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“HI, CLAY? SARAH HERE.” I hadn’t seen Sarah, my former colleague who taught music, since I had left the teaching job. We were friends on social media but we almost never posted anything personal so neither of us was aware of what the other was doing.
“Hey girl. Long time. What you up to?’
“Boy, I’m trying to finish my thesis...”
“Still?” It seemed as though my former colleague had been working on her PhD in Cultural Studies – the name the university gave to the discipline whenever the subject material a candidate was proposing defied classification – forever.
“I should be done next year about this time, and then I will be free as a bird.”
“So you’re going to leave the noble profession and do what?”
“Not entirely. I want to see if I can get a teaching position at one of the universities abroad.”
We chatted some more about how my new job was going, about her ex-boyfriend, about how she was just off of men until she became Dr. Sarah Miller, about her ailing grandparents, and then we got down to the real reason for her call.
“Clay, I have a friend on campus who has a friend who is looking for a decent Christian man who...”
I broke out in laughter.
“What are you laughing at?”
“I tried that already, Sarah, the set up, and it does not work. You should not believe all you see on TV.”
“But my friend swore that this girl, Laura is her name, is very nice.”
“I’ll bet.”
“You don’t even want to meet her? I have her phone number and e-mail.” And then I told her about my date with Belinda and how it had turned out to be a debacle. “Each person is different,” she insisted.
“Here’s what,” I said in compromise. “Arrange a little party or something, don’t tell this girl about me so there will be no pressure, and I’ll meet her. If I like her enough I’ll take it from there.”
Sarah considered it and, realizing that was the only way I was going to agree to meet Laura, she conceded. So here I was going out on what I felt sure was going to be another disaster.
Laura. She sounded snooty. And early childhood education? Hmmm. She must love children. She was thirty. And still single? That was not a good sign for a woman. Plus, she owned her own home and car. Great, I thought. A feminist or worse – a daddy’s girl.
And she was looking for a Christian man. Hmm. Maybe she was an old battle axe – a woman who was tired of running around with every guy on every football, basketball and cricket team and was now looking to settle down with a good decent man, a safe man, a man who would not go astray. I had misgivings about Christian women; I was around them every Sunday morning and they just did not impress me. Plus there were the incidents surrounding my arrival at the Pentecostal church years before that still made me cynical about Christian women today.
I had grown up Catholic but as I got older I started a spiritual search that some people embark on later in life. I, always the oddball among my peers, wanted to get to know God in a way that was more than merely academic. I was looking for a mystical experience of sorts and I was not getting the answers to my questions in the Roman Catholic Church.
There was much talk of the Charismatic movement at that time, and it certainly sounded like a powerful move of God that I wanted for my own life, but it never manifested in my parish – or any other parish I knew of. My discussions with my mentors at the church left me disillusioned and unfilled. So, I left.
It was during my freshman year at university that I reunited with one of my classmates from high school who had the reputation of being a Bible pusher back then, and who was still into God and Jesus when we crossed paths at the cafeteria.
God must have meant business that afternoon for I soon found myself soaking in everything he had to tell me about his experience at his Pentecostal church. The invitation to visit his church was still on his tongue when I accepted.
It was different from what I was used to: no rituals, no vain repetitions, and no guile. Instead there was vibrancy, and spontaneity, and a genuineness that put me at ease. I was told that I needed to get saved, was told how to, was taught about a life that pleases God, was taught principles of spiritual warfare and everything I needed to live a life that would be rewarded in the afterlife. I went to church on Sunday mornings and afternoons, and yet I thirsted for more.
I started attending the young adults’ meeting on Friday nights where I got to know my peers. They embraced me without question and life could not have been any better. I enjoyed the company of Ramona and Rachel, easily the most popular young women in the group. They were beautiful, sang in the choir and as back-up for one of the church’s many soloists, did church readings or announcements, and when they raised their hands in worship to God, it was as if the angels themselves had come to earth.
I became fast friends with the young ladies and within two months of being there, I was taken into their confidence. If I had any hopes of starting any romance with one of them they quickly vanished, for they treated me like one of the girls.
“I’ve been thinking,” Ramona casually mentioned to me one night while we were out having ice-cream after the Friday night service. “If God meant for us to stay virgins until we got married, then maybe he meant for us to marry early.”
“I think that Mary was about sixteen when she married Joseph, so you may be on to something there.”
“So many people are putting off marriage for the sake of their careers. I wonder what they do when they feel the urge.”
That was a rhetorical question as far as I was concerned. I had no idea where Ramona was heading with this; I waited patiently.
“Have you ever done it, Clay?”
