by Jewel Daniel
He held her to him. "It's ok. Wheneveryou're ready," he said, kissing her forehead.
Kwabena closed his eyes and sighed. He didn't know who surprised him more, Tamara or himself. He couldn't recall a time when his sexual advances had been rejected. Yet he was surprised by his willingness to wait for her. If this was another time or another woman, he would have been a little more forceful. Not that he would have taken her against her will. He had too much integrity for that. But when he was finished kissing and touching her, she would be begging him to make love to her. However, this was Tamara and for some reason what she thought about him was important.
What is it about Tamara that makes me want to do whatever she asks? He wanted to make love to her more than anything else, but beyond that, he wanted her to want him. He wanted her to need him. He wanted her to love him. You're in love with her Kwabena quickly dismissed that thought. He had never truly been in love with anyone in his life, not even his ex-fiancee. He held Tamara close to him. He didn't ever want to let her go.
It was the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and they were on their way to a party at Kwabena's friend's house, or as Kwabena dubbed it, their last fling before judgment day. His parents were due to arrive the next night and her mother was due on Wednesday of that week. Tonight they were going to forget about the impending stress and enjoy themselves. They were going to party the night away.
Tamara dressed in a pair of fitted black boot-leg jeans and a loose bell-sleeve blouse with molded bra cups and pointed hem that ended below the hips. Her outfit flattered her full figure. A pair of gold hoops and knee boots completed her attire.
She brushed her naturally wavy hair up and added a curly synthetic ponytail. The curls cascaded over her head, framing her face and hiding most of her own hair. Tamara observed herself in the mirror. It didn't look right. She adjusted the ponytail. She sighed as she recalled Kwabena's words: I prefer your natural hair and eyes.
She looked at herself in the mirror again. Tentatively, she reached for the hair extension. Should I? Tamara took a deep breath, debating with herself. It had been so long since she wore her hair natural. As a kid, she hated her hair because it didn't stay braided and beaded as long as Ebony's and Darlene's had. It would unravel and fray within a few hours, so that it always looked unkempt. She recalled when she'd become attached to fake hair. She was in high school and she'd overheard a conversation between Ebony and a boy she'd had a crush on.
"Her weight doesn't bother me. I like girls with a little junk in the trunk, "Tamara heard him say to Ebony. "But she thinks she's white because she has good' hair I don't do coconuts." Later she learned that was the general sentiment of her classmates. They thought she acted white because she had light skin, wavy hair and light brown eyes and took school seriously. The next week she'd gotten her hair braided with extensions. Since then, she'd kept using hair extensions, covering as much of her natural hair as possible.
Tamara reached up and yanked the ponytail from her hair, placing it on the dressing table. Rigorously, she brushed her hair to a shine, highlighting her natural waves. She clipped her hair back in a ponytail and placed a colorful scarf on the end.
"There!" she breathed. To her amazement, it looked beautiful. She felt beautiful.
Removing the colored contacts was a tougher decision. Her mind was in turmoil as she debated aloud whether to use the clear contacts she kept for emergencies. Finally she said to herself, "This is me, take it or leave it!"
With that, she traded her colored contacts for clear ones, revealing her naturally light brown eyes. She decided on no makeup, except lip gloss. As she looked in the mirror, she couldn't help noticing the woman staring back at her was striking, with lovely wavy hair and gorgeous brown eyes. She smiled. Leaving the room, she grabbed the hair extension from the dresser and dropped it into the garbage. That part of her life was over.
As she stepped into the foyer, Kwabena whistled. He couldn't resist running a hand through her soft hair. She was indeed beautiful. The simple hairstyle revealed her full face, giving her an air of elegant sophistication, something he'd never before seen in her.
"You are beautiful just like that," he said, kissing her cheek. "I have no idea why you hide such lovely eyes."
Tamara smiled, gaining confidence in her new look. For a fleeting moment she feared he would dislike it. Now she felt beautiful, thanks to him.
