Something went wrong that Christmas night.
We danced heartily at the party, without a care in the world. In my mind, at that very moment, there was nothing to it. There was no fun in dancing alone at an African party. I was fresh off the boat, and aside from Mensa, my then-fiancé’s high school friend, who had invited me, I knew nobody. He was pursuing a doctorate and happened to know the Cameroonian couple hosting the party.
It felt too good to finally be surrounded by the noise, the culture, and the food. The air was flooded with popular Nigerian and Ghanaian music, and we all sang along.
I lost track of time and decided to leave around 1 AM. To my surprise, that small city had no buses running after midnight. There were no taxis available, and none of the drivers we called picked up. Joe offered to let me sleep at his place until the next train.
A feeling of hesitation settled in my stomach. Something told me to find anywhere else to lay my head, just not with him. But he had been kind and helpful, especially with the application process that led to the master’s program I had just started that winter semester. I didn’t let my mind wander to the possibilities of what could go wrong. I followed him.
It had snowed earlier; piles of white lined the sidewalks. The streets were quiet, and the air was freezing. We didn’t talk much until he played some highlife music to break the silence.
“People hate it when I play these kinds of songs, but they do something to me, and I can’t help it.”
I was fascinated. He loved highlife music just as much as I did. And Spanish guitar music too! Who on earth still listened to Akompi’s guitar band? But he did. He handed me one of his Bluetooth earbuds and played Black Bra. We sang together as though we had rehearsed for a performance. He knew when the pitch had to go high; I knew when to tone down to bring out the best tune. Just before we reached his place, he played Jorge Paloma’s La Isla Bonita.
We weren’t sleepy. We were still high from the party, and from the idea of finally discovering someone who adored the things you loved…the things no one else seemed to appreciate anymore.
When he said he was being selfish for making us watch his favourite movie, The Count of Monte Cristo, even though he had seen it over a hundred times, I couldn’t agree more. I couldn’t tell him it was my favourite movie too. That I wouldn’t mind watching it again. We couldn’t possibly share the same interests and have the same favourite film!
We sat and watched. Then, as the priest in the film uttered his last words before dying, we said them together:
“I’m a priest, not a saint.”
He paused the movie and turned to me, stunned. It took an awkward five seconds before I admitted it was my favourite too. Spontaneously, his lips reached for mine.
I didn’t resist.
I thought of Joe, of how far we had come, how disappointed he would be if he ever found out. Then I let go sharply.
“Joe…” I mumbled. “I cannot do this. We cannot do this to Joe.”
“I know.” He chuckled, pausing to think. “But you know… neither of us is married. No commitments and all. We share the same interests. And I know is we are attracted to each other. It would be fun, just this once. It’s not like it would be a routine. Or an affair. Just this once.”
He was so eloquent, even with simple words. He was convincing. He seemed sure and certain of many things I couldn’t explain.
I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath.
And did the wrong thing anyway.
We never spoke about it. Not from the moment I left his apartment that early morning. Not when we coincidentally met at a colleague’s wedding. Not even when he came by to see Joe after he finally joined me abroad after we got married. There wasn’t a single eye contact that lasted longer than usual, that hinted at discomfort, that suggested we had shared something unspeakable.
We buried it deep. Down through our guts.
After a bad experience at an Arab salon, where Joe got the funniest haircut of his life, Mensa agreed to shave his hair once a month. He had gone to an all-male boarding school and had learned to cut hair there. Joe would go to him, or he would come to us. They took turns each month, until we found a Togolese barber nearby who spoke a little English. Joe was relieved as he already felt guilty for making Mensa cut his hair for free. And I was relieved too. No more seeing him every now and then. Or at least, not for a very long time.
As uncomfortable as it was for me, I agreed when Joe invited Mensa over for Christmas dinner.
That day, Joe travelled to a nearby town for a quick under-the-radar job that would pay him in cash. The train broke down, delaying his return by an hour.
Mensa arrived before him. There was no way I could send him back. When he walked in, he had the same old look in his eyes. I could have sworn he had erased us from his memory. If he hadn’t, he was an excellent pretender.
I considered speaking about that night. But I decided against it. Better to say nothing at all.
He let himself sink into the couch while I busied myself in the kitchen, scrubbing a burnt pot from the jollof I had made the day before.
I needed the distraction. We were alone for the next couple of minutes, and I feared what could happen. It felt as though the forces of nature conspired to make dishonourable things easy for us both.
I wasn’t wrong, he was standing at the kitchen door, staring at me. He said nothing. Just stared, as though he had a lot to say. As though he regretted what he did. As though he felt ashamed. And yet, a part of me knew if given the chance, he would do it again.
I knew he was following me as I walked to our second bedroom which we had adapted into a study. I knew he was right behind me as I contemplated opening the door. We could do it on the writing desk, or on the three fused sofa I rested in when I needed a break from reading. Slowly, I opened the door, halfway through, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and sharply closed the door, locking it from the inside.