“Done what?” I played dumb. She propped her chin with her hands and looked me straight in the eyes, daring me to lie to her. I put down the cup of cherry-vanilla ice-cream. “I’ve had some close calls, but I’ve never had intercourse.”
“How close?”
“When I was a kid, a girl gave me a blow job and in primary school my girlfriend sucked on me like a vacuum cleaner.”
“You look like you didn’t enjoy it.”
“My mother caught me in the first case.”
She burst out laughing, laying aside all decorum, causing one or two heads to look in our direction. “You’re serious?”
I nodded and continued eating my ice-cream. She stared at me as if trying to read my mind. Ramona had mischief on her mind for in that moment she became coquettish and played with the cup in front of her as if she had lost all interest in satisfying her sweet craving which, only fifteen minutes before, had to be indulged.
“What if you had the opportunity to do it now; would you?”
I savored some more ice-cream a long time before I responded. What exactly was she asking me?
“Doesn’t the Bible say that fornication is a sin?”
“I wasn’t talking about fornication.”
We made the trip home in an awkward silence. I wanted to ask her more, but I was afraid that this young lady, someone whom I respected immensely, was somehow not what everybody thought of her. Her phone call later that night confirmed my suspicion.
“As far as I know, Clay, fornication refers to sexual intercourse. I’ve not had sexual intercourse with anybody, and I don’t plan to until I get married.”
“Why do I feel that you have done some things though?”
“I don’t regret anything that I have done. What I did was good and with someone I loved.”
“Loved? So he’s out of the picture now?”
“You should be studying law, Mr. Powers. Good night.”
“Please, don’t hang up, Ramona. I want to hear what you have to say. Please. I don’t mean to sound like...” I fished for a word.
“A religious, judgmental backside?”
“A bigot.”
“Make yourself comfortable; bring out the popcorn; this will be quite a story.”
And so she launched into her tale. She had been dating a young man from the church for two years and on their anniversary, as the minions of hell conspired to have it, she was at home alone so she invited him over. The first time was short since the experience was a new one for both of them. He sat on the edge of the bed and, slowly, she pulled down his underwear, not in a seductive sort of way but more like she was still making up her mind about what she wanted to do. He was erect and large, she said. She started to kiss his penis and to lick it and he groaned.
I was getting hard myself as she described what she had done to her boyfriend. I imagined that she was doing the same to me as I lay on my bed. Was this woman messing with my mind?
She continued to stimulate her boyfriend until he pushed her back just before squirting his semen on himself; then it was his turn to satisfy her.
I could not believe that this same Ramona was the girl who was among the worship leaders on a Sunday morning. Part of me hoped that she was relating this story because she wanted to do the same to me.
Her boyfriend, who remained nameless in our conversation, gently laid her down on her blue sheets, removed her red lace underwear that she had gotten for the special occasion and parted her legs. What he did with his mouth amazed her. She had never known that such carnal thrills awaited her in marriage, she said.
If Ramona could have seen me rolling on my bed, clutching my penis, she probably would have stopped her story even before she had started. She had no idea what she was doing to me.
When no words came from me she asked, “Are you still there, Clay?”
“Yes, yes,” I quickly managed. “How often did you and your boyfriend do this kind of thing?”
“It’s very natural, Clay. Don’t make it sound like it isn’t.”
“I’m sorry. I –”
“We did it about five times before we broke up. The last time he insisted we try the sixty-nine.”
There was a pause, maybe grief over the end of the affair, or maybe just a pause for me to ask a question.
“Why did you guys break up?”
“The relationship seemed to be only about sex after that and I wanted more. So I ended it.”
Once her confession was over, Ramona seemed to lose interest in further conversation and we said good night. But I had trouble falling asleep for images of Ramona and me continued to play in my mind. Days crawled by and thoughts of what she had done crowded my mind. I felt sick to my stomach as I thought of her mouth filled with a giant, black penis. I wanted to throw up.
When we met after that, it was like nothing had happened. Ramona greeted me with her usual hug and she continued to praise the Lord from the pews and from the platform as if she were caught up in the third heaven.
“Ramona,” I said one night as we strolled home.
“It was a great sermon,” she said giddily.
My mind was on less spiritual matters. “That conversation we had,” I faltered. “I was wondering if I can come across by your house sometime when your parents are not home.”
“Whatever for, Clay Powers?” she asked, not missing a step.
I was now convinced that this was the wrong time for this conversation. I should have listened to my gut but it was too late to pretend that I had more noble thoughts in mind.
“Afternoon delights?” I said lightly, trying to pull myself out of the quicksand I had stepped in. She grew silent and quickened her pace. “It’s just that since you told me that story, well, I was wondering why.”
“Maybe because I was trying to clear my conscience. I thought I was confiding in a friend.”
“I’m sorry.” I really was. “I misunderstood.”
