannot deal with the way everything has to be a certain way. If my aunty doesn’t like it, she can do one. Guys seem to only smell your specie no matter many times I try to be like one of you.”

“So not only are you going to give her wahala with this dress, but you are also going to be making some sort of political message?” she asks with a skeptical raise of the eyebrow.

“Better yet – it is the message of her worst enemy the Muzungu that she will take the most issue with.”

“Oh – so there is something to be said about Damien after all?” Plimmy perches on the edge of the bed opposite me and clutches the fur coat from the heap of clothing and hugs it like a bundled-up teddy.

“Why are you so excited?”

“I get it. You no wan carry last with this marriage thing and, if the Muzungu makes you happy, so be it!”

“I will just make her believe that I am with him,” I think of the upcoming Christmas party at work and wonder whether I can pull off the dress by then. Technically I would have worn the dress for only one occasion – in each country. “She will throw a fit when she hears that he is white. I can just hear her saying ‘Awe te Mwambo’”.

“What does that mean?” Plimmy laughs in advance, a token of her faith that what I am about to say is funny.

“It is not tradition. She uses it whenever she disapproves of anything we do.” Fits of laughter fill the room. The rate we were going, we were going to be stand-up comedians in no time. I hold on to these moments like air. For a few minutes, I do not worry about being alone. I stay in the moment. Where I forget all bills, I forget the ticking clock, I pretend I am fine, that I do not the ‘demon of depression’. Lost in the laughter, languished with gifts and my imaginary life dangling in front of me.

Each item packed neatly into the suitcase, rolling with it the longing of love – lost.

I think of Damien. I think of those piercing green eyes and sultry laugh. I think of the undisciplined fringe being swished to the side in the way one moves away the hands of a curious baby. I think of the way he smells of chilli and saffron, beard laced in trails of tobacco which envelope my senses whenever I am around him – even when I am not.

Amidst the banter and the laughter, we share endless plans of keeping in touch. I let Damien hang in the air like a cloud of unspoken words promising exciting future stories.

XoXo PW