As one friend's life accelerates, the other is left to watch. The sensual stranger Gilbert and the first taste of love push individual values away. But is the infatuation worth the moral sacrifice?
For almost two weeks now, Matty has been rhapsodizing over Gilbert. She would text or call me, exclaiming over every little thing he did that week, or day or even hour. I hardly see her anymore. When she calls me it’s: “I’m with Gilbert here” and “we might be going there to see this and that.”
They
go to movies, they go to museums, restaurants, Broadway plays, parks - all the
clichéd outings that every new couple that thinks it’s in love does, and with
all the excitement that every new love opens.
I
simply nod whenever Matty’s explaining their adventures to me. I pretend to
care - I must pretend to care – and just listen. Listening is the best one can
do in situations like this. Any criticism, suggestion, or even a question,
anything I say will be suspected and scrutinized and exaggeratingly
interpreted. I must remain silent.
But
I am not a cynic. I do believe in romance. I think if I encounter it – a real,
true romance, if that’s ever possible, like the one Matty thinks she’s enthralled in, I don’t think I’ll budge or shrug it off. But, for
the most part, a lot of these things die pretty quickly and the two people involved will
one day, someday, realize just how stupid and idiotic they were to each other. And how much they probably hate each other. And
besides, aren’t girls now supposed to be better than that?
Matty
is calling me. It’s three in the morning and I can’t sleep. My head is drenched
in too much - caffeine, sugar, TV and insipid pop songs. I see that Matty’s
calling me, and that she has been calling me for the past half hour. I have
eleven missed calls, all from her. She didn’t leave a voicemail.
“Hey!”
“Where
are you?”
“I’m
in bed. What’s wrong?”
“I’ve
been trying to call you for so long. Why didn’t you answer? What are you
doing?” She’s whispering but I can still hear the trembling in her voice. She
starts sobbing now, crying which sounds a bit like laughter, except for its
shrilling deafness.
“What’s
going on?”
“Mat,
what’s the matter?” I ask again, getting up and turning on the light. Ade’s not
here and so I’m by myself for the night, maybe for the week. Perhaps even a
month, who knows this time around with Ade?
Matty
asks if Ade is with me, if anyone’s with me. I tell her I’m by myself and she starts crying again,
then starts talking and sobbing, not saying anything understandable.
She
speaks in short broken sentences, pierced by sudden words like “marriage” and
“God.” She says something about Gilbert, about being in his place and going to
a dinner and then going home. She mentions Gilbert being so nice and sweet -
the word she uses is “romantic,” how romantic he was throughout the night -
making reservations to a very fancy restaurant, buying her a watch, and walking
around the park.
He
began kissing her neck, feverishly, excitedly, and was very much into it, and
she couldn't tell him to stop. She tells me she didn't do anything, couldn't do anything
because he was, you know, so nice and romantic and they were having fun and she
didn't want it all want to stop. By the time he took her to his place he'd already had
her bra unhooked and was nibbling on her chest. Before she knew it she was screaming
loudly, wailing and crying like a kid because it hurt so bad, was so painful,
so much pressure and pull, felt like a grenade was going off inside of her. And the blood - there was blood everywhere, like
dropped wine on an immaculate white carpet. Gilbert kept going, didn't feel a
need to stop, panting and heaving, his inscrutably hard body laying on her, heavier
than a stone. When he finally got off of her she rushed to the bathroom, the
blood still coming, like the first time she saw her period, embarrassed and
grossed by all the blood and the smell emanating from her own
body.
This
time there's no smell, just red water flowing down the shower, and an acute dull
pain of pressure, a pain that's almost stomach sinking.
I
tell Matty to come over, and that she can spend the night so we can talk. But I
don’t see her. I guess
she never showed up, probably thinking I went back to bed and didn’t hear the
bell ring. But knowing Matty she would have called; she would
have rang as many times as possible, and then bang on the door. She would have
done anything to get me to open the door and let her in. Where else could she
go?
I try calling her again and again but she doesn’t answer. She replies to one of my texts, saying she is OK and that everything’s alright and that she’ll be staying with her parents. I tell her I’ll come over after work, but she said it’s fine, she wants to stay home and be by herself.
I
immediately hate Gilbert. I didn’t like him the first time we met, and now hate
him even more; he is the exact kind of man I thought he would be. I knew he didn’t care for Matty, but was taking
advantage of her, and Matty, never used to that much attention from a man,
believed him.
