Happy almost after

Happy almost after

A short story by Filemon Iiyambo

I have a few insecurities, I grew up unloved. One of them is my game, or lack thereof. I just can’t get my head around how all these other guys have women bending over backwards for them. Is it magic? Is there a mathematical formula to it? Because I am good at solving all types of mathematical problems. I just don’t get it, I don’t think I’d get it even if it came in a large bag with the word ‘it’ written in large letters. Going out was torture for me, I think my confidence was at an all-time low. School was really killing me. So when my friend Pierre coerced me into agreeing to a rendezvous with his girlfriend and her best friend, I reluctantly agreed.

Two hours into the night I was already regretting my decision. You see, Pierre is into rock and roll. His idea of a night out was dragging me out to a rockers bar, a place that was defined by the scent of cigarettes and strange clothing choices. Pierre’s girlfriend was running late and the company he left me with was about as entertaining as cob of sweet corn. He ran off and left me with two weird guys that looked as though they could mate with a guitar. I’d been in Northern France for all off three and a half months, it was the biggest gamble of my life. After struggling and failing to get a scholarship for my post-graduate studies in South Africa, I was handed an opportunity by a French company. They saw a geek with potential and I saw a chance to get my master’s degree. It was a match made in heaven, until I realized that the workload was going to drive me insane. The French do not think in terms of what is not possible, they think in terms of how much time they need to make it possible.

I sat by the bar, I felt courageous that night so I ordered a whiskey double on the rocks. Alcohol and I were like a prostitute and a frustrated politician, we understood each other and the mutual benefit of respecting one another. I downed my drink as by far the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen sat down next to me. I almost swallowed the last gulp down the wrong pipe. The whiskey felt good though, I felt good inside and it made the winter wind swirling outside a little insignificant. “Salut, why are you sitting by yourself? All alone?” she asked me in French. I tried to hastily assemble a response but the words never left my throat. She must have sensed that her beauty was doing things to me. “All the cute girls are over there!” she said as she pointed to a dingy corner that doubled as a makeshift dance floor. The girls were trying their best to stomach the uncoordinated movements their partners were making. I responded “I wouldn’t know where to start with girls and my dancing sucks. I don’t have any game.” She laughed and said “you can start by buying me a drink.” “What is your poison?” I inquired gleefully. She was firm and crisp in her response. She was going to have whatever I was having, so I ordered two whiskey doubles. The bartender was quick with the drinks, the quickest he had been all night. I had to admit that this girl had beauty that could make men sell their souls at a discount. She had that je ne sais quoi that women who captivate and mystify men continuously emit, and she was emitting a particularly potent dose that evening. Every other man in the establishment looked at me with the green of envy in their eyes, I was the lucky bastard that everyone wanted to be that night. She downed her whiskey in one swift swig of the glass, I replicated and downed mine without blinking. My heart warmed but I knew full well that this time it wasn’t the whiskey.

