K by Dolce and Gabbana. Its scent flooded my mind with memories. It’s ironic that two years later, this fragrance by such a prestigious brand only reminded me of the past.
Standing in this long queue at Quickmart by the hotdog stand when suddenly the air is pregnant with confidence, allure and passion. It registers in my mind, that one of the shoppers must be wearing K and I’m so tempted to smell it with my eyes.
Poignant memories flood my mind. I’ve stopped pacing, and an unexpected sadnesses has taken over me as I drench myself in memories of the past.
On the morning of my Admission to the bar, Baraka woke me up with a kiss and went on to give an overly decorated speech about my passion to help people. He even went ahead to pray. He prayed for a beautiful day, for mama bear like he always called my mum and my siblings. For our love, the family we were yet to start and finally for the people that would be lucky to be represented by a badass advocate in court.
It was flattering and throughout the morning shower, I thought about our future. The whiteness of our home, the football pitch at the top, the green of our garden without spinach in it and the striking resemblance between our children and us. Ours would be the perfect definition of the American dream.
Baraka loved surprises and he had quite mastered the art of surprising me. At the admission party that night, he smiled broadly, the kind of smile that always meant he had something up his sleeves. I marvelled at the sight of this man. He was remarkable at everything he did. I often felt an obsession to call him mine.
Deep in my thoughts, the scent of K wafted behind me. It was pretty unclear how I had my eyes on him but missed him walking up behind me. He was there, bursting into hearty waves of laughter with our friends but now, he was beside me, softly rubbing my back.
“When did I lose you?” I asked smiling.
Smiling suggestively he replied, “When you flashed that smile. I know we should be somewhere between sheets but the night is still young my lady”.
I moved my head sideways when he leaned in for a kiss but he was quick to pull me right back. Baraka was quite comfortable with sharing kisses in public. He always kissed me, privately or in public.
“King” I muttered
“Queen, ” he excitedly chimed back.
“No babe, I meant your fragrance” and I chuckled softly.
He grinned widely which was quite an unexpected response from him as he took off his blazer.
The music went silent, the lights off and someone passed him the mic.
This man went ahead to sing along to Calum Scott’s you are the reason as the light shone brightly over us.
Somehow, I smiled with my heart at his not-so-John-Legend-like voice the whole time. I collapsed into a hug before he finished singing and held him so tight to escape the smitten crowd.
Speaking through the mic, he asked.
“My lady, if it appeals to the court, will you marry me?”
We always talked about this. Heck, I had even played him that live letter reading by Chimamanda Ngozi and we both agreed that marriage proposals are never a surprise. So if anything, I’d never cry when he proposed to me.
But then, at that moment, I felt water escape my body through my eyes.
“It’s water babe. These are not tears”. I whispered loudly as I tried to wipe my face.
“I know it’s water babe, but they don’t. You’ll explain it to them later”.
“And because you already knew it’s a Yes. I’ll say Yes, for their sake”, I replied.
The crowd roared into laughter. The same crowd that would grace our wedding once the date was set. We left the party pretty much after our friends shared their congratulatory messages. We had other plans for the night that need no detailing and we were due for vacation in Zanzibar the next morning.
When we got to his house, Baraka was quite reluctant to change into his robe and kept on trying to make pancakes. He never made pancakes, he actually never tried. So it was a bit strange that suddenly at 11 pm, he wanted to learn how to make pancakes. He asked for my help. But it was the kind of help that screamed other sorts of help. There was more to the pan than the improperly whisked eggs and flour. Pissed, I took the bowl from his hands and started whisking the mixture all over again.
He was silent. Staring and with every whisk I made, I felt as if life escaped his lungs.
“I have been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer. The chances of survival are low. Its only treatment is a slow-paced death. I went in for a test last month and received the results on Tuesday morning”.
“And you didn’t think to tell me then?” I asked.
“I didn’t want to worry you before you’re admitted to the bar love. I just wanted you to enjoy your day, stress-free”.
