Release: Symbols of Love, page 14
We spent so much time at the hotel, and there were plenty of moments I felt like I could have closed my eyes and been anywhere.
"So, you can't tell Mummy about Kojo or your British boy. If she knows we have men we want to see, she won't let us out of the house." Porsha leans over to warns me quietly but not quietly enough because Ken yells, “Eiii, Porhsa. Is that what a week away has done to you? Lying, sneaking?"
We both jump and heads bump.
"Ouch." I groan rubbing my forehead.
"Why are you saying ouch? Your gigantic head is hard as a coconut, Lilly. How could my delicate head have hurt you?" Porsha grins at me. I've realized now, that her love language is insults.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, wasn’t it your delicate head that couldn't find a hat to fit this week?" I ask and stick my tongue out teasingly.
"Oh, shut up!" she grumbles good-naturedly and scoots closer to me.
"So, we're going to tell her that we have a revival at a church in Ridge. We can't spend the night, but we'll make the most of our days, okay?" She says, her voice lower now- a true whisper.
"Porsha, I'm almost thirty years old. I'm not sneaking around and lying about where I'm going."
"Thirty, fifty, eighty. You're not married and you're staying with my mother. You can't spend the night out. This is Ghana. Not Miami. And if you don't want my mother to call your mother and scream about the disgrace you've brought to our family, you'll be sneaking and lying like a professional." She scolds. "It’ll be fine. I've been doing it for years and it's never cramped my style. She still thinks I'm a virgin." She says proudly.
"Why in the world don't you move out." I ask, completely stupefied at how cavalier she is.
"And go live where? In a small, dirty apartment where I'll have to fight the rats for the food in my pantry. Do my own laundry. Cook for myself? No thank you." Her furious whisper drips with disdain at the idea of having to take care of herself in anyway.
"You've seen our house. I'm very, very comfortable. I can focus on my studies and on finding myself a nice rich husband."
"Well, you’ve made a good start with Kojo. Harry says he talks about you almost non-stop."
"Oh, you’re so naïve. Yes, Kojo is very handsome. He's got a good job. But I want the man who he's driving for my husband. Not him. He's got a nice mouth and he knows how to use it."
"Porsha, that is so damn shallow." I admonish her.
"Well, if my father was a millionaire like yours instead of dead civil servant, then I would give Kojo a chance. Not all of us were born with silver spoons in our mouths I won't apologize for knowing my reality and going after what I want." She sniffs indignantly and tosses her hair over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes to slits, her thick lashes tangling with each other as she observes me. "I don't see you fucking that poor student. You've been rolling around with Mr. Moneybags, so shut it."
"You don't know anything about it." I know she's kidding. But her implying that what I was doing with Harry was the same as what she was doing with Kojo, irks me. I realize that it’s never been casual between us. But, it doesn’t matter and I shouldn’t even be thinking this way. Our arrangement is temporary, it will end when we both have to go back home. We won’t have a choice and if I let myself forget that, I’ll find myself falling in love with him and that’s just not something I can afford.
So I won’t let myself expect anything else from this encounter. I’m taking it for what it is and when it’s over, I'll walk away.
Even though he made me feel brand new. Even though every single inhibition and insecurity that plagues me is nonexistent the minute he looks at me. His kisses, his touches, his smiles they all feel so right.
This week, I've had entire days where I’ve felt like the Lilly I used to be. The way he laughs at my jokes and listens intently when I rant about politics, or food, or music, made me nostalgic for the days when I had friends. I've given oxygen to the part of my life that I've smothered for years. And it has felt good so good to laugh with abandon; to bask in the warmth of his smile and his unabashed adoration.
He didn't know that I hadn't told a joke in five years. He didn't know that I'd stopped watching the news. He didn't know that a year ago, I was celebrating someone's death. I didn't have to tell him any of those things and it was glorious. I wished that we could stay here forever. That I could act like this was chapter one of my life and not chapter thirty.