He
has that quality that certain West African men from former French colonies
have: they treat women wonderfully, gorgeously, perhaps more than any other
kind of men. But that's because they also see them as wonderful, gorgeous,
unattainable attained objects, able to lavish and style them as they prefer.
They totter them around in their arms, whispering beautiful nonsense, making
them lose their minds, ensnaring them in their scheme and finally discarding,
donating, them to lesser men, as if they're vintage designer shoes that once
the leather has been torn and the emotional attachment diminished, and your
friends have seen you with them, it's time to look for new ones, much more
expensive, which will match your new watch and glasses.
And
so Gilbert lets Matty be donated to a marriage.
As
a Presbyterian, and a devout one at that, Matty has always considered sex as
what her minister says it is: a union of two bodies in a God-ordained covenant,
for the sake of posterity and longevity.
Ade
and I were convinced that Matty would probably sleep with someone before
marriage. We were certain that she wouldn’t hold up. Even though sex is
different for us, even though we were simply told to not do it, or
better yet think about it, and that it was shrouded in secrecy, our parents
denying its existence – it was all we could think about.
It
embarrassed us. It made us scared. We were nervous and confused about it. We
were told of the pain, the blood, the smell, not to mention the risks of
catching a disease, or worse getting pregnant and having a child, which is
certain to destroy your entire family. And we couldn’t bear the hurt of our
families. Unlike me and Ade, Matty’s never embarrassed about her family and
rarely mocks it. Not even her mother.
Matty’s
mother, Mrs. Alazeih, is just unlike Matty. Every aspect of her life is loud
and big and ample. Heavy and wide, she walks very slowly, usually breathless,
panting from the slightest exertion. She speaks in a strong patois; her voice
is a screech, and sometimes she howls when talking on the phone. She isn't dark
like Matty. Lightening creams have made her face almost yellow but her hands
and feet look burnt, and other areas of her body are splotchy, like an aged
banana.
Matty’s
mother has gotten bigger and bigger every year since I have known her, wider
and stouter since she first brought Matty to our 7th grade class at Francis
Scott Key Middle School. New, obstinate, and determined, Matty had that
attitude that made the other kids afraid of her. She wasn’t afraid to speak her
mind, she wasn’t afraid of her new teachers and especially of her classmates,
and because of that, they – we – left her alone. We’d stare at her, the way she
writes in class, the way she listens to the teachers, actually, unironically,
paying attention, and at lunch the way she eats, slowly, carefully, elegantly.
It
was her mother who introduced us. Mrs. Alazeih, in her peacock clothes, strong
perfume and gold jewelry, with even a gold baby Jesus dropping to her bosom –
she singled me out from the other kids, who were loud and formed into groups. I
was too shy and alone, and I guess she, Mrs. Alazeih, figured my shy gawkiness
would be a good match for Matty’s unlikeable bluntness.
She
enjoys explaining this story to relatives and friends and even to strangers,
taking credit for such a long friendship, and insinuates it whenever she needs
to prove her matchmaking skills. Mrs. Alazeih has never called me directly, not
in the thirteen years I’ve known her. So I think I something is wrong, perhaps
something happened to Matty, or to my parents, or maybe she just wants
something. But returning her missed call, she answered laughing,
yelling and shouting to someone else - her normal conversational tone. She then
tells me how happy she is; the whole family is so very happy that finally her
youngest daughter is getting married…God has answered her prayers, and she can
now rejoice. But oh, the preparations for the wedding, how soon should it be?
And the bridesmaids – what exactly is my size again, she can’t tell whether
I’ve gained more weight or if I’m the same as before. And what about Ade? And I
have a cousin who lives in New Jersey right? Maybe she can participate, to even
it all out. But Ade is so small she can just eyeball her size for her….
Mrs.
Alazeih keeps on talking, more to herself than to me. Someone calls her and,
without saying bye, she hangs up. I didn’t catch most of her babble but only
that Matty’s getting married!
Kombeh Jobe is a fiction writer currently living in Brooklyn, New York. Originally from Gambia, Ms. Jobe is a naturalized American citizen. She is a graduate of Hunter College, where she received her Bachelors of Art degree in English Literature. She loves food, good movies, books, and speaking “GooMoo” with her three-month old nephew.
This is a serial, fictional narrative by Kombeh Jobe. This series will continue and a new, additional page will be posted Saturday, June 2nd, by the author.
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