by Tarnouh

To quote Maud Montgomery, “A body can get used to anything, even being hanged.”

Beautiful girl: a cliché in Monrovia. I see her standing, as her hand penetrates the scenery offered by the hills of Broad Street; her nails are the kind that a specialist would pay to manicure—and she sees me too.

“Hi, how’re,” I say.

“Going behind finance.” No answer. Maybe she’s a bit shy. She’s a nice girl, the type that sees a hello as a flirt, or maybe too much eye contact. I am all up in my head; I always do this. I let the conversation flow.

She fidget a little; we are the only two sitting here.
“Fine boy, how you doing?” Finally, a response. She has painted her lips with transparent makeup; but yeah, one could see some glittering and mix of blush.

“I was speaking to you, that’s all. What’s your name?”

“Patience.”
“You geh beautiful name, my name Brahim, call me Ab.”

I have never been a fan of makeup; it dress up the majestic nature of your eyes—yes, you woman, those beautiful eyes that give life its essence—but she’s making me love hers. I am loving her. I love every woman.

Ah, a boner. It is haram to imagine a beautiful woman in bed. That’s my flaw. I believe, genuinely, I just wanted to know her, the intrinsic pieces of her life—maybe someday we can sit at Rockhole and throw pebbles at the raging waves.

“You attending AMEU, I swear da school housing all lay beautiful ones that are yet to be born.”

She blushes.

“Fine boy, I know wah you trying to do buh you Fula man, your woman will come from Guinea.”

I am not shocked; even our driver is not.

“Da true ownpa, buh ay na crime to appreciate your lipstick and your perfume, or to say we should be friends, I promise I wey na catch feelings.”

She giggles. Another girl enters the keke.

I have seen beautiful women and I have had my shared experience. I have baptized my lust in the river of beautiful women and reeled in their harmony. I have had my fair share.

Another cliché it is, to say a beautiful woman was spotted in Monrovia.

Now, my full attention goes to the Queen who just entered. She’s either twenty or twenty-one. She’s from AMEU too; I can smell her hair laid in perfect cornrows. How does one place in Monrovia house these lights? Their professors must be illuminated.

“How your doing,” she speaks softly.

“Fine,” we respond in unison.

“Fine girl, wer your name?” I ask abruptly.
“Tricia.”
“Can I have your WhatsApp?”
“Yes, gimme your phone.”

She enters her number on my broken phone. She’s not easy; she’s friendly. She doesn’t care. That is a beautiful girl.

Life’s art.

I remember her legs, shaped a little like a perfect bow. Haram thoughts, dark thoughts, dirty thoughts. Astagfirullah.

She didn’t go far—unboard at Randall Street. “I’ll text you, Tricia, you mor know da na for you to call me your brolor.”

It is the same playbook. Today is Thursday; I’ll text her. We’ll become comfortable and Sunday we’ll meet at my friend’s, far from my friends who think of me as a saint, whose sins wash up with the foam of the Atlantic. My sins are the ocean bed and the weeds that grow beneath them; they’re the shallow part of the Du where the divers don’t reach; they’re the sneaky crocodiles of the Nile. So I hide them at my friend’s, far from my friends. It’s a playbook. And then repentance from the cardinal sins.

“You know her?”
“No.”
“You stop talking to me for her, Bayney ehn?”
“You na see how lay jue fine?”
“I na fine too?”
“Buh you say you na wan Fula man.”
“Oh.”
“You leh me na ehn.”
“No.”
I laugh.
“You do.”
“Gimme your number.”
“077…….”

Now, I have two: two beautiful women, two blessings of nature, two friends, two people to introduce the tolerance of my tribal lineage to.

Looking at these hills, I have strolled them many times. They haven’t changed a bit; they haven’t left the chilling light greyness like a newborn child from the umbilical cord.

Like society’s stages they set for a relationship—the talking stage, the familiarity stage, se.x, se.x, more se.x, polarity, disenchantment, loathing, divorce, and nostalgia.

These streets hold the same memories. Every day they flirt with my conscience and I loathe them. Ours hasn’t followed the standard; we commemorate our first date. I loathe the perfume of burst pipes and dry feces mimicking the wind at Gurley Street. One day we’ll become the Nostalgia. Or the Black Girl with thin hair who knows the truth about boys roaming these streets; some days I have sung her odes for the lies we have made to believe.

More memories: duas for the black water tank and white bricks where she deflowered me. It is haram to pray for haram. Bless be the wind that flirted with her hair and the cushions that now massage her perfect round shape; bless be the scent of her that fills my nostrils, baptizing our bodies in sins that will be washed with scorching fires—at least, that’s what religion says.

That is life.

And in the end, we will lock our stores and go home.

About the author
Tarnouh lives in Liberia where he writes from below sea level in the West Point Township. His work has been featured in Global Anthologies such as the Songs of Peace, Litlight Literary Magazine and others. He has been featured in Eboquills and elsewhere. Tarnouh loves coffee, nature and women.

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