Beautiful People
Photo: Shane
A day before her first semester examinations, she visited the psychologist to clear her mind of the pain the breakup with her boyfriend caused her. It was there she met them for the first time. They were a person, a single person. They were handsome, at the same time beautiful. They had long hair and were pear-shaped. They were seated in the lobby waiting for their turn with the psychologist.
She sat beside them and said hello to them. They smiled and said hello to her too.
Their smile lightened her mood. For weeks now, she had not felt this way. There was something in their smile that lingered—the simplicity and the innocence of it, the ubiquity and the contagiousness of it. She smiled back at them, her first smile since the breakup. She wanted to thank them for making her smile, but she was not the type that easily talked to strangers. Notwithstanding, she felt she knew them from her former life, the former life in which she thought herself a belle who broke lots of men’s hearts.
The psychologist called her name. As she was about to enter, they told her it was nice meeting her. Their voice was as soft as their smile. Flattered, she smiled and went into the psychologist’s office.
That was the last time they both saw each other that semester.
* * *
They met again in the middle of the next semester at the postgraduate students’ cafeteria. They saw her first. They took their food to her table where she was sitting, eating, listening to “Bibanke” on her headphones, alone. She was still nursing the breakup with her boyfriend. When they greeted her and sat down facing her, she reciprocated their greeting with a smile and removed the headphones.
Smiling, they asked her what she was listening to. She wondered how a smile could exhume someone from limbo. At the same time, she knew the potency of such a smile and how it could put someone in trouble. Their smile reminded her of a woman, and the woman had put her in trouble.
She told them what she was listening to. They said it was a sad song and asked why she was listening to it. At first, it was a simple question asked by a concerned stranger. But as she tried to answer, she realised it was a probe on her personality, her fears. She wondered how a song could encapsulate the totality of her life.
Apart from the psychologist, she had not told anyone about her life and relationship problems—how it was her fault that her boyfriend left her, how she went crazy when she learnt her ex-boyfriend was engaged to his new girlfriend. She had seen him and his new girlfriend on his Facebook page, before he unfriended her on Facebook, and envied them to the point suicide was almost the only way to escape it.
She could have been his fiancée. She had cried holding a bottle of insecticide, contemplating whether to drink it or not. She had wanted to hurt him but could not because he was kind. She had wanted to hurt his girlfriend but could not because she could not find any reason to. So, she vented her anger on his apartment that was once her home; she smashed the glass doors and windows with stones. She did not regret it even when he threatened to arrest her and even when he obtained a restraining order against her.
Now, they wanted to know why she was listening to the song. She looked at them as they drank their Pepsi with that smile that could move mountains. Their smile moved her mountains. She succumbed and told them everything.
She told them how she met him, how they fell in love within one week, how they shared his apartment for three months, how he started talking about marriage and she told him she was not ready, how he caught her with another woman in his bed. She told him it was a one-time thing, but he did not believe her. She told him it would not happen again, but he did not care. She told him she would marry him right away if he asked again. He went crazy and threw her out of his apartment.
“That’s it,” she sighed.
“Interesting story,” they said.
She chuckled. She wondered what part of her life was interesting—at least, interesting in an interesting way. She understood that grief and sadness were interesting to spectators, but lately, she had tried to be a spectator of her own life and even that was depressing.
“There’s nothing interesting about my life.”
“Wait until you hear someone else’s story.”
“I’ve heard them all. Mine is the worst.”
They smiled, the type of smile that mirrored things known but unsaid. They told her that what made a story interesting was that someone really listened. They told her that her story was as beautiful as her face, that her life was as beautiful as her body.
She stared at them as if they were insane. She wanted to tell them that they knew nothing about her life and body, that she was ugly on the outside and messed up in the inside. But the way they talked to her with sincerity and attention melted every doubt she had about herself.
“I love your story and the braveness with which you shared it,” they said. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of in your life.”
She turned around to check if they were talking to someone else. She was surprised that a stranger could say such things about her. Yet, she was moved to see a stranger believe in her more than she believed in herself. She developed an interest in them.
“You look perfect. Why’re you seeing a psychologist?”
They suddenly became gloomy. Before she could apologise for asking the question, they stood up and left without looking back.
* * *
Two weeks later, they met her again at the psychologist’s office as they were about to leave. She avoided their eyes. Today, their smile was of no consequence. When her session was over, she was surprised to see them sitting in the lobby, reading a magazine. She did not know if they were there waiting for her or just there reading. As she headed towards the exit, they followed her.