"Heh, get away. We don't want any." Ken's bellow makes me look up and I see that we'd stopped at a traffic light. It's the first one we've encountered since we left Cape Coast. The intersection is teeming with hawkers. People selling things from cold bottles of water to rolls of toilet paper. Everything balanced, impossibly in bright plastic basins on their heads.
The person he's screaming at is a young boy selling orange wedges. He stood at Ken's window, having braved entering the busy road to catch us. I looked up and saw that while I'd been talking to Porsha the streets had transformed. They were lined with stalls of all sizes that had dispatched the sellers to go and ply their goods to the people who were stuck in traffic on this road.
He couldn't be any older than twelve and the look of horror on his face had me reaching to roll my window down. The rush of hot, dusty air carries the smell of engine oil, sweat, spices, and sewage into the car.
"Oh God." Porsha mutters and then she scoots away from me. I watch her for a second, as she covers her nose with her scarf and tucks herself into her corner of the car.
"What?” I laugh, “Porhsa, you're such a princess, " I tease before I turn to face the boy.
But instead of just him standing there, there are at least a dozen people. All of them jostling to shove their wares in my face.
"Roasted corn, miss. It's delicious" A young pretty girl smiles at me.
"Oh, I have some nice pineapple for you." Another, slightly older woman pushes her aside to show the huge, bright yellow wedges all bagged up and ready to be handed over to me.
"All of you go away," Ken yells. My window rolls up, and for the first time I feel grateful for his booming voice. All of the people jump away from the car in surprise right before the window closes on their hands. Before I could feel badly about the little boy who lost his sale, they all rushed off to the car behind us whose passenger had his hand hanging out the car with a Cedi bill, Ghana's currency, dangling from his fingers.
"You can't roll the windows down like that, especially when we're stuck in traffic. They'll never leave you alone and every time they see this car, they'll surround it." Porsha says.
"So you don't ever buy anything from them?"
"Yes. But closer to home. And usually water when we're stuck in traffic for hours."
"For hours?" My eyes bug out at that. The congestion in Accra was always bad but, we’d never been stuck in traffic for hours.
"It's only like that at Christmas when all of you people who live in America and Europe descend on the city. It took me four hours to get home once last year. It's usually a twenty-minute trip. You picked a good time to come actually."
"Sounds like it. Though, we're all traveling to the UK for a wedding right after Christmas, and I'm not really looking forward to that."
"Oh, you're traveling to the UK? Are you going to tell Harry? I mean, you could see him again."
The thought sends my stomach lurching and then my phone buzzes. I know it’s him. He always texts or calls as soon as I think or talk about him. It all feels so serendipitous.
"Hi. You here yet?" Those butterflies started waking up at his greeting. Nothing excites me as much as the start of all of our conversations. I never know where they'll go. But since we started talking every day, they are the best part of my day.
"Mm hmm." I say, smiling at him even he though can't see me, I know he can hear it and feel it. That thought makes everything inside of me flutter and float.
"Can I see you tonight?" He drawls into my ear.
"Absolutely," I answer immediately and he laughs. It’s a happy, rich sound that makes every cell in my body sing with anticipation.
"I miss you, too." His voice drops to a whisper and I giggle. I’m as giddy as a fool and I love it.
Porsha groans. I stick out my tongue out at her. She makes an annoyed sucking sound with her mouth and looks away.
"Tell me where you're staying. I'll come for you." Harry’s soft demand pulls me back.
"Oh, um..." I shoot a glance at Porsha who's busy texting on her phone. "I don't think that's going to be possible. I'll have to come to you. And I'll have to leave the house with Bambi. I'm staying with her mother."
"Stay with me." He says, all of that invitation and promise sets me tingling.
"I can't, Harry," Before I can finish, Porsha has snatched my phone from my hands and is putting to her ear.
"Harry, hello!" She says cheerily.
"Hey, I was talking," I yell at her.
She ignores me, "So, we need to plan our time. We'll come to you, but not until after dinner and we'll need to be back in the house before my mother wakes up.” She says and then she sighs derisively. “Don’t shout at me. Those are the rules. Don't worry. You’ll get plenty of time to do your dirty business--" and at that I snatch the phone back.
