Short Story : Her Peach Scented Fragrance!

The scent of her cologne pierced through my nostrils ,breathing was fast becoming a mammoth task in her presence .But I warned her against this peach scented fragrance, her insistence was beginning to annoy me .The next she would wear it I was going to tell her ,I cannot be battling migraines every time she visits.

My resentment for her was growing with each passing day. From the inseparable pair which used to slurp from the same tumbler to being quasi-strangers who could not exchange five words with fluidity. I had hoped it would change over time, my sister Tania suggested that I give it time. “The flame will regain its strength over time”, she said. I regretted my return although unavoidable, my presence in Zimbabwe seemed to have worsened the situation. In my humble opinion, we were now beyond redemption. But something was amiss! She was a pristine diva before my departure, the type who would not allow the phone to ring once without throwing a fit. But things had changed, she was ice cold, a far distance from the passionate woman she once was. She was now part of the society, offering nothing outside convention. I did not know she could wait for someone for thirty minutes ,let alone the 3 hours that she spent sitting at Kelly`s waiting for me to finish my shoot. Funny how things change.

It was her fire that drew me towards her. I remember the first time I met her, the hilarity is still imprinted in my mind .I made a dozen fools of myself. We were at Pariah State on Friday the 13^th of June 2012.Yep, I still recall the details with clarity. Her back view somewhat appeared familiar ,I assumed she was Narrelle a former classmate, with whom I had a fling but that was in middle school .I snuck up on her, closed her eyes with my palms hoping to make a pleasant surprise .The subject of the joke became a gentleman named Leroy when she turned around. I started visualizing Narelle’s stature and I realized a rushed decision is what I had made ,the lady in front of me was taller .Way too tall, how had I been naïve .I had told the boys tequila wasn’t my poison, their insistence had driven me into a predicament.

I wonder how I would have reacted if I was at the receiving end, it is not an everyday thing when someone blindfolds you from behind at a Pub counter. She was so composed and as soon as she turned around the following words escaped from my buccal cavity. “Oh my God, I am so sorry. I thought you were someone else .I am really sorry”. Startled, she just stood there shocked .After a loud sigh, she ordered me to thank my ancestors because had I not aimed for the eyes? Hell would have had a different definition. Of course I offered to buy her a drink, my wallet though bleeding had to take the knock to save its master`s face. I spent half of the night explaining how the unfortunate incident was not one of my pickup lines, a good conversation ensued although I had questions, loads of them.

What was she doing there alone on a Friday? What was a lady of her politically correct facial composition doing in isolation? This question was the only question I had really. One would expect her to have a potbellied blesser, if recent trends in Harare are anything to go by. But this lady stood out, I had to continually insist for her to accept the drinks I was buying. She even bought a couple of rounds, much to the relief of my wallet. Turns out she was a writer working on her debut novel, she could not dwell on too much detail but the general idea behind the writing was the atmosphere in Harare`s affluent pubs .The Maestros ,News Cafés ,Centurion before the rowdy teenagers found directions to the place. I told her, I am a wordsmith as well. Those words, were the igniting splinter to the light bulb.

Conversations changed their trajectory, from reviewing Sarah Han`s literary works to both of us agreeing that Charles Mungoshi, although brilliant had an introvert edge to his words. He was a comfortable writer. From all the wild mental exchanges, I noticed that her pride was not unaccompanied. She was a FEMINIST, a radical one for that matter. She believed men were only different from women in anatomic composition and nothing else! I agreed although with a pinch of salt, we had to leave the debate for another day. One thing I liked about her were her ice breaking tendencies, she waited for no man. Literally! She asked how my Sunday looked like as she wanted to try out the new Bojangles Pub, Pariah had given her nothing outstanding. She lamented, much to my protestation as I believed I had made her face glow for the whole evening. Imagine, I had ignored my comrades to share laughter with her .I was going to pay for this, the brothers were not exactly impressed.

After subsequent meetings gained momentum ,we were the talk of the town .It is during this period that I learnt that this curious lady came from a top Adventist family and had attracted the rage of her parent by her unorthodox way of life. She claims foreign Education ruined her, but the final straw in her relationship with her parents was when she left for Australia to study Civil Engineering and returned with an Applied Poetry Degree.  Fascinating isn’t it? I was sold ,radicals are my crowd .I did not care what the world was going think, I was going to give it a shot .Whether her father`s position as the head cleric at the Seventh Day Adventist church was going to make me look like a gold digger ,I simply did not care. Yes she was Claire Ncube, the only daughter to the revered churchman Honest Ncube. The only sheep in the family, which opted to turn black.

I was with her every step of the way as she wrote her book, a mad talent she was. Spending time at her apartment reviewing notes and paragraphs played directly into cupid`s hands .A wildfire masquerading as a relationship ensued. The rest is pretty much history and it went well until the time I introduced her to my family. My mother disapproved of her at first glance, I do not know why she had chosen to be have a viewpoint parallel to that of her son. I suspect it could have been my partner`s overconfidence or brightly tattooed hands .I saw beyond the stereotypes but those whom I loved the most were adamant that she was not good for me. They could not even wait for her to leave to allay their calculations, they did not like her. I understood where they were coming from, everyone else except I, was a devout Christian at home .Their piety reduced their perspective, it was a trait I had learnt to live with. But Claire, Claire was not in the business of allowing people to barricade her personality into a square .The relationship turned awkward.