They followed her outside, under the scorching sun, calling out to her. She pretended as if they did not exist, doubling her gait.
“I’m sorry about the other day.”
“The position of their body on the bed was an art. How they had made life and death so poetic and meaningful. ”
“Go away.”
“I understand. But, we need to talk.”
“To hell with you.” She faced them. “I told you about my life which I’m not comfortable telling people about; then, you ditched me.”
“I’m ready . . . I’m ready to tell you about myself.”
Three minutes later, she was sitting opposite them in a cafeteria where everybody was eating and drinking and watching television, except both of them.
“You hurt me so much.”
“I left because I didn’t want to hurt myself, not you.”
“How?”
This was the part of their everyday life that made them not to like people much. They had not closely talked to anyone like this for a long time, not until she came along and made them want to go outside themselves. It was the scariest thing to do—to let people into their life and later get blown away like a flame in the wind.
He did it to them. He knew who they were, and he made them love him with all their heart. He made them believe he loved the specialness of their body. They went the lengths of the world for him, but he ended their eight-month relationship because people found out what they were and mocked him for it.
After he left, they sought love in strange places and people. While they were still recuperating from the breakup, they hooked up with a professor and it went bad too.
Six months ago, they befriended a foreign woman who was researching queer realities in multicultural communities. From being her research assistant, they become intimate. As time went by, they realised they were becoming more of an object to her than lovers. They broke off the relationship. The woman travelled back to her country with a degree and stories to tell about bodies like theirs, while they suffered heartbreak and the recurring thoughts of ending everything.
The problem was that they did not know whether it was their body that was making them sick or the things done to their body.
“I’m bipolar. You know what that means?”
She nodded, slowly.
They shook their head and tittered. They doubted if she really knew what that was. She would not know it until she lived it. They told her it made them want to live for one moment and the other moment they want to end everything. They told her it meant they had attempted to end it three times, this year only.
“Sad,” she said.
“It’s not sad because you listened with understanding.”
She understood, but not everything. She looked at them and wondered where those charming smiles had gone. Was she not observant enough? How could she not have seen beyond the surface of their feature and beauty? She closely looked at them, almost craning her neck in the process.
“You . . . nonbinary?”
They slowly nodded.
This was something they seldom talked about. Even though their thesis was on nonbinary-gender profiling in selected communities, they acted as if they were researching other people, people different from them.
The first day they met her in the psychologist office was the day a man proposed to pay them just to see their body. They had sunk into depression and had to seek counselling to avoid doing something crazy to themselves. That day, it was not only the counselling that buoyed them. The sight of her beautiful face did some of the healing.
They told her this, and she laughed, truly laughed.
“You are beautiful too,” she said.
“Beautiful or handsome or both?”
“I see more of your beautifulness than your handsomeness,” she said.
“I see nothing of such about me. Just a person fighting many battles.”
“We’ll fight and win the battles together.”
They smiled. They felt good being around her.
She assured them that she knew what it felt to be them, that there was nothing to be ashamed of about their body. She told them that her research was on the analysis of mental illness in contemporary literary fictions and that she was writing a memoir about her mental deposition.
“Would I be in it?” they asked. “Any title for it yet?”
She told them they would be in it, a great part of it. But, the title was the part that made her uncomfortable. The thought of compressing her life into a book title scared her. Everything scared her.
“Are you scared,” she asked them.
They smiled and nodded.
“About what?”
They were scared of being used and dumped. They were tired of waking most mornings contemplating whether to end everything or not. They were tired of medications and counselling sessions. They were scared of their reflections in the mirror that they sometimes broke their mirror. They were scared of her too, but they did not tell her that.
“Are you scared too?” they asked.
She nodded, almost in tears.
“About what?”
“About you leaving me again.”
* * *
They were both in the library researching their respective projects. For three months now, both of them had been frequenting the library, sitting at the same spot and leaving when almost everybody had left. A library staff once told both of them that the library was not a private residence.
She was in the English department; they were in the Institute of African Studies. She told them that in her former life she practised traditional religion and that was why God was punishing her with illnesses and sorrow. They laughed and told her they did not believe in religion or former lives, that once they died that was all. She was finding it difficult to believe some people did not believe in former lives. She wanted to tell them it was possible she had met them in her former life, but she succeeded in holding her tongue.
