Twirl... Twirl...Twirl...Stagger
You are making your way to your equally small kitchen and grabbing the box of matches on the window above the cabinet where you usually would keep beverages, only now it is empty. You do not have any money left even though your parents just sent you £300 last week—not even a dime. You gave everything to Randolph, because that was how unselfish your love was. He had promised to pay back soon didn't he? Even though he has not picked your calls since Monday and he moved out his apartment without letting you know, he still loves you right? Right? Lovers had these kind of problems all the time, right? Right!
Human hair burns gently, curling itself, shrinking as if to run away from the fire. You are just finding out because you are burning the tip of your hair, your beautiful long African hair. Beautiful long African hair was what Randolph always called it. Before you met him, you didn't think it was beautiful. Unusually long, yes, but not beautiful. You think about how different it looks now compared to what it looked like before you met Randolph, before he named it beautiful. It used to be full and stubborn and luscious. Now, there were patches in the places Randolph tugged at whenever you both had an altercation. After those fights, he would apologise for the blisters on your skin and your bloodied eye but never for the hair he pulled out. It was your punishment, he would tell you. That it should remind you to be obedient next time. You never did learn did you? Because, isn't that what lovers do? Fight? Isn't it?
You tried to sell your hair today, half of it's length. It got rejected. They said it did not look healthy enough for the wigs they wanted to make. It wasn't the first time you would get a rejection but it burned your chest with a heat as intense as the one you are feeling close to your scalp right now. You already burned up most of your hair, but you don't stop lighting more matches. The image your head going up in flames sneaks into your mind and it is very appealing, only you don't want to die, at least not yet. You want to collect your money back from Randolph first. The money you lent him was supposed to be for your tuition, feeding and accommodation this year. You wonder what your parents would think if they found out you already dropped out a year ago after Randolph, your oyinbo boyfriend had convinced you that you had a shot at a successful music career, and what kind of successful musician went through college and got a complete education? A one-hit-wonder. It made sense to you last year. You had an amazing voice and you already worked part-time as a singer in the pub across campus. The plan was to go full-time with Randolph as your manager because that is what lovers do, right? Lovers manage each other, right?
You slowly admit to yourself that you are stupid. With every new realization of the extents of your stupidity, you light a match, blow it out and hold the glowing end against your skin. This is your punishment, a form of appeasement to your African ancestors you tell yourself as though your body hadn't already been punished, as if belonging to you wasn't punishment enough. You tell yourself this is the last punishment, the final one your body would have to endure.
Sob...sniff...burn....sob...sniff...burn...sob...
It is 4AM. You had fallen asleep after you got tired of your penance ritual. A loud knock has just woken you up and so you are groping through the darkness to the door. Your whole body feels prickly and you wonder for a second if death would have been a better option. You peep through the peephole of the door. This is a dangerous neighbourhood and you know it. You brought yourself here to the slums of London because of? Love?
You do not see anyone when you strain your eyes through the hole so you think that there probably wasn't any knocking before and it was just your mind playing with you but as you turn to go. You hear a voice you recognise. Randolph.
Author's note: I hope we remember all the things that love is not.
*sigh
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