She asked me where I was from; she looked dumbfounded as I replied “Namibia”. To my surprise, her next sentence was contradictory to her facial expression. It was as though her face was trying to show that it could think independently. “Namibia, home of the Namib desert. I’ve read about it”. I responded “Yes, the huge land mass between Angola and South Africa, bordered by Botswana to the east. Two times bigger than France, Germany and a little bit of Italy put together”. She did not look amused, clearly my little geography lesson insinuated that I thought she was clueless about Namibia. I kept quiet, the next words in our conversation would be hers. She pushed the back of her hand out, with her thumb extended. She then curved the finger under her thumb. And to my disbelief the shape of her hand mirrored that of my homeland, it looked like the map of Namibia.  “I saw a documentary on National geographic, about the Namib Desert and the Okavango Delta” she said, clearly trying to push home the fact that she knew exactly where I came from. “You probably miss home, don’t you?” she asked, with genuine concern in the tone of her voice. The words got stuck in my throat again, all that came out was a croaky “Yes”. I steeled myself, there was no way I was going to be a tortoise in its shell tonight. I smiled at her and said “you are exotic. You’re from Brazil, aren’t you? Close to the Amazon?” Her face did what it had done before. Like it was attempting a coup d’état against her brain. I could not believe those words had come out of my mouth, I did not have a clue what to do next. I was fumbling my lines worse than David Moyes. She replied “yes I am, how you know that puzzles me and is calling me exotic your way of giving me a compliment?” I started to explain to her that the bracelet she was wearing was indigenous to one of the tribes of the Amazon, she was stunned. She wanted to know how I figured it out. I asked her to lean closer. As she did, I smelled her perfume, a sweet flower rich scent. It seduced my nostrils like a young harlot would snare a sugar daddy. I told her that I took a guess and she leaned in even closer. So close that I could feel her breathe, hot against my neck. “Tell me the truth,” she demanded. So I told her the truth. “I Googled it.” I kept my gaze firmly fixed on her; and when she briefly looked away, I secretly Googled the origins of the string bracelet with beads of what look like amethyst. A picture had popped up that looked exactly like the bracelet she had on, they were unique to the Iqoniqua tribe of native Amazonians deep in the jungles of Brazil. She smiled. “You Googled me?” she inquired. I smiled my most devilish of smiles, I was on a roll and I knew it. “I like that you kept your attention on me,” she said. “How can I not, you have the type of beauty that distracts a man from doing anything else.” She giggled, it bought out her plump cheeks. She coyly said “not many men can concentrate on anything other than my breasts or my ass for long enough to allow blood to flow to their brain.” I smiled, trying my best not to get too cocky or overconfident. She had a face that could make an angel envious, with full luscious lips below an African looking nose and eyes that were so deep and alluring that you could lose yourself in them. She was so stunning I struggled to find the appropriate words to describe her.

It turns out that she was Tina’s best friend. Tina was Pierre’s girlfriend. She (Tina’s friend) was a mixed race girl with jet black hair from Brazil; she was a mix of native Indian and Portuguese. She was an environmentalist, she was also doing her master’s degree in France. Geologists and environmentalists have no love for each other, geologists want to get on with it while environmentalists keep finding a reason to stop us because we might potentially damage the environment. The history of the world dictates that in pursuit of wealth and resources, no one has ever listened to those concerned about the environment. But things have changed, those whose resources are being plundered have awoken. Which means environmentalists now have a real purpose, not just sitting around kissing Gorilla’s, chasing Rhino’s and hugging trees. We had being under immense academic pressure in common and she was strangely humorous with her jokes. The stereotype that beautiful women lacked wit and intellect was being butchered. Humour is like lingerie, both make you see a woman in a totally different way. She was impressed with my French, she liked my Franglais. Clearly my melange of French and English did things to her, the same things her beauty did to all men who gazed upon her. “For a guy from an English speaking country to get it after three months is strange.” she said. When I asked how a Portuguese speaker like herself got it, she told me that she’d lived in France for ten years. She was given asylum after a multinational company forcefully removed her tribe from their land so that they could strip mine it for Lead and Copper. To them, profit was more important than preserving nature and its inhabitants. The tribe had fought back with their bows and arrows and this gave the company the perfect excuse to give their squad of mercenaries pretending to be security officers a chance to use their weapons. They used self-defence as an excuse to mow down every villager standing. She survived the shooting and in the aftermath of the violence, a female volunteer from France adopted her. I almost blurted out the fact that it sounded like the storyline from the movie Avatar. In the pursuit of wealth and resources, profit takes precedence over everything. In some cases, it takes precedence over human life.

We downed two more whiskey doubles before she dragged me to the dance floor. I protested, I didn’t want to dance and definitely not to rock and roll. But I tried my level best, me and my two left feet shifted in unison as gracefully as we could. We sat down at the bar after our brief dance, she pulled me close and whispered “you don’t need game, you just need to be yourself. Be genuine, it will draw the kind of women that find you interesting.” She told me that I didn’t need to worry about the words that I could never seem to find, I just needed to use the few that I could find effectively. I almost involuntarily froze. I whispered back to her “I find you interesting as well”. She then whispered a phrase that I had never been on the receiving end of and she stood up. She was a tall and well-contoured woman, her black dress hugged her body and showed off a svelte waist. The dress pulled the attention towards her bosom, but most of all it accentuated her ample behind. The phrase she whispered reverberated in my ear. “Let’s go back to your place.” I got both our jackets and we walked back to my apartment hand in hand. As I closed the door and locked it, she headed to the kitchen to make us coffee. My student apartment had a small kitchen area opposite the bathroom, a wall separated the two from my two desks and the bed. We curled up in bed and drank our coffee.

