Guest Post: A Lilac in Bloom.Wachira John
Today I feature a guest post. The first of its kind on my blog, and this person who wrote it, well, they requested anonymity and I have to honor that. So let’s just name him/her 24 because I like numbers. It’s been some time since I began prodding for an article from 24 and now that I have it, I can tell you that it’s one of those written pieces that force a smile out of you while you read through. The carefully woven and seamless words are just something else (if that’s correct English). Anyhuu, I love it! I hope 24 keeps writing because clearly they’ve got an erudite mind which takes writing to a whole new level.
Guys, meet 24…
A Lilac in Bloom
She had an aura about her. Something; he couldn’t quite put a finger on it but he always had this fuzzy feeling in his stomach whenever she was around. Maybe she served the subtle reminder in his warped life that “it still is a beautiful world” and that when the chickens have gone in to roost, stars would shine. And so he would fret; it had suddenly grown warmer and he had mysteriously began to slur. This he would easily mask off with a cough.
She was vain this one; loved being termed ugly, majorly because it served a constant reminder in a sick sense that she was beautiful. Oh so beautiful; a lilac. And during their random and never enough lunches, in brushing off calling them dates, he would stare at the ridge of her nose, the flaky freckles on her cheeks and sigh e’er so lightly. Her laugh was smooth. You know how Afia Mango (hic) feels on the tongue and you wanna savor it just a little more? It was an ounce smoother, mashed with giggling nuances and the squinting of eyes; a sight.
The conversations in whispers always got the better of him. Her replies came an ounce later than he expected; the tardiness that made her look frail and ethereal, the slight fists she accorded his upper arm to get his attention. He would always cringe, feigning pain while smiling inwardly.
Ow, that hurt!
Did it? Am I to say sorry now? Weakling!
And she would scurry off in an erratic pace, listening for footsteps behind her; his steps. He never followed. Thought he was teaching her forbearance. The nerve of him! She would have her revenge; tarrying to the rendezvous point for a “date.” A puffed up supper, rather. His incessant calls would go unanswered. And when they were, she would whisper in the sweetest voice that always got the better of him, “Patience, grasshopper. I WILL be there.” And he would lower his guard a notch. Staring at nothing in the distant horizon- it would be dark and would literally see nothing- he would listen for the clanking of her wedges. She almost always wore these to their meetings. He never asked why. In his imaginings, he believed they were her feel-good mascot. She was meeting him, for heaven’s sake! Vanity!
And she was almost always late. You know that bittersweet feeling you get when there is a prolonged gratification? When it happens a tad later just as you were about to frown? That. She loved to observe his face during the unuttered tirade when she got there. The smirk- was it, really -turned smile with a heave.
But this time, she would sneak up on him. How, he wondered but came to the realization that she was wearing some ballet flats.
The fist; Ow!
*Giggles. You missed me much?
Then time would fly; unnoticed. In the cocoon of each other’s company, unperturbed by the night’s chill, they would talk of nothing in particular; the randomness of it a broth.
When the evening wore away and she found herself tucked under her warm blankets, smiling in the dark, they would exchange wish lists, future dreams and all. The wee hours would find her smiling just before she would drift off to sleep mid-text. He would just wait for a never-coming text, finally shrug and begrudgingly go to sleep.