"That's enough," I snap at her before I wipe the smear of her chocolate brown make up off my screen.
I hear Harry's laughter as I settle it back on my ear. "So we've got to be like teenagers this week?" He asks sounding like he finds the idea pleasant.
"Yes, apparently."
"Okay, I’ll be creative." I hear voices in the background and then he says, "Hey, I've got to go, they're finally ready to see us. I'll see you tonight." And then the line goes dead.
"Oh my God. That look in your eyes. You like him." Porsha says accusingly, but with a big grin on her face.
"Of course, I like him. What's not to like?"
"Absolutely nothing. He is yummy, you lucky girl. And Kojo says he's cra-aaazy about you." She snaps her fingers joyfully, grinning at me like I've won the lottery. "So what are you going to do?"
"Porsha, this is a holiday fling. For both of us." I say emphatically.
Liar.
"I'm never going to see him again. And that's fine."
Liar.
"Whatever." She says with a curl of lip, “It's not me who you need to convince."
"I don't need to convince anyone. We've already agreed." I tell her, the coil of panic in my gut killing the delicious buzz hearing his voice had left.
"Famous last words."
I grab her hands, all humor gone, needing her to see me and hear me.
"Porsha, please." My voice breaks, but I clear my throat and continue "Just let me enjoy myself. It's been so long since I've had... this. I never thought any of this would happen for me ever again." My grip on her hands tighten, squeezing to emphasize the gravity of what I'm saying. "I can't have anything beyond this. It's not possible. And it hurts me in a way I can't measure." Her beautiful brown eyes soften, and a tear rolls down her cheek and I loosen my grip slightly, but I don't release her gaze.
"So, please, don’t remind me that I'll have to say goodbye. Don't taunt my inaction. Don't make fun of the way I feel. Let me just enjoy it. All of it, without thinking. That's why I came. Please."
Her lips compress a little, but she smiles at me and squeezes my hand in return. “I wish you would tell me what’s wrong.”
“You promised you wouldn’t ask.” I remind her.
“Okay, cuz. I hear you.” She returns, her smile wistful.
I let go of her hands and look out of the window. The familiar scenery of her mother's neighborhood takes my mind off the conversation.
“Oh, we have to go to Accra Mall. There's an amazing restaurant and the shopping is the nicest in the city.”
"And the parking lot takes an hour to exit." Ken screams. Porsha dismisses Ken's statement with a wave of her hand.
"I'm texting Kojo to meet us there for dinner tonight."
"It'll be grand. The whole week will be. You wait and see."
16
Harry
"Massa, come. I've got some nice shirts. They'll fit you well, well," a man calls out to me as Emma and I pick our way out of the Art Center. I smile at him but shake my head and yank her hand as she slows down. "No, you can't stop again," I groan.
We came at my insistence. My mother and sister both wanted me to bring them beads and fabric. I'm leaving for the United Kingdom in two days. My gut twists at the thought, and it's one of my last-minute errands. I've spent the last week getting contracts signed, getting applications filed, and paying hefty customs fees. Today was supposed to be a laid-back day. I didn't know that Emma shopped like it’s her job and would want to buy everything she laid eyes on. It's remarkable to think that ten days ago, she was in the hospital with an IV in her arm.
I'm hot and hungry, almost out of cash and my arms are aching from the packages of fabric, carvings, jewelry, clothes and artwork I'm carrying.
"Oh, but look how beautiful they are," she coos. Her hand slips easily from my sweaty grip and steps into a stall crammed from floor to ceiling with bronze figurines.
"Madam, they are solid brass made here in Accra by my brother. Very fine work." The woman's voice is almost pleading. She looks tired, and she vibrates with desperation.
Emma walks over to one of her walls, and the woman's eyes come to mine. The determination I see in them makes me sag in resignation. She's not going to let us leave without a sale.