When the mugs were empty, she took mine and walked from the bed to the table. With her back to me, she called me over. “Come over here, come and help me get me out of this dress.” She said, gesturing with her finger. I might have only ever had sex once, but that was an invitation I would never turn down. The pity sex my ex-girlfriend gave me to cushion the blow of breaking up with me because I was leaving for France was lukewarm to say the least, removing emotional attachment between us made it a dull physical act. I unzipped her dress, she pulled the straps down past her shoulders and freed her arms like a nimble contortionist. As I pulled her dress down, my eyes glanced at the tattoos that ran from her lower back around towards her stomach. They looked odd and ritualistic in nature, though she had her back to me, it was as if she knew I was staring at them. She spoke in whispers. “Take off my dress.” I hesitated. She whispered again “you are staring at my tattoos, aren’t you?” I murmured a response. “Yes.” 

I slid the dress past her thighs. This woman is beautiful, I said aloud to myself. Unwittingly uttering something that I only planned to say in my head. “She is, but I don’t think a man has ever genuinely been sincere about until you of course.” she said, referring to herself in the third person. Her skin was a mix of brownish yellow and mustard, her thighs looked better without the dress. She turned around and grabbed my t-shirt, one hand full of shirt and the other under it mapping the contours of my abdomen. “Lift your arms,” she demanded. She pulled my t-shirt over my head and off my arms. She looked at my scrawny arms, it made me uncomfortable. She clearly noticed and she covered the metre between us and kissed both of my collar bones. Breathing assurance into my ribs, she left a trail of kisses along my torso that at ended at my navel. She made her way back up, returning her lips to mine. As my hands reached to lustfully cup a handful of purple bra, she unhooked my belt and unzipped my jeans. Her hand descended into my boxers and I went into shaking mode. I hadn’t been laid in a while so the sensitive caress of sweaty soft hands gently rubbing me was overwhelming. Her fingers slid around knowing exactly where to go. If I wasn’t at full attention before, I now was. She pulled my jeans to my ankles and I stepped out of them. She unclasped her bra and threw it to the floor to join her dress. Her breasts were larger than I expected, guys love boobs and my eyes were drawn to them like a magnet attracts metal. They were full and plump, her nipples stood at attention like soldiers. “Touch me,” she said, pulling my hands and placing them on her breasts.  I did as I was told, I caressed them as she slid her hands into my boxers again. She whispered to me “I want to fuck your brains out.” She paused slightly and continued, “You’re probably thinking that I’m a slut, like what kind of girl gives it up on the first night?” In truth, she was right. That was exactly the conclusion that I had jumped to. But that’s where the thinking stopped. I then said the dumbest thing I could have ever uttered. “Its fine, we don’t have to do anything that you are not comfortable with” I stupidly said and just like that, she went from being half naked in my arms to cozily covered and comfortable in my sheets. My lack of a ruthlessness nature was biting me in the ass. I have this weird proclivity for silk sheets, an expensive luxury that I indulge in: considering it was the onset of the harsh central European winter. But with central heating, I didn’t need thick heavy blankets. Unless the heating system broke, so I kept one stored in a cupboard opposite the bed. The sheets formed shape around her silhouette, I was busy removing the blanket with my eyes as she made herself at home in my bed.