As they walked to the car, she explained, "All my life I've been using my cousins and aunt as the measuring stick for beauty. I wanted to be dark like them, tall like them, have thick hair that I could relax like them, have wide dark brown eyes and long lashes like them. I guess I tried so hard to prove my blackness that I never appreciated my skin tone or eye color. I loved summers because tanning made me a shade darker." Winking up at him, she added, "But someone recently taught me to appreciate God's natural gifts to me. So here I am, all natural, nothing artificial."
He put his arm around her before opening her door for her. "Just how I like you. You are best when you are you."
When they arrived at the party, a big roar went up. The guys, most of whom were Kwabena's friends from various African countries greeted him with loud laughter and teasing. Most of the people were Nigerians, but there were a handful of Ghanaians, Kenyans, Cameroonians and Tanzanians and one from the Republic of Benin. Tamara was the only American in the room.
"Muti, Muti," several greeted patting him on the back and laughing. "This your new girl?"
Kwabena just laughed. It was quite clear that he was used to being the center of attention.
He introduced her to the guys simply as Tamara, with no explanation. Like those at the nightclub they attended a few months back, these fellows accepted her at face value, laughing, teasing and even flirting with her. It was a group of close friends. Most of them were highly educated, some with advanced degrees, who had met in college or graduate school. Most came for college but for one reason or another decided to remain in the U.S.
The air was relaxed and Tamara felt comfortable and confident around them. The women were just as loud as the men. Edebe was there, and much to Tamara's surprise, he greeted her with a hug, saying that any friend of Kwabena was a friend of his. It was then she learned why he only went by his last name. His first name, Zikorachukwudi, was unpronounceable to most Americans. She also learned why he was such a loyal friend to Kwabena, when he told her that Kwabena had literally saved his life. He'd come to this country fleeing political conflict with little money. He needed an operation that he could not afford. Kwabena, in college at that time, used his tuition money to pay for Edebe's surgery, knowing full well Edebe, a cab driver, could not repay him. For Tamara, that was another piece of the puzzle and attested to Kwabena's generosity. Pride filled her heart.
The party swung into full gear. They laughed, talked and danced. At one point, the host of the party, a Tanzanian named Christopher Ngala, challenged Tamara to a Soul Train-style dance off. It was the most fun she'd had in a long time and she had Kwabena to thank.
The only people who seemed aloof and uninvolved were four women sitting on stools at the periphery of the room. With the light atmosphere, Tamara felt comfortable enough to approach them. She sat on a stool next to the girls and asked where they were from. Two of them, who appeared rather shy, smiled and said they were from Ethiopia. Another introduced herself and said she and her friend were from Nigeria. Tamara didn't even dare attempt pronouncing her name. Her friend, whom she referred to as Adeola, a brownskinned graceful beauty, quietly ignored Tamara's attempt at a conversation.
Christopher joined the group. "Beer?" he offered Tamara, handing her a bottle.
"No, thanks," she responded. "I don't drink."
"Against your religion?" Christopher pressed.
"Against good judgment. Alcohol turns me into a nutcase."
Adeola silently observed the conversation, then got up and left in a huff. Her friend followed.
Tamara looked at Christopher. "What's her problem?"
Chri
stopher laughed and said, "It's a case of the fox and the sour grapes."
"What do you mean?"
Edebe joined them, beer in hand. "You don't want to know."
A group of guys came in, and they greeted Kwabena laughing, "Muti man."
Tamara turned to Christopher. "What is Muti?"
Christopher and Edebe both laughed out loud, "Be lieve me, you really don't want to know," Christopher said. "Come on, it's party time. Let's get a dance off going again."
Tamara had the distinct impression that that term had sexual connotations.
Tamara was sweating when she flopped down on a chair against the wall. She and a whole group of people had been dancing to upbeat, high-tempo music. She took a sip of some soda and fanned herself. That's when she realized she hadn't seen Kwabena for a while.
