Love and Betrayal
I am furious. Underneath these realities, I am hurt. I can’t believe how started I am by the whole conversation. Distancing myself, I am taking a real look at my frame of mind and where these feelings are coming from. It wasn’t until I was chatting over a glass of virgin mojito with my sister Ado at News Café Sarit that I had a real breakthrough. She’s asking why it bothers me so much, asking me what word I would use to describe this darling affair, and flying out of my mouth is a word that’s coming from the dark corners of my subconscious mind – BETRAYAL!
“Betrayal,” I repeat in a murmur – like in thought yet very tangible and sentimental – in a shout, I say, “I feel Otile is totally betrayed!” Fact is, Otile had gone through a similar ordeal before and a repeat was going to push him right over the cliff. In an instant, I start recounting all the moments in my life where I felt betrayed in a relationship, or where I had betrayed someone. My heart begins to beat as my mind is saturated with explicit memories of my first heartbreak.
That was thirteen years ago when I was still in college sitting by the edge of my study table, eyes wet with self-pity. Sheila had decided to break her boredom by prying into my phone messages and photo gallery. She scrolled through my phone and took screenshots of every chat that wasn’t tidy enough by her judgment. She found her way to my diary, the vault of my innermost thoughts and feelings, the only place I allowed myself to be most vulnerable. I panicked and got lost in the moment. I was aware of what was about to happen. She had read through the contents of my hidden feelings, cravings, and dis-pleasures, disapproving of me at every stop. She broke up with me and I made a vow to never be that honest about my feelings even to myself.
Years have gone and my past still lingers, but today it is the story of Otile.
The later part of my response to Ado is overheard by the couple seated by the window. The man was already looking at me and the lady too turned her head in our direction. It is true these feelings had been suppressed deep in my mind and were for a long time part of my silhouette. Otile’s is not an infatuation or a wild rush decision in the thick of things as friends and family had previously raised concerns. Ado is sharing with me this incident out of concern and knowing well that I would confront Otile.
Ado talks of love shared and genes unwanted. A thin, dark, short, and ugly-faced Otile. These words take me thirteen years back when Sheila used the same words as she broke my heart. Of effort unappreciated and marriage kept secret as a bad omen. Of surplus options and undiscussed lifelong decisions. She talks of unwanted cultural practices and sterility. This betrayal sours my saliva as it contradicts the niceties of the moment like the sweetener versus the whisky taste in my mojito. Love is not LOVE.