I was left standing there, with a huge erection pushing at my boxers, she could see the disappointment on my face. I dropped into one of my chairs and just looked at her under my sheets. She looked at my arms and she asked “what do the tattoos on your arms mean?” I’d had my tattoos for all of three months, long enough for me not to pay attention to them anymore. I returned a question with a question out of frustration. “What do yours mean?” She responded “they are tribal markings, all the daughters of the shaman of the tribe get them. My mother was the shaman, the traditional healer of my village. I was supposed to take over from her but fate had other plans.” I reluctantly gave her the answer she had earlier asked for. I told her that all the birds on my right shoulder account for the ten relatives I lost during the war for my country’s liberation. Our homestead was attacked and my parents, grandparents and siblings were shot. My aunt ran away clutching me in her arms, but they shot her down while she ran. She wrapped me in a blanket and threw me into a hole in the ground. They shot her in the head to finish the job and I was discovered by neighbours the next day. A tale most people assume is made up.  “All the birds represent the freedom of death and it reminds me of what I lost.” I said to her.  She asked, “And the cross on your left arm?” Referring to a black cross that covered half of my upper arm.  I replied “My father was a preacher, I got it in his memory”. I realised that we also had losing loved ones at a young age in common. I was a little less frustrated now that we both knew what the ink covering our bodies meant.

She fiddled around and fidgeted a bit and then gave me a naughty smile. She whispered to me “take off your boxers and throw them to me.” My frustration grew and the only reason I took them off was so I could throw them at her. I flung my boxers at her and they connected with her forehead. This made her very angry. “Don’t be so childish!” She then asked “what happened to your erection?” Referring to the flaccid and limp excuse for a penis that I now had. She surprised me, her hand crept out from under the sheets and she threw her panties at me, they hit me flush in the face. In my mind that kind of thing only happened to RnB singers during a steamy concert. She motioned me with her fingers. “Come and get it,” she whispered and boy, was she going to get it. She was going to get all of it. I jumped into bed faster than Usain bolt can run 60 meters, but she turned the tables on me and switched me from being on top of her, to her being on top of me in one swift movement. She might not have looked like it, but she was strong. She looked at me and said “I like you.” I was in such a state of lust and yearning that responding sarcastically was asking too much of my head, I kissed her. “I like you too”, I said.

I reached out to touch her cheek, my hand ended up in her hair. I played with it as she started grinding onto me, leaning forward and then pushing backwards. Every strand of hair on her head was neatly aligned, but after my hand went through them they were as disorganised as a teenage boy’s room. “You look better this way.” I said of her messed up locks. She paid me no attention, she was too occupied using me as her instrument of pleasure. She pushed harder, I started to feel the slickness of her juices as they formed a lubricant between us, eliminating the discomfort of the friction of her rubbing onto my exposed shaft. She knew what she was doing and she had me where she wanted me. I could feel heat rising between us, eventually she had teased enough. Raising her hips, she reached and her fingers located their target. She held me at the base, raising her hips higher. Her hand guided me in, we connected and the warmth made my legs twitch. When she lowered herself onto me, I twisted one way then the other. The sensation was overwhelming. Compared to the rushed and cold nature of my first time, I was having the time of my life. She exhaled, loud and sensually. She glided rhythmically back and forth, she was the boss and I was at her mercy. She leaned back, applying a bit more pressure. I twisted again, at that moment I knew why my gender was obsessed with sex and having as much of it as possible. Then the unexpected happened, I slipped out. Who would have thought, that’s sexual inexperience for you. My first time did not last long enough for that to happen, I didn’t know exactly what to do. So I stupidly apologised. Her face was laced with disappointment as she tried to return me to her hot core, she guided me in again. She lowered herself onto me. I pushed up into her and she leaned back: I slipped out again. My frustration was evident, she calmed me down “Relax sweetie, try to breathe.” She rolled over onto her side. There she lay next to me, my eyes fixed on the ceiling to hide the embarrassment. I finally had a hot girl in my bed and I somehow was having trouble getting it in.

She turned and we looked into each other’s eyes, she asked me “Why are you so nervous?” I shrugged and shook my head from side to side, I replied “I am fine, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She was less than pleased, she gave me a look that translated to “Nigga please!” She chuckled, clearly she saw the funny side of it. “You’re breathing faster than a tired dog, you look like a geek frustrated by a math problem.” She said to me as I attempted to deny the truth. She looked into my eyes, cutting into my façade. It was as if she could see into my soul, I felt exposed. “You would really enjoy it much better if you just relaxed, and I will guide you.” As her hand reached to stroke me, my eyes followed her. She pulled me back. “Uh uh, look at me. Never mind what my hand is doing. Tell me, why you are so nervous?” My first reaction was to tell her that I had no idea what she was on about, but her eyes just tore into me. It was as if she could literally see into me, she knew something was wrong and I owed her an answer. “Stress, fatigue and home sickness,” I said to her, she nodded. Her free hand danced across my cheek, gently tracing a line along my cheek bone. “So we suffer from the same diseases,” she said as I laughed, she had a way of calming me down. So much so that I did not even notice her hand continuing to stroke me, turning up the pressure.

