I remember Aisha

Guest post by African Wanderlust

I remember Aisha because I could never forget.

The intense blackness from the Kohl that lit up the lids of her big brown eyes, her lashes long and curled that pulled me in deeper every time she blinked.

Her soft brown henna’d hands that innocently touched mine as we walked together along dusty Kaduna roads.

 

I remember Aisha because I could never forget.

Walking home together after school – harmattan heat, wetness, dripping… (from our foreheads of course!)

The smell of our sweat permeating the air.

We’d stop and she’d buy chewing gum. Robot bubble gum – one for me and one for her. I remember I would smile as I’d quickly pop the sickly sweet pink sugar stick in my mouth – soft for a minute then the next hard as rock.

 

I remember Aisha because I could never forget.

How she would greet the megadi (gate man) as we walked into her house.

I remember the gentle sing-song sound of her Hausa float off the tip of her tongue (a tongue I knew too well and for more than just its words).

 

I remember the ease at which we laughed at nothing in particular as we sat together eating indomie from a cooler slurping one noodle at a time.

I remember the big performance as she’d announce to the housegirl and anyone that was listening that she was very tired and needed to lie down.

I remember the glint in her eye that meant I should follow…

 

I remember Aisha because I could never forget.

The way she’d cover her hair and pin it tightly on the side…

I remember how I would smile because unlike the rest of the world I knew the tightness of each afro curl hidden beneath…

I knew because I had fingered each plait, I had run my own chubby fingers down each part rubbing her scalp with coconut oil sniffing at every chance and holding her scent in my nostrils for as long as I could.

 

And I remember the way my own hairs would raise on the back of my neck.

I remember laying on her bed flipping through books and magazines

I remember I’d close my eyes and imagine what it would feel like…if she just…

 

I remember I’d look around nervously unable to keep her gaze and how she would giggle innocently and say: “Don’t worry Bints the door is locked.” I liked when she called me that ‘Bints’ – short for Bintu. I would relax.

“Walai” she’d say, “you worry too much bints. You need to RELAX.”

I remember I’d close my eyes and imagine what it would feel like…if she would just…

 

I remember Aisha because I could never forget.

How she’d lie down next to me.

As she would just….

Begin to cup each of my breasts – delicately though as if they were her own.

soft, gentle strokes. How she would finger each of my nipples…

How she would laugh softly and run her fingers through my hair.

“you need to RELAX bints I will do it for you. Don’t worry” she would say.

It would occur to me then she meant my hair – I needed to ‘relax my hair’ – yes. I needed to relax.

 

I remember Aisha because I could never forget.

How my eyes would close again and how I’d feel her stroking my thighs and I’d feel her begin to descend…

“you need to relax bints. Please allow me remove your underwear.”

This post was originally published by Adventures from the Bedrooms of African Women.  Please go over there and show them some love. It is re-published here with permission. You can read the original entry here.

 

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