She changed the topic to poetry. They hated poetry because their secondary school literature teacher hated them because of what they were.
“Really?”
“Yes. She said I was cursed,” they said. “That I’m no different from a bat.”
“Damn her.”
“Damn her too.”
She laughed. They laughed too, even louder. Their laughter attracted eyes to them. Their eyes caught a familiar lady staring at them with scorn. They and the lady once contested for a faculty position some months ago, and the only way the lady could win was by exposing their identity, leaving them depressed for months.
They stood up, packed up their things and headed for the door. She followed behind them. They told her they were not comfortable inside the library anymore. She had learnt not to ask certain questions. She wrapped her hands around their shoulder, and they left together.
Outside, it was dark, and it was raining heavily as if God was throwing rocks on the roof. As she was contemplating how both of them would fit into her small umbrella, someone walked up to her from behind.
“Hey,” she said to him.
“Hey,” he replied. “It’s been a while.”
“Yes,” she said. “Meet my friend.”
He looked at them without looking at them. “I’ve heard so many things about your friend. I can’t believe you chose someone like this over me. I didn’t know you’re like this.”
She flared and punched him in the face. They held her back as she was about to throw another punch at him.
“What!” he stumbled backwards.
“Serves you right,” she yelled at him. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”
“Because of this . . . this person you call your friend?”
She made a beeline for his stomach, but they held her tight. “You’re dead. You’re fucking dead if I lay my hands on you,” she fumed.
“Go screw your life,” he said and walked back into the library.
They freed her and walked into the rain. She followed them and covered both of them with the umbrella. They pushed her away and increased their pace. She covered them again. They pushed her away again.
“What is wrong with you?” she yelled at them.
“Don’t fight for me again.”
“I can’t let that pig talk to you like that.”
“My battles are my battles. I may win or lose them.”
They were both soaked now. She had learnt not to argue with them, not to pressure them. Most times, there were things that did not have to be said or done for them to be happy.
She closed the umbrella and walked up to them. She wrapped her hand around their waist without saying a word. Their body was trembling, and their face was wet with rain and tears. She hated to see them cry. At the same time, she was happy she punched someone because of them.
The night had engulfed both of them, and the silence between them, as they walked side-by-side, was as deafening as the rain.
“I love you.”
They said nothing. They were both in their apartment now. As they opened the door, they forced themselves to believe it was the rain that made them not to hear what she said. Or were they hallucinating again? They reached for their medicine cabinet and swallowed some pills. They were shivering from the cold. They lay their wet body on the bed and closed their eyes.
They loved how the pills made them feel. Sometimes, they took an overdose to feel super good. They closed their eyes tighter, tears flooding their face, not sure of how they were feeling now.
“I love you.”
“I don’t know,” they sobbed. “You keep saying that.”
“I’m sorry about what happened in the library. It won’t happen again.”
“I’ve my problems,” they cried. “They’re not yours.”
“Then, what’s my role in your life?”
They throw a pillow at her and buried their head into the other one. She was beginning to cry too. With them, she had understood the essence of gentleness. She had realised that when she hurt them, she hurt herself too.
The last time they quarrelled was when she did not properly flush during her period. They had flared. They hated blood. Filth nauseated them. They had told her she nauseated them. She had told them it was her blood, not filth, not shit. She had to wash the toilet and disinfect the whole apartment before they calmed down.
They were still shivering and crying. She walked up to them, caressing their long hair and their shoulders. They recoiled from her. She caressed their shoulders down to their back than back to their shoulders again. They stopped crying. She gently lifted their face from the pillow and kissed them. They protested. She kissed them again. They pulled away from her and entered the bathroom.
She could hear the shower at its maximum. She removed her wet clothes and joined them in the bathroom.
“I want to bath only,” they said.
“You love it when we bath together.”
They backed her. She reduced the force of the shower, turned them around and fondled their shoulders. They took two steps backwards. She moved closer and hugged them.
“Are you still mad at me?”
“I don’t know.”
She kissed them and fumbled their breasts that were bigger and softer than hers. She always told them their body was a miracle. When she lowered herself and took their erection in her mouth, they shuddered and exploded on her chest.
* * *
A day before their project defence, they woke into a cold morning, shivering and coughing. They were both in her hostel room. Her roommate had travelled for the semester holiday, so she assembled the two small beds into one big one, big enough to contain both of them. They were not shivering because of the cold, but because they were nervous about the defence. She told them not to worry, that they would perform well.