“What kind of girl do you think I am anyway?”
One who obeys the letter of the law but not the spirit of it, I wanted to say. I couldn’t be left feeling like the only fool that night.
“Forgive me?” I asked when we got to her gate. My shoulders were slouched and my head was practically resting on my chest.
“Small thing,” she shrugged, but had very little to say to me after that.
Yes, some of those Christian women were good actresses. They always made sure that there was no cleavage on display to cause their brothers to stumble. However the fact that black women had so much junk in the trunk that fitted pants would cause their brother not only to fall but to break his neck seemed to escape them.
I had seen too many of those ladies transform as soon as they got a man. They suddenly got too haughty to mingle with common folk, too busy to volunteer for anything at church, and the halo that they once wore so brightly for all the world to see usually dropped so low down that it choked them.
I was not one of those men who were going to church to look for a woman. No way. I congregated with the saints of God on a weekly basis because I needed some spiritual balance and church was the best place I knew to find it – sometimes anyway.
*
THE PLACE SARAH CHOSE was her home. The event was a celebration of her first national musical production in association with the students of my former school. The production had been a resounding success. The parent-teacher association and the alumni had marketed aggressively, the corporate sponsors had been generous and the media unusually kind.
It was a fantastic concert as children, many of whom I had previously taught, sang Sarah’s songs about King Carnival being dead, and they danced the traditional bélé and other folk dances, and fought stick fights, and did the limbo, and breathed fire. I was impressed that Sarah had used so much of our culture to bring across her message to our young people: to put aside the times of extravagant fun and merriment, of wanton revelry and promiscuity that were increasingly becoming the norm in our society and to focus on a better and more productive future for difficult days were ahead.
I was in attendance on the final night of the production and Sarah was delirious when I went to congratulate her backstage. In her humble, selfless way she thanked me and then in a casual manner that belied her true intentions introduced me to the group around her.
My heart stopped momentarily at the mention of the name Laura. She was not what I had imagined: she was tall, attractively lean like someone who took care of herself, with a beautiful face that carried no trace of arrogance, and a voice like olive oil flowing down my head. She was of East Indian descent.
“Nice to meet you, Laura,” I said taking her soft hand, and it fitted perfectly in mine. She smiled like a woman who had finally been introduced to her crush.
I was in love. That was what I had always hoped for – for sparks to fly, lighting up the darkest night when I met the woman I was meant to meet. There would be plenty of time to get to know her afterwards, but chemistry came first.
How could I be in love with her? It was as if all the issues I had with East Indian women disappeared. Did these things really not matter or would the belle of the ball revert to a servant in rags when the clock struck midnight? Maybe they were right; love knows no boundaries.
Laura and I did have chemistry, I soon discovered. Sarah’s celebration was an afternoon of relaxing conversation and Sarah’s other expertise – a dinner of curry: paratha roti, duck, potato, channa, pumpkin and mango.
“That man was a fool to let you go.” I complimented her cooking as I licked the curry off my fingers. I opted to use my fingers to eat like I had seen in traditional Indian homes. I had mastered the skill. “I won’t let a girl get away from me if she can cook this good.”
“You’re one of those men who think cooking is woman’s work?” Her eyes were merry with mischief.
“Not at all. I don’t have a problem cooking if my wife doesn’t want to cook – or even if she is not as good at it as I am.” The four ladies at the table smiled and immediately distracted themselves with their drinks. I was eager for some chauvinistic banter but they did not take the bait. “But she must do the ironing,” I added. They did not yield to the blatant provocation.
We retired to the living room where I was paired with Laura for a game of Pictionary. Neither Laura nor I could draw to save our lives so raucous laughter erupted from the group whenever one of us was trying to decipher what the other was drawing. We emerged as losers from the contest but we were the happiest losers anyone had ever seen.
I owe The Parker Brothers so much for creating the Pictionary game. Laura and I had a sense of ease as we fell over each other rolling with laughter as if we had been friends from way back in our mothers’ wombs. She fell on my shoulder when I, in exasperation, guessed some ridiculous answer to her drawings; her touch was familiar.
On the odd occasion when I actually drew something that she guessed correctly, I hugged her and she did not shrink from my touch. She smelled good – her fragrance was fruity and I knew that I wanted to know more about this woman who was removing some of my prejudices against East Indian women.
When Sarah’s celebratory group parted company that night, Laura and I exchanged phone numbers. We courted for a year before I popped the question of marriage but I had already decided on our very first meeting that I was going to marry her. I was sure that Laura felt the same way I did.
I had heard that men are like turtles: we only stick our head out when we’re sure that it won’t get chopped off. Maybe that’s true; I expected Laura to accept my proposal of marriage when I asked but she said, “I will have to think about it.”