She was asking me to make a choice, how can I choose between the Mbizi Samaitas` the clan of pride and a woman I met in a pub? Such absurd suggestions made me livid. Of course she had her own place and I could move in, move in and leave my little sisters behind? Leave my mother`s brilliant samosas. I had never had such bad jokes in my whole entirety. Tension became the order of the day ,at least she had the courtesy of putting on a brave face every time we made a public appearance because the truth is we were everyone`s favorite couple but mere mammals in our personal capacity. My insistence on maintaining contact with her left my family with no choice but to send me on a vacation, disguised as a job opportunity in my mother`s native country of Mozambique. It will be good for your resume they said.

At the time I told her that I was leaving, I thought I was going to be the deliverer of bad news .Instead she welcomed the development stating that it will allow me to recover well from the debris of our sinking relation-ship .She wanted space, she had reached a breaking point. There was no way we were going to fix us or convince my kinsmen that her tattoos and dashikis were merely a mode of expression. That her smoking was in no way an indicator of her immorality, but a summary of her experiences. I could have opted to stay and fix things but where I am from the family verdict is more difficult to overturn, their jury style could leave the Constitutional Court green with envy. I left to be a personal assistant to my uncle Pashto at his company in Maputo, furthering my studies while I did so.

A few days after my arrival in the Portuguese speaking country, we maintained contact. For the first time in months we had legitimate conversations. There was hope, at least from my viewpoint. We were in good spirits, I even promised to attend her book launch and help sell a few copies in Mozambique as I had made acquaintances from the Maputo book club. Days elapsed into months and the text message ping pong and Skype dialogue continued .The only topic which was beyond the scope of discussion was whether or not I was ready to defy my family for the magic we shared to be rekindled. She had explicitly stated that “If you not ready to man up and fight for what you claim to cherish, leave my name out of your heart”. So we continued to flirt lightly but with no substantial impact to our ailing relation except buying it a few more days.

Months slid and the book launch drew nearer. After our separation I had lost the privilege of receiving exclusive reads of her works .I was curious of how the final product was looking like. I disagreed with her editor`s opinion on her use of puns, I believed that was her strength. He was more of a metaphorician who also used similes haphazardly. But she respected him, his Caine’s Prize nomination was his claim to relevance. I wanted to see how his insanity had presided over a brilliant manuscript Claire had managed to put together. I always told my uncle of how this book was a much needed rejuvenation of second generation Zimbabwean literary works. He was getting annoyed I am sure, he could not finish reading text messages on his phone let alone express enthusiasm over a 200 paged book yet to be launched .

One morning my phone rang, it was Tania .The only person from my family who loved Claire as much as I did. She is also a stingy little fellow, through the 6 months I had been in Maputo, she had not called me. Not even once! I cracked my usual smile and swiped to the right of the screen, I already had a joke for her even though she doesn’t appreciate my sense of humor. Her voice did not carry the usual energy I know it to carry, she spoke in a moist tone. I had to ask if everything is okay, her response made my heart sink. “Lee it`s Claire”, she said just before she hung up. I called her back for full details, and learnt that my poet extraordinaire was battling for her life. No one could tell me what had happened, but my mom of all people suggested that I return temporarily if possible. I heeded the call and entered the bus the next morning.

Suicide? Claire never struck me as a type who would give up on life .She was so passionate and ambitious. What had driven her off the rails? Was it the isolation? Surely it was not our failed relationship. I had many questions I didn’t know the answer to. The doctor astutely warned against asking her about the ordeal if we prioritized her recovery. Her family was with her, it was my first time meeting with Pastor Ncube, and I could sense that he blamed me for this. Well, he had a right to opinion, I blamed him too. What sort of father ignores her daughter completely for having alternative beliefs? She went back to her father`s house for recuperation. The negative energy engulfed me every time I paid a visit. Uncle Pashto, said I could stay until the time was right for me to return. I was not going to return anytime soon if he was holding his breath.

After her recovery, both our families blessed us .At least they were acting out of sympathy. The biggest obstacle had removed itself, one would think that things would go back to normal. Truth is, I had fallen out of love, and it was now pity and fear that kept me in the relationship. I felt like I was being held at ransom, when you cannot leave because you are afraid of how she is going react. I felt pity for her, she had lived without compassion for far too long, and the people who were supposed to shower her with love had driven her into depression. The pressure to finish her book, the only thing she lived for, got to her and she buckled .At least this was my assessment of the situation and I could not leave the relationship even if my life depended on it.

Part of me wants to stay and fix things, part of me wants to turn a new leaf and meet someone new. Someone who will be an adventure, not a mystery. But how can I forget all those nights we switched from club to club looking for inspiration. We might have a chance, I will try containing my tantrums .I will be more patient, only if she promises not to wear her PEACH SCENTED fragrance again and stops agreeing with everything I say. After all she understood when I erroneously blindfolded her, the onus to reciprocate is on me.

(This story is purely fictitious and any resemblance in context or name is sincerely unintended and coincidental. Copyright: Leroy Tafadzwa Dzenga 2016.No part of this work shall be republished without prior written consent of the writer.)