Performance was not the problem; their problem was the content of their thesis. They had travelled far and near sampling the lives and the humanity of people like them. There was a part of them in their thesis, a part of them they would prefer remained in the dark. She had read it and said it read more like a memoir. They were afraid of how people would react when they read it. Would the examiner decipher who they were through the pages of their thesis? If the examiner asked what motivated them to conduct such research, what would they say?
“Do you think I did the right project?”
“Yes, and you did it well.”
“Then why am I scared?”
“It’ll pass. You’ll be fine.”
Few minutes later, wrapped in her arms, they fell asleep. The rhythm of their heart on her chest was palliative. This was one of the few sleepovers they had both enjoyed. There were nights when it seemed the demons in both of them were competing for attention. There were days they would both shout and fight and break things. She remained on the bed for another twenty minutes savouring their heartbeat.
Her phone rang. It was probably her mother. Her mother would love to know when she would be coming back home. She was not ready to go home. There were many things wrong with her life, many things to fix. She did not want to go home the same spelt, broken child who always disappointed her parents.
She reached for her phone. It was her father. She went outside to talk to him because she did not want to wake them. The call was quick and unsettling. Her father had told her mother about her relationship with her lover. Her mother could not handle it. Her mother’s blood pressure rose, and she was at the risk of having a stroke. Her mother was in a hospital and needed to see her urgently.
She should have seen this coming. When her boyfriend chased her out of his apartment, he had called her parents and told them everything. Her father, even though he was clergy, did not judge her. Her mother had wished she could beat the devil out of her for doing such a thing. If she was not an only child, her mother would have disowned her.
The last time she visited her parents, the first thing her mother asked was whether she had found a man for marriage. She told her she was still searching. Her mother doubted her. She told her the next time she visited she should bring a man along with her, a God-fearing man like her father. But her father already knew about her current relationship with her lover.
She had told her father that she loved them, that she did not know where it would lead, but she loved them. Her father had told her that he did not have the right to legislate on her love affairs but advised she married a proper man, and soon. She had wanted to ask him what he meant by “a proper man”, but she let it pass.
The cold morning breeze blew across her face and jolted her back to the present.
She entered the room and saw them silently praying on their knees. She was not sure she had seen them pray before. She was the one who prayed loud prayers, sometimes in tongues.
She wanted to ask them if they were praying because of the defence, instead, she joined them in prayer, this time as silent as she could be, praying to God to heal her mother and make her understand her love for them.
By the time she finished praying, they were seated on the bed. She told them she would be visiting her mother that day but would come back the next day before their defence.
“Hope there’s no problem?”
“She’s in the hospital.”
“I’m sorry. Is it something serious?”
“Not really. She’ll be fine.”
They patted her shoulders and lay back on the bed. She did not tell them they were the reason her mother was in the hospital. She wondered why certain people could not tolerate both of them and what they both had. Her father understood. But why did he tell her mother? Was it out of spite or concern? Was he losing faith in her finding a proper man?
* * *
Three hours later, she was seated beside her mother in the hospital. Her father had just left to give them space to talk. It took her mother three minutes to break the silence, in tears.
“I blame your father for the way your life has turned out.”
“Why?”
“He should’ve cast out the demons in you instead of supporting you all this while.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Everything is wrong with a woman in love with,” her mother sobbed, “with what I don’t know how to explain.”
“It’s love. I can’t explain it too.”
“You need more prayers than psychologists. You need total deliverance.”
She said nothing. Her mother was crying loudly now. What did she need total deliverance from? She had been relatively happy and normal since she met them. She wanted to tell her mother this but thought better of it. She had not gotten the chance to talk with her father since she arrived, but she could tell he was not happy too.
She held her mother’s hand and told her she loved her. Her mother needed grandchildren. She told her she would give her grandchildren. Her mother said she needed grandchildren from a real man. She said nothing.
“You’ve to choose between me and your lover.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Choose me, I live. Choose your lover, I die.”
“This’s ridiculous.”
“Go and think about it.”
* * *
“They told her that her story was as beautiful as her face, that her life was as beautiful as her body.”
Her trip from the hospital to the campus was a haunting one. For her, travelling was an art. But today, she did not notice the potholes and the roadside scenery. Before this visit, it had been six months since she travelled home. Home seemed like a distant place in time. It was not the home she used to run around naked as a child. It was not the home her mother used to plait her hair in, telling her she was the most beautiful girl in the world. It was not the home her father used to read her children adventure books, telling her she could be anything she wanted to be. She tried as much as she could to make it the home she once loved, but her current reality bared its teeth.