Days passed – nervous days – when I tried to appear normal but I was clearly going out of my mind. My last thoughts before dropping off to sleep were of Laura. I woke up to thoughts of her on mornings and I dreamed of her in the in-between times. I had happy dreams of the good times we had enjoyed and I reasoned that this was a good omen – and then I fell into despair when I recalled that my dreams usually contradicted my reality.
Besides, Laura and I had our share of arguments: we argued about philosophical things such as the way Muslims often protest violently when someone criticizes their religion or the prophet Mohammed; we argued about the U.S. position with regard to Israel and we argued about whether it was necessary for the Americans to meddle in the affairs of so many nations. Life moved on as normal after those arguments but when we argued about personal things time stood still for me.
Laura hurt my feelings on one occasion when she said, in jest she claimed, that she did not want me to buy her lunch and that I could keep my money in my wallet. On an ordinary day I would have bantered with her, but on the day in question I went into my little cave to quietly nurse my wounds. Even though Laura pleaded with me to talk with her, to forgive her, I did not budge. After a night of being distraught, I called her as soon as I was sure she was up and we worked it out.
I hurt her when I chose not to go to the Special Olympics with her. I just could not bear to see differently-abled children competing. She accepted my reasoning until the games were over.
“Clay, that was important to me and I felt you should have been there too. That’s what a relationship is about,” she scolded. “It means that sometimes you have to make compromises for the people you care about.” And she just let it go. I admired her for that; she did not accuse me, she did not try to lay a guilt trip on me, she did not demand anything.
“I am so sorry for being selfish.”
She smiled. “I know.”
I was blissful. I had caught the eye and heart of someone without keeping my hair in dreadlocks, without living in a gym; I did not have to throw money around as if I was growing it in my backyard and I did not have to drive a fancy car. Laura loved me for who I was and I happened to think that I was a damn good catch.
Laura was everything I had hoped for in a woman – everything – and I was sure that there was still more to be discovered, both good and bad. She was gorgeous, and though Rie thought that I was shallow for making that a priority on my wife-shopping list, it was just something we had agreed to disagree on. It was not like Laura was going to be a trophy wife; she was well-educated and had plans of opening her own pre-school.
We shared similar spiritual beliefs and that was important to me. I was convinced that spiritual roots are essential for the holistic development of a child. Laura felt that the maximum security prison on our island would not be so populated if the inmates had experienced some spiritual balance while they were growing up.
Laura was at home in the kitchen. The first time she invited me to meet her family she impressed me: roasted lamb with mashed potatoes and vegetables. Dessert was a homemade ice-box cake. I did not want to leave the table but I had to mind my manners lest her parents thought that I was a pig. That night I fell in love with Laura all over again. I was convinced of the truth of the old adage: the key to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
When we spoke, hypothetically, about life together, we agreed that Laura would do the fancy meals (Sundays, entertaining, holidays) while I would do the more mundane dishes. Thankfully, there is at least one public holiday every month so I found myself looking forward to her culinary masterpieces. She would also do the ironing while I would do pretty much all the other chores. That worked well for me since I was accustomed to doing everything myself except for the ironing which I paid someone to do.
As I got to know Laura, I fell more in love with her inner person. She was a confident and capable person, and because of this she always sought to empower people. She had a true love for humankind and this encouraged her to reach out to others – especially to those less fortunate than herself. She could be the life of the party when she needed to be, but she was also content to remain quietly in the background. Most of all she was at peace in her own skin.
Laura’s independence was something I admired; she was not needy or clinging. If I did something that hurt her, she never played games with me but let me know in no uncertain terms what I had done to offend her, how she felt, and what she wanted. Prior to meeting her, my usual way of dealing with someone who had hurt me was to withdraw and let them figure out the reason for the cold front pointed in their direction. But she taught me otherwise and I liked that.
I would never admit it to anyone, but I did not think that I deserved Laura. Yet I was not about to leave her for some Joe Schmo who thought that he was more deserving. I was just glad that the Almighty had taken notice of me and was rewarding me for my effort to stay chaste – somewhat chaste – until he was ready for me.
“Will you marry me?” I had asked her, quite simply, while we were taking a break from a video shoot. Laura had come along with me to see how I spent my days. She fitted in well with everyone, and seemed to be enjoying herself when I asked for help at times.
She smiled coquettishly at me. “I’ll think about it.”
Her answer finally came when we were looking at a chick flick that she wanted us to see – something about a man, a woman and dogs. When the movie climaxed and the starlet said “Yes” to her suitor, Laura whispered “Yes” to me. I squeezed her and we sat in the cinema, enjoying the moment, thinking of our future together, until all the credits had rolled.
