Aromatic whiffs of fragrances, so delicious, that with every
breath, you’re drawn closer to a welcome drunkenness.
Soft, graceful butter-yellow whispers of light, bouncing off
of creams, pinks, golds, a scarlet, a sky here and there.
A beam of teeth. A bridge of teeth.
Teeth peeping through Botox.
A narrow, winding, chocolate path of leg… A smooth, fleshy 15
inches of thigh. A quaintly-satin-ed leg-thigh.
Spring faces, Autumn faces.
Endless braids, tiny braids, buns, wraps, Brazilian,
Peruvian, Indian tresses. Kinky-coily masses.
A “smiiiiiiiiiiile!”… A “cheeeeeeeese!”… A zoom, A flash.
She began to glide in between the stark white chairs, with
their lacey-gold attire, oblivious to the blaring music.
She was beautiful. Period.
Somehow her mere presence captivated you, rising above
The glasses, the fragrances, the colour-spectrum of gowns and
bow-ties and cravats, the grins full of secrets,
The 40-year-old Miss who had vowed to find a soul-mate that
night with her thigh,
The gentleman who was aching to be husband-not-friend-zoned…
She glowed as she floated to Fiifi’s side, her hue bouncing
off of the crystal in her hand, the stone on the finger.
And he was bewitched by her. His eyes, hands, lips, were on
her hair, cheeks, hands; Love was oozing from his pores and it was obvious that
their honeymoon wouldn’t be one of the Harmattan.
Amina was short of breath, drowning in his ocean of affection
and admiration.
And as they shared sacred whispers, dainty kisses and
secrets-made-new by their new-joy, they
remained oblivious to the tens-of-thousands of Ghana Cedis
that had been expertly laid out about them, for them, in celebration of their
union…
Then the closing prayer was said in their honour. But they
couldn’t hear it. They didn’t need it.
Surely God could never forsake two people, who missed a
prayer, because their hearts were beating so loudly, so vibrantly that the
prayer-sayer’s voice became mute.
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Engaging.
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