She-devil

She is the devil. The devil hooked on just romance. Our eyes met and I broke eye contact. It was in that steamy room crawling with patrons from the middle class walk of life. Beads of sweat unrestrainedly dripped from the face of my colleague Sil who was panting with exhilaration at the prospect of taking her to the floor. I was only a boy then, only having kissed a virgin once in the heart of the night during the turn of the century in 2000. I was weak, I had jelly in my joints and balls between my legs. Balls in my gut were what I only knew I would grow up into, only in the niche of time. The Devil is what I called her until she introduced herself to me as Zainah. If I turned back the petals of time and revisited that moment today, I would see her across the room and I would probably walk over to her with the Swagger of Ken Lukyamuzi and holla at her like, “Hey bitch, whats up?” But how can I? It’s 1999 and am sweating in my palms, racking my mind on what to say next to the devil, rather Zainah. That Bitch Zainah-i mean the devil bled with solemn grace. A flower still and yet to dance.
When the DJ then played Whitney Houston’s ‘ Where do broken hearts go’, I dug deep in my gut and came back with a proposition, “May we dance?” She never answered me. She never intended to. She giggled and walked away. Just as the bitter pill of rejection started to intertwine itself around my spineless lump of flesh, she turned around and motioned me to follow her with a naughty pointing finger. As we danced, she had her fingers running wild on the small of my back. She moaned and hummed along with Whitney for an instant that seemed to hypnotize me into the cold abyss of sexual desertion. She then whispered in my ear…”The flower” Taken a back, I jerked to a jolting stop in my dance and asked ”flower?” She answered, “yes, flower” licked her lips and added ”my flower is wet and warm. And it’s tight” I was lost for words. Years later, I’ve found myself mentally revisiting that moment in my waking moments and occasionally in sleep. One day in particular, travelling back to Kasese from Kampala. I had taken a window seat in Blangiti bus when my mind took another one of those trips to that moment again. We were heading towards Muhokya from Katunguru and the view of the brown savanna grasses of the Queen Elizabeth National park delicately accentuated with green shrubs indulged my fleeting memories. With my mind oscillating between the devil and the beautiful Kasese scenery, I could barely point out the devil’s heaving bosom apart from the park’s receding skyline over the lake George’s shoreline in the horizon. I momentarily caught myself dosing off as the bus’ diesel engine droned and cranked away. Aghast to sleep beyond the slay of a young raft- I saw the menace of my deepest joys, despite the dangling of my spirit, crying for the somber dreams I once had. But forever in the darkness with which I professed, these words so true as to be revered, the love which I hold dear still shines before my crying eyes. What must I do to see her again?