"Where's Ben?" she asked Edebe.
"I don't know, maybe the bathroom or something," he answered vaguely.
"Have you tried the fruit punch yet?" The Nigerian girl with the unpronounceable name approached Tamara.
Tamara shook her head no.
"Well, you've got to try it," she said. "Come on."
Kwabena stood out on the dark cold deck off the kitchen facing a glaring Adeola. "What's your problem?" he asked, frustrated.
"Why did you bring that girl here?" she asked.
"That girl," he said, "is my wife."
"You said it was a green-card marriage," Adeola complained.
"It is," he confirmed.
She took a step closer to him and placed her arms around his neck. "Well, then nothing has to change between us." She kissed him seductively, running a hand down his belly and toward his groin while rubbing her breasts against him.
He pushed her away, glancing furtively over his shoulders as if they were being watched. "We cannot do this!"
She looked hurt. "Why the hell not?"
"I'm married!"
"You didn't say that when you were screaming my name a few weeks ago," she challenged.
"Stop it, Ade. Just stop it now." He regretted ever doing that now. He'd needed a woman, and she was available. A temporary lapse in judgment. "Things are different now."
She looked up at him through long thick lashes. Her full lips pouted petulantly. "Don't tell me you're sleeping with her? I didn't realize you were into cows."
Anger burned deep within him. He grabbed both her wrists in his large fists, pushing her roughly against the wall. Through clenched teeth he said, "Don't you ever disrespect my wife like that!"
He released her and walked to the far end of the deck in effort to control his anger. Right now he was angry at himself for losing his cool like that. Adeola knew how to get to him; she always did.
She came up behind him, rubbing her body against his. "I'm sorry, Ben," she whispered. She placed one hand on his chest, caressing his nipples. The other she lowered to his groin, feeling him grow hard beneath her caresses. "I know you still want me," she whispered, nibbling on his neck. "No one will have to know."
Kwabena closed his eyes and moved away from her. She definitely knew how to get to him. His body reacted to her the way it always did. She was, after all, a physically attractive woman with a sexy body that she knew how to use. But at this moment, her actions disgusted him.
"No," he said decisively. "Whatever we had is in the past. It's over. It's been over a long time."
He still could not believe he almost married this woman. They'd met in college and had been together while he was in graduate school. A few years ago he had asked her to marry him, more because it was the expected thing than because he was in love with her. He'd even started the official marriage process back home. But then she'd gone off and had an affair with a highranking Nigerian ambassador. Kwabena's status hadn't been high enough for her then. Yes, he'd had his indiscretions in the past. So had she. But this time it was different. She'd flaunted the affair openly. It was only when the ambassador refused to leave his wife for her that she came crawling back. He refused to take her. What happened between them recently was indeed a lapse in judgment.
"I still love you."
He looked at her. This woman had no idea what love was. She knew sex, she knew opportunity, she knew status, but love was foreign to her. If she loved him, she would never have treated him so carelessly.
"You don't love me, Ade. You love Dr. Opoku: the name, accomplishments and the status associated with it. That's why you want me now. No more, Ade. It's over."
He headed for the door.
She had to have the last word. "It won't last. We always return to each other."
He hesitated at the door, looked at her and left.
Tamara opened her eyes. Light was filtering through the bedroom. Her head pounded like a jackhammer drilling into concrete. She rubbed her temples and crawled out of bed. Nausea forced her to run to the bathroom, where she dry heaved over the open toilet. Her headache grew worse. She searched her medicine cabinet for aspirin, but it was devoid of pain killers.
After another round of dry heaves, she dragged her sluggish body to the sink, splashed water on her face and gargled Listerine. She couldn't remember how she got home last night. The last thing she remembered was drinking fruit punch with the Nigerian girl. After that, it was all a blur.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she still had her contacts in. She never slept with her contacts. The scarf was missing from her head, and her hair was a tangled mess. Then she saw the nightgown. It was a baby blue satin shortie with black lace that ended just below her hips and fit tight across her breasts. She'd never worn it before. It was one of those in her nightstand that she'd purchased in preparation for her marriage to Jared. Since then she'd gained a lot of weight.
