'Zahra, I will not allow it. Thirty years old! You don't have the right!' my father raged in the kitchen. 'Who has heard of a Somali spinster? I never heard of it. And I refuse to allow a daughter of mine to be the first!'
When I said earlier that no one could stay angry with me, it did not include my parents.
'What are you waiting for, Zahra?' my mother added.
'Look, I don't want to get married, okay? Why do I have to get married?' I asked, looking from one to the other.
'Can someone answer me that?'
They were startled, taken aback.
'I will not allow it!' my father roared.
'Don't want to get married?' my mother repeated frightfully.
'Do you hate Somalis? Tell it straight out!' my father demanded to know. 'Are you anti Somali?'
'I don't want to get married, simple as that. Where is the law that says I have to get married?'
'The law of God! You devil!'
'You're a woman. Your duty is to marry and have children. This is the most abject of dereliction, of selfishness.'
'And the example you set for your sisters,' my father adjoined, waving his hand into the direction of the living room.
We followed his hand, carried by its wave, and saw five covered up Somali girls shimmer and disappear, a trick of the mind, and turned back to face one another.
'Why do I have to be a role model for anyone ? My decisions are for me alone.'
'Having fun?' my mother said acidly, her face twisted in disgust and spite. 'Is it good sex, daughter?' She turned towards my standing father, who had become obese of late. 'See what happens ? I should never have listened to you and relented - a woman's cowardice, one of the curses. She should have been sown up. Oh God, why did I listen to you? That was the day my daughter turned into a slut.'
Can a black woman blush, I asked myself again as I felt my insides twisting with embarrassment.
'No, that is not it,' my father said defensively, though one could tell he was unsure.
'Yes. That was the day I became childless, when I conceded. All of them will be like this one, unmarried whores.'
'Mother, I'm scared of men. I don't want them anywhere near me.'
'You liar. You touch multiple men on a daily basis. How does that make sense? Only now I see why you took a profession such as that. So you could fornicate as a career.'
'No, no, that is exactly right,' my father said almost jubilantly, exoneration clearly before him. 'This is a psychological problem.'
'No, this is a problem of freedom. That clit made her a sexual devil.'
'No, can't you see? This is a problem of timidity.'
'Of liberalism.'
'Of paranoia.'
'Of nothing. I have no problem! Why is it a problem if I don't want a man near me?'
Both of them had seemingly forgotten me and continued to argue with each other.
'Asha, you've made her into an extremist,' my father said slowly, penetratingly, like a lawyer attacking someone else to defend his client. 'More than once you've said something about this heathenish practice and what my opposition would mean. You kept talking about it and now instead of becoming a slut, to prove you wrong, she's become a spinster, someone who hates men.'
'I don't hate men. I just don't want to be touched. Seriously. Not every woman wants to be touched.'
'Lies. You touch people every day.'
'I'm trying to get a new job.'
'It's okay, Asha. I'm taking measures into my own hands and will break this psychological resistance. I will not allow a daughter of mine to be a spinster. A Somali spinster?' he spat in the sink. 'Never will me or mine ever make Somali history! Never!'
Lounging in my own apartment, listening to the aquatic rumbling of my water tank, I think that killing my father will be equally as easy. But I was wired up. I was tense, flustered and frustrated.
Flicking through the stories on my phone, my mother's words came to me, 'sexual devil', 'good sex', 'unmarried whore', and a thought struck me.
I zoomed out my story collection, 'black man in a promiscuous world', to find if this writer had anything written from a female perspective. I didn't know why I never thought about seeing this from a woman's eyes.
I'll never have sex, God willing, but that doesn't mean I can't experience sex vicariously. I scrolled through and found the section simply called 'black woman', and clicked on the first one; my body tensing in anticipation.
'Every day it's the same. No matter what I do. I try to look from afar and he sees me looking, stares back and nothing happens. I fill shelves hoping to find him next to me, just me and him in the aisle. My hope is granted, but still, nothing happens. I change my hair almost every day, trying to find the one he likes and entice him to approach me.
One day it's sleeked back, with a little bun, and the next day it's opened up, curled hair cascading beyond my shoulders. I change it from the original black to all kinds of colours, hoping to cross him with his favourite, for a comment. Just one comment. If he gives me one comment I'll tell him I'm in love. But I still haven't gotten a thing, no comment, I don't even know the sound of his voice. It must mean I haven't found the right combination.
I feel like this must be a game, or a test, and he sees what's going on and he's waiting for the right combination before saying something. Why else would he be here every time I'm here? I'm sure he's coming just to see me, appraise me, and he sees it's not right. But once I get it right, it will all fall into place.
Today he left the store, said and did nothing though we were in the same self service area together with just one other person. It would have been the perfect time. It must be that my red highlights are not right, red is not his favourite colour, I know because I tried it with all other kinds of hair styles.
During my break I look in the mirror. My full face, the small eyes, the little piercing in my nose, everything about me is cute.
But how can I attract this man? He has the most beautiful beard I have ever seen…
The next day I try two thick braids, keeping the colour black, and no makeup, in the final act of desperation, nonchalance, resignation. In the self service section of the supermarket, I go through the motions, wondering how long I can take this hellishly boring job.
A man asks for assistance, and I approach him. I look up to see his face, a beardless man. He doesn't interest me. Yet, even if he doesn't interest me, does that mean I shouldn't interest him?
One of his items doesn't scan and I take my time with the problem to see what would happen. Nothing happens. Kissing my teeth I walk away, fuming.
'Amazing,' I say to myself. 'Hundreds of guys come in this store every day and I haven't been asked out once in five years. Is that normal? It can't be,' I say again, smiling a tearful smile as I return to leaning back on the railing surrounding the self service area.
