Because you are married

By Oulele

To tell you about him, I have to tell you about her.

It has always been you, it is still all about you.

I am not fooling myself, this thing is a desperate attempt to change my situation. To write you down, wrestle you out of my imagination and put you in a place where I can only hope to contain you, to finish this.

I sometimes feel like somehow you can hear me calling, the next thing I know I’ll be running into you on the street feigning swag.  In my mind, I will appear unaffected.

Last time I saw you was on the cobbled streets of campus. You of course, saw me before I saw you and you stood smiling, moving to come close. A small gesture towards me felt like gale force winds were sweeping up debris; dust, grit and shards around my soul.

I could barely comprehend what you were saying. Yes, you had married and the news of little ones immediately brought a smile to my face. But in an instance I thought to myself ‘bitch stop smiling she telling you she M-A-R-R-I-E-D .’

I feared my smile betrayed my hurt and fear: all at once I felt the lesbian doomdom my entire family had predicted for me when I chose to come out almost a decade ago. Again I was appalled at myself.

It has not been easy being queer, there has not been a fairy-tale homonormative utopia for this African queer, just what feels like a lot of desperation, competition, loneliness, pain and countless ‘fun’ nights mixed in with a healthy dose of racism and fatphobia.

Yes it is true, there is the shakeable sense of self from knowing and accepting who I know myself to be. #Afroqueer for life.

I am still waiting for my turn.

It all seemed to fade away into nothingness as I was confronted with the married you, the mother of children you, the mother of his children, you.

Na so this thing take rubbish me reach!

I know you noticed that as I returned your smile with pleasantries of my own and retreated away from the reach of your touch, my eyes lingered on the fullness of your lips, the curve of your breasts. Worst of all, I noticed that your eyes flickered with what appeared to be overall happiness and contentment with life.

Since then, I have not stopped wearing that shade of purple.

The early fall winds picked up around us almost as if the universe agreed that our touch was dangerous as I steeled myself as your fingers grazed my hair, almost imperceptibly. I strained myself to feel the luxury of your touch and in so doing exposed myself to be assaulted by your scent. And just like that I was taken back to that first night you let me spend hours between your legs and graced me with the juices of your cum.

I remember your moans and pleas for me to stop which later turned into outright begging for you to let me continue as we lay on drenched sheets. All of this to my mixtape of plantashun boiz, 2face, sound sultan and tony tetulla.

Side note: Do you know that I did not wash those sheets for the entire summer to the shock and dismay of roommate.

Bitter sweet. I was starting to choke.

I jerked my body away from you and moved away stuttering something like “oh I have to get going or…I’ll be late.” As I prepared to continue on my path knowing that you would be heading in the opposite direction, I searched your hands for the ring – I rejoiced in the fact that you were not wearing one. If you chose him, that’s ok? I could live with tasting you from time to time, maybe? Again appalled.

Thankfully, I still do not know how I found the strength and presence of mind to do it but I put one leg in from the other, froze my heart and walked away from you. As I walked, I cried and cursed and prayed for deliverance from homophobia.

Onye kam ga akoro[1]

Nwannem,[2] what good is dignity and pride if it takes me away from you forever?.

Obianuju, in one night you stole my heart and never gave it back. I want it back.

[1] Who will I tell?

[2] sister

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