The campus seemed like an unfamiliar place too. It smelled of loneliness. She walked along a lonely street, with lonely trees and a lonely owl moping at her. She could hear her own footsteps, which sounded strange to her. The breeze rattled the trees and it sounded like distant voices. Was her mother talking to her? Was her mother still crying? Was it her father? Was he judging her now? Was it them? Were they praying again?
Tears cascaded from her cheeks. She recited the serenity prayer in her mind and cried. The psychologist said the serenity prayer had saved a lot of lives. She wondered how such a mundane prayer could save lives. Yet, she recited it, almost every day, as if her life depended on it. Sometimes, they recited it too. They said the prayer helped to prevent them from doing some crazy things. What crazy things? she had asked. They had laughed and said nothing. That was what scared her most—nothing.
* * *
Five minutes later, she was at the sports complex witnessing a hive of activities that made her dizzy. Even in her dizziness, they were not difficult to spot. They were playing tennis with their friend.
She was not into sports. She blogged about books and movies and feminism and #MeToo. She received commendations from her thousands of followers for her advocacy on gender issues, but none of them knew the battles she fought with her identity. Did her followers know about her lover? Did her followers know her family had joined the battle against her, against her lover? Did her followers know her lover had asked her to marry them, and she was thinking about it? Did her followers know?
She watched them laughing and jumping, and for the first time since her return from home, she smiled. She had not seen them like this in weeks. She wanted to walk up to them and thank them for making her smile. At the same time, she wanted to tell them about the news from home. She watched them for a few minutes, turned and headed for their apartment.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, they met her in tears on their doorstep. They sunk on their knees and engulfed her in their embrace. They asked if her mother was fine. She shook her head.
Photo: Mayer Maged
“Are you OK?” they asked.
She disconnected from them and started pacing. After a while, she stopped pacing but could not look at them. She fixed her gaze on the ground, her feet shivering as if the earth was quaking. She waited for them to ask the question again. Perhaps, this time, she would muster the courage to answer. But, they did not.
“I’m not OK,” she managed to say.
They said nothing. She felt terrible. She wanted to ask them how it felt to be OK. She felt it was not her right and privilege to be OK. She felt she needed some validation from them to earn it.
“Should we take a break for a while?” she asked.
It broke her heart that she had to talk to them like that, like a coward who did not know what she wanted.
“Why?”
It was like the question tampered with something in her brain. Many whys were tormenting her now. There was her mother’s why. There was her father’s why. There were other people’s whys. Now, there was their why.
“Let’s go inside and talk.”
“Why?” they repeated.
This time, the tension in their voice almost consumed her. She sunk in front of them and cried. “My mother knows about us. She said I’ve to choose between you and her.”
After what seemed like an eternity, they said, “Choose me.”
“Please.”
“Choose me.”
“She’ll die.”
They stared at their shoes, wetting them with their tears. “Are you leaving me?”
“No. I don’t know what to do.”
“The others dumped me easily. Don’t make it difficult for yourself.”
“Stop.”
“Only you can stop this.”
“Damn you,” she yelled at them. “You think this’s easy for me?”
“Everything is easy for you. Aren’t you the perfect one?”
“Really! Really?” she barked at them. “Why don’t you go to hell and be perfect like me.”
They stood up, eyes red, tears shimmering in their eyes. It was almost dark now, the air thick with cold. They loved the dark. It hid their pain. They had managed for a long time to live, love and survive in it. They had loved her with their darkness and their imperfection. They had loved her more than they loved themselves. When she told them she loved them, what had she expected, if not their fears and illnesses and everything they both had in common that only darkness could protect?
They looked her straight in the eye, searching for everything they had both shared but the darkness could not let them see They turned away from her and walked straight in the night.
She called them and called them, but they did not answer. She slowly peeled her knees from the ground, sat on the doorstep and cried.
* * *
“Oh my God!”
She staggered and fell as she entered her room. It was dark, but the blazing ceiling bulb illuminated the room. Right there on the cold floor, her mind was dark like the darkness leaking in through the windows. She tried to move, but could not. She tried to scream, but her tongue was heavy. Her eyes were playing tricks on her again.