The longer I got lost in the conversation, the more my blood started flowing to the right head. My hands became curious, one hand slowly playing with her nipple. Her breathing became heavy, she exhaled deeper and slower as I flicked my fingers around: teasing her. My other hand rested on her hip, like a coiled viper waiting to strike. I was apprehensive, I didn’t know how she would react to my next move. She looked at me and asked, “Are you going to keep that hand parked on my hip or are you going to grab yourself a handful of ass?” My hand was not going to pass up the opportunity to feel on a great booty. But my mind had something more daring in mind, as I squeezed and caressed, she let out a soft moan. I raised my hand a little, executed a half swing and gave her a firm smack on the bum. Her body stiffened, her reaction an indication of how taken by surprise she was. She looked me in the eye and whispered, “One more, spank me one more time”. I gave her what she desired, raising my hand, executing a half swing and firmly smacking her on the ass. Her body stiffened again, her hand squeezing me so hard that I winced. She turned her head to glance at the hand resting on her hip, whilst my other hand was still busy tickling her nipples. She was right, once I calmed down I began to enjoy it a bit more. We talked and pleasured each another for what seemed like an eternity, then she whispered “I think we’re both ready to finish what we started, don’t you think?” I nodded. She whispered, holding me in her hand “This is the main attraction, stop teasing and give me a show!” I needed no second invitation, I pushed her legs apart. I throbbed, yearning to feel her warmth again. She looked into my eyes, stuttering through her words “I know you have so much left. I want you to give it to me, give it all to me. Until there is nothing left.”

I gently pushed into her and instantly I felt the difference. I understand why the ancients referred to coitus as feeling the warmth of a woman. We were one, together. As corny and cliché as it sounds, the two of us were almost one being. That’s how deep our connection was, she followed my every action. Pulling me onto her with her legs to slow me down if my face gave any signs of approaching the edge too early. No woman wants a five minute man. When I needed to increase the tempo, all she needed to do was whisper it ever so slowly into my ear. I was enjoying her, but not more than she was enjoying me. But eventually I began to tire, I was getting closer and closer to the peak. I could hold it no longer, my eyes just shut involuntarily. Breathing became an effort, for both of us. Gone was the slow rhythmic approach, I was now going at a pace that I knew I couldn’t maintain. I felt tension in my lower body, I pushed even faster and harder. Then it hit me. I exploded, breathing my ecstasy into her neck. Every muscle in my lower body relaxed at the same time, I could not help but groan. Giving to her everything I had left, emptying all into her. I collapsed onto her, using every spare kilojoule of energy left to roll half onto my side and half still on top of her. The top of her head found refuge under my chin. There we lay, her hair matted onto my neck and face. Sweaty and spent, wrapped up in each other and the sheets. A mess of tangled limbs and satisfied yearnings.

She whispered “We didn’t use protection”, I sighed heavily to make her aware of the fact that I knew. Something would have to be done, parenthood wasn’t ready for me. The recklessness of our tryst would argue otherwise. The risk was something we were both aware of “I will get Plan B in the morning,” I said to her. She took a fold of skin from under my ribs and pinched me so hard that it left a bad bruise. She was angry, her reply was steeped in venom. “I can get my own Plan B, what do you take me for!” I refused to justify her anger with an answer, instead I gave her a kiss on the forehead. We held onto each other and savoured that night, those moments were precious because we would never get them back. In the morning we walked into town and had breakfast at a little café, she got the Plan B as well as some vitamin supplements that she took for anaemia too. “How do you tell them apart?” I asked whilst looking at the packets, men are colour blind but I doubt even she would have trouble telling them apart. She was not happy. “I will know,” she replied. I kissed her on the forehead again and she calmed down, I had discovered her weak spot.