Then it suddenly hit her. Oh my God! Ben must have put this on me. Did we make love? The thought was frightening.
Her head pounded even more as she put on an old tattered robe and went in search of Ben. She needed to borrow some aspirin from him and find out what happened.
She found him in the exercise room, lying on his back on a bench doing bench presses. He wore only a pair of maroon gym shorts. With every lift he made a guttural sound. Tamara watched his sweat-shined muscles tighten with each lift of the weights. If her head wasn't pounding so much, she might have been turned on.
"Hey," she said shyly as he dropped the weights and sat up. He took a swig of bottled water and observed her unkempt hair and red eyes.
"You look like a ray of sunshine," he teased. "How are you feeling?"
"Like a nuclear bomb went off in my head. Do you have aspirin?"
He walked past her to the bathroom and came back with a bottle of painkillers. She was sitting on his discarded bench when he returned. She downed several and chased it with the bottled water he was drinking. He resumed his workout, lying on the floor doing crunches. Tamara looked at his six-pack abs and wondered why he needed to work out so hard. He already looked like a Nubian god.
"What happened last night?" she asked. "I can't remember a thing."
"You got drunk."
"I didn't have any alcohol," she protested.
"The fruit punch was spiked."
That explained the nausea, the headache and the lack of memory, which was why she never touched alcohol. The first time she drank had been at Auntie Leticia's birthday party when she was in her late teens. She only drank half a beer on a dare from Ebony. Within minutes she had passed out. She'd never been able to live down the stories of her wild actions, which became grander each passing year. She had tried alcohol again on her twenty-first birthday while in college. A half glass of margarita was all it took for more embarrassing stories to generate. Since then she never touched alcohol. Tamara took a deep breath and asked, "How bad was I?"
Kwabena finished his crunches and used the bench she sat on to stretch. He looked at her and saw fear and uncertainty in her eyes. He smiled. "Let's put it this way, everybody now knows that we're married and you're the only twenty-six-
year-old married woman who's still a virgin."
Tamara cringed. "I said that?"
"You weren't too bad. Other than that sexy table-top dancing, you were a decent drunk," he teased.
He could now look back at it and laugh, but last night he was not as amused. When he came inside, he was surprised to see a group of his friends in a circle listening and laughing to Tamara's self-deprecating humor and loose-tongued chatter. After a few minutes, it was obvious she was drunk. Christopher assured him that she only had fruit punch.
Kwabena tasted the fruit punch. "Who spiked the punch?" he demanded. Christopher and Edebe looked at each other and gave vague answers. Kwabena got angry. "Who spiked the damn punch?"
"Come on, Ben, you know it's not uncommon for someone to spike the punch at a party. Let's not make a big deal of it."
"Just answer me."
"Adeola," Edebe finally answered.
"And I guess her best friend offered Tamara the punch, right?" he asked. They nodded.
He heard a loud roar of laughter and looked around. Tamara was on the table dancing seductively. He got angry at the leering men watching his wife. He stopped the music and got Tamara off the table.
"Dance with me, baby," she purred, gyrating her hips suggestively. He took her from the party. The minute she stepped out of the car, she'd thrown up on herself. He lifted her upstairs and held her head over the toilet as she puked her guts out. By the time he'd removed her clothes and wiped her with a washcloth, she had passed out.
Tamara's headache was pounding but she needed to know. "Did we ... did we do ...you know... it?"
Kwabena almost laughed at her discomfort discussing something as natural as sex. "No," he answered. "I don't take advantage of drunken women. When we make love, I want you to be wide awake and actively participating." He paused, then added with a slow, sexy smile, "And believe me, when we make love, you will remember every detail."