“Neither did it occur to you to mention it to me, before asking me to be your wife?”
“Does it change anything?”
“It changes everything Baraka!”
“What do you mean?”
“Cancel the trip. I won’t be coming with you to Zanzibar tomorrow”.
I picked up my phone and ordered an Uber from his balcony. I couldn’t stand the sight of another dying man. On the way to my place, I couldn’t stop imagining how inhuman Baraka had become.
We had talked about parenting. In so many words, I shared my fears of raising children as a single parent. Since my father’s untimely demise, I’ve never wrapped my head around the idea of single parenting. The loss of my father’s love still devastates me to date. The humiliation my mother went through when she moved on. Society’s harsh judgement and the harsh whispers women made when we went to any events.
He sympathized with mama bear. But on that night, he asked not for my hand in marriage, but for my will to walk down this dreadful path. I could never agree with that, and he knew all the reasons why. We were actively trying for a child at that time and I remember how my hands were shaking the next morning when I took a pregnancy test. In the brevity of the five minutes, as I waited for the results, many thoughts ran through my mind. The young graceful widow, subject to public scrutiny for my sexual life choices.
“Receipt please!” the waiter said stretching out his hand to me and bringing me back to the now.
“Maya”. I thought I recognized this voice, then the fragrance.
He was holding a little boy of about a year or so in his hands. The boy who I believe had been walking around, was pretty unsteady in his strides.
“Maybe ghosts do actually exist” that’s what I wanted to say but words failed me.
“Pretty reckless for a dad”. I stammered, “ Baraka”.
He leans in for a hug and I rest my now so-heavy head on his chest, the safety of it all, soaking all of this familiar fragrance. I wonder if I should go first, and ask about this cute little boy, a spitting image of the man I’ve presumed dead for two years now.
“You shaved your hair?” Baraka asked with a pause, an expectation. It is actually surprising that he noticed my shaved head first.
“Oh yeah! Remember how I was so bad at taking care of my natural hair?”. He was silent, rubbing the kid’s head, so I continued, “well, I decide to cut it”.
He is staring at me, an empty glare. Perhaps, waiting for me to pop the question. While I expected an explanation, I wasn’t going to ask for it.
“I’m surprised to see you,” I mumbled.
“Why?” he asked.
“You were a dying man, Jussup!” I wanted to say these words, screaming at the top of my lungs. But it didn’t sound right in my mind. Especially the fact that I had likened him to Jussup, the pretentious character on Bertolt Bretch’s The Caucasian Chalk Circle.
“Two months before I left for university abroad you had been diagnosed with cancer?” I asked, pretending I hadn’t looked up all the cancers I could possibly find on Google.
“I wish you had stayed, tried even. But I know you better to expect you to shelve your ambitions for marriage. It’s the hope that almost killed me, not cancer. Baraka died in April. We are… sorry… were namesakes”.
“What do you mean?” Nothing is making sense to me.
“The intern exchanged our diagnosis results. She said it was a new job and the pressure piling made her forget such vital details”.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” I remembered this same exact question, the night of our marriage proposal and almost wish I could swallow it, that it never came out of my lips.
“Easy Allen, mummy is picking you up”. He’s reaching for his phone as he tries to calm the child. Allen, is such an ordinary name for a child.
“You said something about telling you? Maya, I couldn’t find you anywhere. You even moved houses in less than three days for heaven’s sake!”
“Hey babe, I’m by the entrance.” I can hear the caller pretty clearly, I guess it is Allen’s mother.
“Be right there sweetie,” he said then he hang up.
“It changes everything, Maya”.
I watch him put the phone in his dark blue blazer, and kiss Allen as he turns to make his way to the exit. It’s almost like my eyes are seeing through water, a well, a river bursting its banks. This familiar scent wafts away, steadily, like the sun sets in the evening. King. But its essence remains perched on my soul, as always.
As the aroma of hotdogs struggles to seep through it, his last words echo in my mind as I stagger towards the fridge. I need something to replenish the water I’m losing through my eyes.
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