She should have known better. She should have seen this coming. When they left her crying on their doorstep, she thought they had gone to a friend’s house or had retired to their favourite quiet place where they usually called the psychologist from.
She tried to get up, but her body protested. She wished their medications were within reach. She was not sure they knew she was bipolar too, that she sometimes took their medications too. She doubted if they knew she told the psychologist of their intention of marrying her and how that scared her so much. She was not sure if they knew she loved them so much that she was still thinking about their marriage proposal.
After crying and pondering her life on their doorstep, she had wanted to talk to them about a lot of things, things they seldom talked about, things that had consumed both of them for a long time. At the same time, she wanted to explain to them that she needed a break to clear her head of clutter.
But here they were on her bed.
“Son of a bitch, why did you do this to me?” She staggered to her feet and headed towards them. “Why did I meet you in the first place? Why did I know you?”
Their eyes were open, staring at her. They were naked, facing up, the way they usually slept. She checked their pulse, their heartbeat, their eyes.
“Coward!” she yelled at them, shaking them. “So, this’s it? Why do it now?”
When they said they were afraid of doing something crazy, was this what they meant? She was crazy too. She was capable of doing crazy things too. But, since they came into her life, even with her fears and illusions, she decided to be less crazy. They made her want to live, want to love. Why did they not fight this battle? Why did they not allow her to fight this battle with them?
At her bed, she fell and stood again. She looked at them, trembling with fear and rage. “You should’ve ended it before we met,” she cried, shaking them again. “Why do it now I needed you most?”
Her eyes caught a note beside them. She picked the note, scanned it and blacked out. In her subconsciousness, she rewound time. She could see them walking inside her room, crying for a few minutes, writing the note, removing their clothes and then ending everything.
When she regained consciousness, she read the note:
My only original sin was my body
I’ve purged myself with what’s yours
You’re free now I’ve won our battles
Live into the space I left behind
The note slipped from her quivering hand as she fell and sunk into the darkest depth of her mind. She tried standing up but relapsed. She struck her head on the floor and screamed. In her cloudy mind, the note kept resonating, haunting her. She read somewhere that at the verge of death, everything becomes clear. Was it not clear to them that she loved them, that their battles were her battles?
She staggered to her feet, pain tearing through her body. She muttered things between sobs, things she could not understand. She held her stomach with one hand and shook them with the other hand.
“I love, I love your body,” she screamed. “Didn’t you know that? Didn’t I tell you this often?”
She hugged them and buried her face in their breasts. She tried lifting them, but their weight dragged both of them down. She imagined what the space they left behind looked like. She had been in that dark hole full of betrayals and nightmares. They came into her life and made her make sense of her life. How could they end it and expect her to be free? Freedom was a word she did not understand, something that existed around the periphery of her illusions.
She watched them and cried some more. She envied what they had now. Freedom. Peace. The position of their body on the bed was an art. How they had made life and death so poetic and meaningful. Perhaps, ending it meant starting something new. They had won their battles, not hers. Her battles were hers to win or loss.
Her eyes caught a bottle of insecticide beside them. The bottle was open and its content was remaining. They had both shared almost everything together. Did they want to share the insecticide with her too? She should have ended it with the insecticide a long time ago before she met them. She should have thrown it away when she could not end everything with it.
She thought this was how she ended it in her former life. She thought God had a way of punishing her with this kind of life. She had known beginnings and endings, a lot of complicated beginnings and unpredictable endings.
Was this how they ended it in their former life too? Was she the reason they did it in their former life? Was she there when they did it in their former life? It did not matter anymore. They had ended it with what was hers.
Beside them, what was hers was still there. She realised the space they left behind for her was a space to be lived in by both of them in another life. She took what was hers and lay next to them, facing the ceiling. She wrapped their hands around herself and kissed them.
The night was eerily peaceful. She needed that peace too.
She inserted the neck of the bottle into her mouth and waited.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kingsley Alumona is a geologist and a reporter from Delta State, Nigeria. He has a BSc in Geology from the University of Nigeria and an MSc in Applied Geophysics from the University of Ibadan. He works at the Nigerian Tribune newspaper. His works have appeared in the 2018 African Book Club Anthology, Kalahari Review, Nthanda Review, TUCK magazine, Brittle Paper, Daily Trust, Nigerian Tribune, The Nation, The Independent, The Vanguard, Business Day, This Day, New Telegraph and The Sun newspapers. You can reach him on Facebook: @kingsly.alumona.1
