The few friends I have think I am a b#%ch but I don’t care what people think because about me anymore because when the man who filled my life with goodness stopped –goodness that made me sing whenever I come back into the house after our evening out in his chic car–I expected that the rhythm of life will alter; I expected that the world will stop and hurt with me.
In those early days when our love shone pure and gold, I made sure people watched me glow throughout those days of gifts and dates; of peppering pictures of strange and familiar and alluring food on Snapchat; chicken so well-fried so well-spiced so that, instead of eating, it makes one long to make love to it. The gifts, my God! They were most incredible: I have seen elegant abayas and kimonos but not from Dubai, the city of the future where dollars go to rub against pounds.
Alas, he was a fraud, this man who made promises of love and goodness and marriage to me. I should have known because he never came into the house even when I invited him in. He also never turned off his car engine because he kept his air condition running, and he kept his air condition running because he never lowered his tinted glass, and he never lowered his tinted glass because he didn’t want to be seen and known, and he didn’t want to be seen and known because he was a fraud.
I was young; I was naive. He took away all these love and left me with hate.
Now, people like to talk about hate as if it is some vice that no one should posses. I think not. Hate is just as virtuous as love. In fact, it is impossible to love anything truly without hating some other thing completely.
The reason I am inflicting this upon your poor heart is this: I am a very beautiful lady. Naturally, as a beautiful woman, I hate a lot of things because I love a lot of things. One thing I hate is people telling me I am arrogant for always pointing out I am beautiful.
I would have explained here that I am not bragging whenever I say I am beautiful, but you can go right ahead and make of it what you like; I don’t give a rat’s ass. I have no desire what so ever to come down from my high horse in order to make insecure people feel less insecure. Not my own Husnah!
And another thing I hate: men; how like bees they come to my father’s house on the daily wanting to see me. And these men, some are quit strange. When I am bored I sit beside the window of my room up above spying on them down below: their cars are mostly exotic, but there were the incurable fools who dare the natural order of things and come on foot asking to see me.
And of all these fools, the one I find particularly annoying is the one who calls himself Tanimu –like what kind of all-sought-of-ugly kind of name is that? Even if I were to overlook his poverty-stricken personae, I will wince every time someone calls me Mrs. Tanimu Husnah. Urgh!
Yet he was the most persistent of my wooers, this Tanimu of a thing.
He got my attention when I noticed that he spoke the English language better than my other wooers, and his behavior was most gentlemanly. He told me he is a teacher when one evening I asked him what he does for a living.
“Children believe anything their teachers tell them, so I tell them every day they will become great people if they put in work.”
I was blown away when he added, “If money wasn’t an issue, there is nothing I will rather do.”
My bi#%hy friends laughed when I told them that I am falling for Tanimu, that although he has an ugly name, I am willing to answer it.
To be continued…