The very next day, I found myself at the train station. Doing something that I did not want to do, saying goodbye. She was leaving for Brazil, I hid my disappointment as discretely as I could. Pierre and Tina had tagged along for moral support. “What the heck did you pack in here?” shouted Pierre as he and I struggled to pull her suitcase up the stairs to the train platform. The girls had disappeared to change the ticket, she had missed her train by 10 minutes. So she would have to wait another hour for the next train to Paris. She blamed me and I blamed her, I told her that spending the night at my place would make letting her go nearly impossible. We both overslept, secretly I think we were subconsciously awake but we weren’t quite ready to part yet. We hadn’t gotten enough of each other to last the time we’d have to spend apart. Pierre asked with a smirk on his face, “I see the two of you are getting along quite well. Did you?”. “Did I what?” I asked him, poker face firmly on. “Did you, you know. Did you tap that ass?” I just looked at him, Pierre is the personification of French gentillesse. That’s the kind of question I expect from someone who watches Lil Wayne videos, not him. I didn’t think he had predatory instincts in him, Tina always watched him like a hawk and pulled him around like he was a little Chihuahua. “A gentleman never tells.” I replied, sly and unperturbed.  He laughed, and I joined him. The girls returned and reality dawned. The smiles and laughs were replaced by long goodbye hugs, she didn’t look back as she stepped onto the train: I didn’t want her to. Pierre put his hand on my shoulder. Tina, genuine compassion and concern in her eyes said “Courage, she’ll be back in no time.” Why the heck do environmentalists like going to godforsaken places in the name of research?

That night, sleep was a precious commodity. I drifted in and out for two hours and then I just couldn’t sleep at all. I closed my eyes and immediately her face appeared, I could trace her every contour with my mind. I got up and walked to the kitchen, the bottle of Whiskey that I kept for panic situation moments was still unopened. Up to that moment, it had never been necessary. I poured myself a glass and downed it in one go, my chest warmed. Like the hug she gave me before she left. Looking out of the window I noticed flakes of white swirling then falling, like a plastic bag dancing with the wind. The first snow of winter was falling, the locals usually hinted about the brutality and never ending nature of winter. Having lived all my life in a land where sunshine and warmth was abundant all year, it was something I was not particularly fond of hearing. I pulled out my phone and took a picture, I sent it to her via Facebook. The guy who made the smartphone deserves a special place in heaven. I sat down and just watched the snowflakes. The next thing I knew I woke up to stiffness in my neck and the sound of my phone vibrating on the table, the most annoying sound on earth if you ask me. It was already morning, I was already dreading the long day ahead. I checked my phone and she had sent me a picture of the Rio de Janeiro skyline at night. “Tu me manque,” read the message. As crazy as it seemed, I’d known her less than a week and I felt as though a part of me was missing. The next morning while I was in the lab checking on some samples that I had submitted for analysis, I heard that sound. You know, that sound the computer makes when someone calls you on Skype. Yes, that sound. I literally sprinted the 20 meters to my laptop in a second, okay: maybe it took longer than that. But I dashed and hit the green button like I was trying to win quickest finger first on “Who wants to be a millionaire.” She looked tired, it’s funny how sitting for hours doing nothing on airplanes, buses and trains exhausts human beings. “I miss you terribly, I don’t know why though” she said, stuck between being downright emotional and putting on a brave face. I replied, “I miss you too, haven’t slept much. Your face keeps popping up in my dreams”. She smiled, mission accomplished. She explained that they would fly into the rain forest the next day and trek on foot to her study area. Mobile communication was a fantasy out there. “We have a satellite phone, but it’s for emergencies only”, the sadness in her voice cut into me like the guilt of an unfaithful woman. That was the last time I would hear from her for 4 weeks.