'What's got you smiling ?'
I look up to see the man with the beautiful beard. In shock and not being able to think, all I can do is answer reflexively.
'I don't know.'
'This is the first time I have seen you smile, and I want to know why. Will you tell me?' he asks intently. 'Tell me tonight, after you finish your shift. What time do you finish?'
My brain clicks back into gear. I look away, not wishing to seem eager, and see a woman staring at me at one of the self service tills. She needs help, but I'll die before I move from this spot.
'I finish at six.'
'Alright,' he says, bending his head to- I freeze. He is looking at my breast. What was he- 'Georgia.'
Oh it's not perversion, but just rudeness. He was looking at my name badge. Thank God for that!
'I'll come by at six. Meet me at the trolley station on the far end of the parking lot.'
I suddenly smell Chanel Blue, a beautiful fragrance, and ask:
'What are we going to do at six?'
'We'll eat dinner together.'
'But I can't go out to eat with this uniform. I don't have any spare clothing.'
'I insist you wear these clothes,' he says so intensely that a flutter runs through me. He then leaves.
For the next two hours all I hear is 'I insist you wear these clothes...' ringing in my ears, rushing through my heart, trembling in my fingers, unable to focus on anything. He exhorted me to do something, and didn't tell me his name, I realise. I've never been so excited in my life.
By six I'm at the spot like I'm under hypnosis. 'I insist…' Can any person resist a command using those words? He's wearing the same thing as he was earlier, a dark coat and dark jogging bottoms. This means we can't be going anywhere fancy. A sense of relief and curiosity comes over me.
'Hi Georgia,' he says with a slight smile, almost a mocking one. 'I was scared I frightened you off.'
'You never told me your name.'
'Is that what you came to find out?'
Even in the twilight of a sun that is setting earlier and earlier, I can still see how handsome he is. Or is it my dry spell that's elevating guys above their level?
'Maybe I am. Maybe I'm bored. You telling me your name?'
'Isaiah.'
I can't help but smile. What a beautiful name for a beautiful man.
'Where are we going? It can't be somewhere fancy.'
'It's the fanciest place in the city.'
'Where ?' I ask, worried again. 'I'll look like a fool like this. And you too, Isaiah, with your jogging bottoms.' He laughs.
'Don't worry about others. This is a date between you and me. No one else.'
The word date made my heart skip.
'Come. It's not far.'
We head towards a road and as I'm about to cross it, he stops me by laying his hand on my shoulder.
'Hold up.'
I look to my left to see a car passing right in front of me.
'This isn't a suicide pact, Georgia. Let's not kill ourselves prematurely.'
I smile embarrassedly as we cross the road. We then approach a bridge and in the middle of it, I look downwards at the cars. Suddenly I hear sounds of dissuasion.
'Tsk, tsk,' Isaiah said, wagging his finger. 'Remember. This isn't a suicide pact. Not yet anyway. It's a date '
The linking of the date, which is a realm of love, to suicide, which is a realm of death, has an effect like no other words ever said to me, for nothing is more romantic than love together with death. I want to laugh but I feel like if I open my mouth, a sob will come out, so I press my lips together and walk faster so I can be closer to him.
We enter a residential neighborhood that has a number of semi detached houses that look fairly expensive.
'We're going to your house?' I suddenly exclaim.
'The fanciest place in the city?'
'It is. Wait till you see it.'
'Don't disappoint me.'
'The pressure is unbearable,' he says with his mocking smile. 'We're here.'
This was the most average house around but rather than repulse me I feel more attached to him. Why? When we enter I notice a smell around the house. A familiar smell that I feel I should know because I've smelt it a hundred times before but I can't place it.
We walk down the stairs and enter a kitchen with a table, waist high.
'What is that smell? It's so thick and familiar. What are we eating?'
'You know Victoria Secret?'
'Yeah.'
'This is Poison.'
'I don't think I've come across -'
'The smell of pussy.'
My jaw drops.
'Oh I thought it smelled familiar but my mind wouldn't click along those lines. It was set on the fragrance of the dish we were going to eat.'
'Something I'm going to eat.'
He approached me and pressed himself against me, bent down and kissed me. He kisses slowly and I feel his hands squeezing my ass. I relax to make it softer. His squeeze becomes a light caress.
Disentangling he asks:
'Is that enough to get your pussy wet?'
'My pussy has been wet for the past five years.'
'Show me.'
I take my clothes off while he watches me, trying to do so without breaking eye contact. He directs me to the table which I now realise is perfect for the situation.
First I sit on it and then lean back. I look down and see him with a licentious expression kneel down on the floor, while never taking his eyes off my pussy.
My pussy is opening and closing with anticipation of his wet lips, strong tongue and beard. And then I feel the tickle of his beard and shiver. He brushed the outside of my labia with his lips and I instinctively look up at the ceiling, whimpering with sudden pleasure.
He moves slowly kissing one side of my pussy, a deep kiss with his mouth and tongue, and then there's a brush of his lips, making me shiver, contract, the heat of his breath and his beard across my pussy mouth.
He glides low to the skin, without touching it, so slowly, and pauses and then kisses the other side, using his tongue to caress the outline of my swollen pussy. He does this like a near tease, so slowly, when I want him to separate my pussy lips with his tongue, how badly do I want him to do it, and then I feel my pussy lips opening and his wet tongue in between, my walls stretch…'
I gasped and let out a long, deep moan; breathing heavily, shaking, concentrating on my own throbbing pussy as it opened and closed. This was the first orgasm that was strong enough to make me moan. And here I find myself moaning again, a shuddering violent reprisal.