"Oh, these are so beautiful,” Emma says softly, her voice audible despite the loud of hum of noise that fills this large outdoor market. Market is a generous word for the cluster of alleys and corridors that have been inhabited by local artists and craftsmen vying for the attention and foreign currency that the people shopping here are loaded with. It's not a place where locals shop, at least not without serious haggling, but it's a great place to find some of the finest examples of Ghana's craftsmanship in the country.
"Harry, look. I love them,” Emma’s arm stretches behind her, her fingers wriggling in a beckoning motion, without taking her eyes off the carvings on the wall.
I come to stand by her and admire them. The craftsmanship is remarkably intricate. Then my eyes land on one in the same shape as her tattoo.
"Can you reach that one for me? Addie would love it, " she murmurs, eyes still glued to the wall.
"No, I can't. My arms are full," I say irritably, but I'm also mesmerized by the carving.
"Madam, I'll go call my husband. He's just there," the lady calls before she runs across the narrow walkway that bisects this strip of the Art Center.
"What does it mean?" I ask her while we wait.
"Look around, see all of the clothes, the carvings, and stuff? Those symbols, they're called Adinkra," she says, her hands coming up to run over the other carvings on the wall. “They express themes, values, histories that belong to the Akan people - that's the group of people who make up the largest ethnic group in Ghana. The one on my back is Fawohdie. My parents gave me a pendant in that symbol when I was a girl." I stare at her profile as she speaks, so softly, her focus on the symbol intense.
"What does it mean?" I repeat, more insistent.
"It's a symbol of freedom and emancipation," she says, her eyes coming to mine for the first time. "Where's your pendant?" I ask her. Her back stiffens, and she looks away from the wall and turns to face the entrance of the stall.
"I don't have it anymore. I lost it," she says. Her jaw twitches, and her sentences are clipped.
“You should get the one up there, I’m sure she’d give you a deal on two.” I glance in the direction the woman had gone.
"I wish she hadn't run off. I don't even want to buy it," she complains irritably, gathering hair in her hand the way she does when she's agitated. She cranes her neck and comes up on her toes as she tries to locate the woman.
"Are you sure? You asked me to get it down for you," I remind her.
"I'm sure. Look, let's just go before she gets back. I don't want either of them," she says and then starts to walk away.
I look around for the woman, feeling guilty about leaving while she's gone, but Emma’s already disappearing through the crowd. I watch her go, knowing she's heading to the car and put down some of the packages I'm carrying. I snag the carving from the wall, look at the price, handwritten on a tiny white sticker on the back, and leave her twice the amount.
I drop it into my pocket, pick up the bags I put down and follow her out.
17
Lilly
Harry's carrying me from the living room to his bedroom. Each step he takes brings my throbbing clit in contact with his cock's insistent pressure. I'm so ready for him, I start moving up and win, trying to ride him.
"God, you're killing me." His words tumble into my mouth as he lays me down on his bed. I hear the rustle of my hair as it settles on the bed's comforter, creating a huge halo of curls around my head and onto my shoulders.
His eyes shine bright under his hooded lids as they feast on me. His beautiful, kiss stung lips form the words, "You're so goddamn beautiful" as his hands work the button and fly of his jeans, and in seconds they and his boxers are gone.
He whips his shirt over his head and his body, so tall and strong and beautiful, is on glorious display. He fists his thick, hard cock and gives it a slow, strong stroke, and his head falls back in ecstasy as he strokes himself leisurely. I salivate at the sight of him, his beautiful neck begging for my kisses. My pussy is flooding with all of the desire the motion of his hand is building.
"I need you." My impatience is undisguised, my finger diving between my legs, and I groan at the sensation that rips through me as my fingers touch my sensitive, slick pussy.
He slowly lowers his head, his eyes trained between my legs as mine go back to watching him stroke himself.
"Come to me," I implore, my body aching at the promise of him inside of me. I reach for him with my free hand outstretched arm, and he stalks toward me. His beautiful body rippling with each step, the shadow of the moon turning his muscle’s movements into a symphony of tenses and flexes.