It was the middle of the night, a night that yielded little sleep. Falling asleep had become a frustrating struggle, I couldn’t buy sleep with a blank cheque. The annoying sound of my phone vibrating on the table woke me up. I reached for it, fumbled with the screen and somehow manage to answer. “Hi, I miss you so much”, her voice was strained: even half drunk on sleep I could recognize her voice instantly. I replied “Tu me manque”. She went silent, “I thought the sat phone was for emergencies only?” I asked, throwing in a bit of sarcasm to diffuse the tension. She laughed, “Well, I would say that this constitutes a huge emergency. Don’t you think?” I didn’t argue. We talked for ten minutes, ten of the best minutes that I’d had for weeks. She crammed stories of birds that look like half the rainbow in between tales of encounters with serpents and mosquitoes the size golf balls. I suspected that she slightly exaggerated about the mosquitoes. Saying goodbye this time was the hardest ever, I felt as though I was letting go of a part of me. Anger and sadness swelled inside me like a river in flood, she’d be gone for another four weeks. Four weeks and then she’d be back in my arms, I used that fact to console myself. It made sleeping at night a lot easier and it gave me something to look forward to.

Four weeks later I got a call from a strange number, the dialling code was +55. My mind ran through the possibilities, then I answered the call. “Bom dia, how are you?” It was her. I exhaled so loud that I bet she could hear me on the other side of the line. “Bonsoir, I would be better if you were here,” I said, taking cognisance of the fact that with the time difference it was mid-morning in Rio de Janeiro and early evening in Nancy, Lorraine. “I am back in Rio, I’ll be catching my flight back to France later.” Her voice had never sounded better. She’d been in the Amazon for the better part of Eight weeks doing research on experimental techniques for neutralising acid from mines upstream in river systems downstream. I could sense from her silence that something was up. “Say what you need to say,” I said to her. “I am pregnant, I’ve been having morning sickness for almost two weeks now.” I could sense the fear in her voice. For some reason, I was content. Something was wrong with me because I was supposed to be panicking like high school kid caught cheating on a test. “Did you see a doctor to confirm?” I asked her and she replied “Yes, this morning. I am so sorry.” I asked her what she was apologising for, she explained “I found the Plan B packet in my bag three days ago, I took the wrong pills.” There was silence again. “You can say it, I know you want to.” I hesitated. “Say it, tell me.” She said, so I did as told. “I told you so.” I knew with every cell in my body that it was something I shouldn’t have said. She was now starting to cry, I could hear her trying to keep herself together. I asked her “Why are you crying? We are going to have a baby, this is a blessing.” She did not hesitate, spitting it out faster than my ears could register “You are an idiot!” She continued “But I am happy you are my idiot, I can’t wait to get back to you.” When I met her at the train station, I kissed her on the forehead. It was like that part of the horror movie where the evil spirit is exorcised, I could feel the stress leaving her. I held her tight in my arms, reassuring her that things would be alright. I told her that I did not blame her for anything. I had no real idea of how things were going to pan out, but being optimistic is a family trait. My only living uncle that I knew of always said “You become what you think, so think positively.” Even in the face of great danger, I’ve always held onto hope as though hope was a cup of coffee that I could make in minutes. But deep inside I knew that this could end very badly, I could end up separated from my love and my child. I could lose everything that I never imagined I would have. The temptation was to take the easy way out, Tina suggested to her that having the pregnancy terminated might be an option that would benefit us. I would not hear of it, I was fully aware of the repercussions. She’d told her best friend, just as I had confided in Pierre.  “Be hopeful, always have hope” I said to her every single time things got tough. Together we decided we would have the child. Come hell or high water.

I felt an arm push and violently shake me for a second. “Darling, where did you disappear off to?” she asked. I told her that I was just thinking about the steamy sex we had the first night we met. “The night I begged you not to classify me as a one night stand while were busy having a one night stand?” she sarcastically asked me. “Yes,” I responded, referring to that night.

The same night that our daughter Linea Ndapewa-Omagano was conceived. Yes, as irresponsible as it sounds. I got her pregnant on our first night together. My daughter’s birth was not something I looked at as a burden, but more like I had been given a gift. Which coincidentally is what her name means. But we both got in trouble with our companies. As a citizen, she and my daughter were safe. But I had to do all sorts of pleading with my company and with French immigration to allow me to get a work permit. I was allowed to stay, we argued that breaking up a family would have detrimental effects on the child.  Immigration was sympathetic to our pleas, it helped that Pierre’s dad was well connected with the minister. But I lost my scholarship, the company stated that they couldn’t continue sponsoring me. It would be seen as a sign that they were supporting carelessness. The University offered to pay for the second year of my masters, French gentillesse: but being the best in my class helped. So I went to school during the day and worked to support my family at night. Tina got me a five hour night shift job in a medical lab, Pierre’s dad knew the manager of course. There were advantages to our friendship, Pierre became like a brother to me. To make ends meet we both supported each other. She took a year off from school to look after Ndapewa and did freelance consulting on the side, between that and our social welfare housing grant, we somehow managed to survive. 

We found a way to hold it together, my optimism was sunshine to her cloudy days. Violently moody, stressed and anxious is not a sexy look for any woman, she was not exempted from the rule. But somehow my absent- minded, sarcastic approach to life always made her smile. She said to me once, that I could source a smile from the very depths of a deeply sad state of mind : like a rose growing out of concrete. Being orphaned at a young age does that to you, when you hit an emotional low at a young age you have a greater appreciation of the concept of joy as you grow older. You appreciate things that other kids take for granted, like always having someone there to make you smile. Her smile was the reason my optimism always shone bright, nothing gives me more joy than seeing her smile. I would eventually become a citizen five years later. I didn’t consider myself as a traitor to my own country, my heart will always be in Namibia, but I chose to be happy.

I finished my masters on Ndapewa’s first birthday, almost two years after that night. My daughter is what you’d call a 'tomorrow baby', a mixed race child with more culture and diversity than a soccer world cup. Bella, my exotic girlfriend finished hers on Ndapewa’s second birthday. Coincidence or fate? There was no one more proud of her than I was, Ndapewa kept rambling baby talk every time she saw glances of her mother. Much to the annoyance of a middle aged couple who sat next to us. It had been eight years since the night that Bella and I made our daughter and as I watched Ndapewa play with her two year old brother Anthony, I smiled. I had two beautiful children, a stunning woman and a best-selling book about an African student who meets a beautiful South American girl. Bella wasn’t pleased that I based so much of it on us. But we are an example that good can come from a bad situation, although I don’t encourage anyone to have an unprotected one night stand with an exotic stranger. That would be seen as promoting carelessness as my former sponsors put it.

Bella went to the kitchen with the dishes, she brought back desert. We sat on the couch, Ndapewa had gone AWOL for a while. She came back, holding something behind her back. Bella knew something was up, my daughter and I were looking at each other with smiles. We had agreed to be inconspicuous so that Bella would not suspect anything, but Ndapewa had trouble understanding words that we both couldn’t spell. “Mommy, you know that we love you, right?” said Ndapewa to her mother. Bella was having none of it. “You want something, don’t you?” Ndapewa went down on one knee, she looked at me and back at her mother. Bella’s face turned from surprised to bubbling with excitement as I stood and joined my daughter, I took a knee. Ndapewa handed me the box that she was hiding behind her back and I uttered the words I had been itching to say for eight years. “Isabella Maria Santos Robeiro, marry me.” She looked at me as though the words for her response were already loaded on the tip of her tongue, she paused. I repeated but slightly more polite second time around, “Bella, half of me and mother of my children. Will you marry me?” She looked at me, words escaping her. She asked “What took you so long?” I replied “I’ve had a flower girl for eight years. I was just waiting for the ring bearer,” pointing to Anthony who was blissfully unaware and busied himself by playing with his dinner. “Yes,” she replied. Ndapewa and I looked at each other, she repeated it again. “Yes, I will marry you.” I put the ring slowly onto her finger, it looked pristine. It was simple, silver with amethyst crystals. I raised my hand and Ndapewa returned my gesture. We high fived each other on a job well done, she was truly my daughter. Ndapewa not only inherited my sarcastic humour but had a combination of both our intellect: at times she was too smart for her own good. This was not one of those times, this time she was the best accomplice that chocolate treats and Hello Kitty sneakers can buy. I stood and hugged my fiancée, kissed her on the forehead and I let her take ownership of my chest. It was hers for keeps, anytime she needed to escape from the world: she’d know where to go. Sometimes there is no ‘and they lived happily ever after’ ending, just a happy almost after.