THE SQUARE ROOT OF LOVE
My Dear Julia.
I now understand the forlorn looks characters try to portray in adverts and films and in a well told story. I’m that character, listening to the whistling wind, looking through the window of a moving bus, staring out into the woods, seeing not the sunshine nor the green trees nor the buildings in between, trying to figure out which of the options would be less shattering.
I know why your eyes are shaped like a broken heart. Their grey reflections are, without doubt, a result of a sad heart and I’m not proud to be one that caused that. I’m not proud to be the one who made you lose that infectious smile which spreads across your face like red tint on ripening tomatoes. Now I’m wondering where you kept that smile. I know I fucked up for fucking you raw and I feel sorry for that. I’m a motherfucker; I get it, there’s nothing I wouldn’t trade to have that child with you, but I got nothing to trade with now.
My guys tell me welcome to the club; it’s a thing of pride, but there’s no pride in taking one’s life. Regardless, I’ve chosen to take this gruesome choice, and I’m not happy about it. There are steps we should have taken not to get to this place, but now that we are here we have to pay the price of offering parts of our hearts as sacrifice. Don’t think this doesn’t hurt me; don’t you dare think I’m not aggrieved too. Do you have any idea how hard it is to be me right now, how less of a sleep I get every night?
Friends tell me not to keep the baby regardless of whatever and I see reasons in their selfishness. How can I discard something so precious, so beautiful and without sin? How can I sleep at night that I knowingly exchanged a blessing for nothing? How selfish of me not to give another a chance to live, a chance to survive, with the freedom to make it’s own mistake? How did you feel when you learnt of my answer to that little thing in your belly? How did you first react when the one you gave romantic leeway to fuck you, fucks your whole life up? Oh no! What the bloody hell have I done to you? What was I even thinking pumping my seed into you?
I’m sorry for going against your wishes of keeping the baby but the guilt of regret is something I’m prepared to live with. I’m sorry for putting you through such process, I don’t want the burden of a baby and neither should you. I have zero paternal desires at this moment; paying bills and changing diapers in the dead of the night isn’t something I should bother myself with at this time. I know you want to keep this baby, but this is unplanned parenting. What’s more scary is that there isn’t a guide to being a parent, one has to learn on the job. I’d love to father a child too but the timing isn’t right to create an enabling environment for one.
Ooh to be,
Ooh to be a father,
Ooh to be a father that kills his child,
Woe betides him.
My joints becomes weak and a tear escape my eyelids when I think of the only logical choice I’m forced to have. Sadly, there’s no option other than the one we’ve reluctantly but agreeably chosen. My thoughts are sober, they’re in a different universe searching for answers they’d never find, yet they keep to searching and I don’t know how to reconcile myself with them, so I let them roam free like wayward chickens who never come to roost.
Tell me Julia, is it not funny society feeds us with contents on how to take off clothes but never teach us to put them back on? A society that nurtures us daily on the ways to getting laid, but hardly on the consequences and the results. How we’d appreciate a Kamasutra-like book on raising kids forced on us the way sex is freely sold. This same society that frowns at children born out of wedlock and wears the mothers garments of blame with a smeared conscience. Tell me Julia, how can you live in this society with this weight of silence and guilt? How can you mask this pain? How will you cope when people look at you with disdain and associate your name with shame? How can you live when pleasure is the bringer of this pain? Tell me, will you ever save face?
I would’ve loved to stick around and help out, my family would be more than supportive, no doubt, but the love in our tanks won’t take us far, you should know that. No, not one child deserves the pay of his parents foolery. The way you look at me, you may think I’m worth keeping; making you laugh and giving you orgasms does not a great lover make; trust me that’s never enough, it’s too paltry. I remember you telling me about your ex, how he broke your spirit and left you clinging to the tails of life. Are you scared of me leaving too? I’m sacred you might have nothing left to cling unto. I’m scared at how easy I’d break your heart, how with less effort I’d walk you to a place of tears and leave you hung on the gallows of despair.
You told me you were only in for the knacks, but after taking in you confessed your love. Could it be the child bearing hormones or is it real undiluted love? How did the temperature of your feelings turn up several notches so quickly? I never loved you as much as you should deserve, as you touted I was only in for the knacks and the emotional connection. It’s a face-hiding shame that I’m letting you know this within written pages. What could be worse is the withdrawal I’d be taking after all this.
Do you know when you called to tell me you’ve readily come to an agreement with my submission I told my nigga, Ken, and we shook hands, did a little hurray and hurrahs and shared a well rolled blunt. That wasn’t the real me, it was fakery, deep down I had other thoughts. Moments after the show of pretense I find myself at my bedside, when the cannabis must have cleared from my eyes, with thoughts of killing a person — a human being. People say it’s just terminating a pregnancy, ending a fetus, aborting the process of growth into being or whatever they might coin up to say but does it matter how it’s being said? Isn’t it the same thing as ending a life, taking a life?
Now, I’ve learnt. I’ve come to a full realization that the body of a woman is a fertile ground which needs only a sprinkle of water to yield. I’ve resigned to abstain from sexual intercourse where necessary and to sheath my kini in a latex barrier every damn time, regardless of any state of excitation. I may have learnt late but I’ve learnt. I accept the blame for pumping my seeds into you but I don’t want to be responsible for bringing up a child in this state. I don’t plan to birth a child unprepared from the ruins of a single seminal moment. I’m already feeling like the chairman of a Parents Teachers Association, and that is never a good thing for a broke lad.
Things might have been upturned but I’m not hiding, you are not hiding, we both have a responsibility. I know it hurts but we must carry on, our hearts might be heavy but we must be willing to let go. And to remember that we were lucky enough to have ourselves, to fuck as real lovers do; we were lucky enough to form this bond, to share our pain and bare our fears and history to each other. We will always remember not only the times that caused heaviness in our hearts, we’d remember the first time I chanced on you in that bus. We’d remember the thrill of breaking into an office in the dead of the night to separate ourselves from the others. The taste of breast-eaten lips found yours won’t be forgotten in a hurry, in that dimly lit room we broke into. We’d remember all the talks and silence curled up on the sofa in each other’s arm, punctuated by amorous necking and murmurs of endearments.
You may have chosen to expunge this from mind but let me jog your memory a bit: It happened quietly, after a long night of exhausting and endless caresses; before the crack of dawn, as the crickets went about their business, chirping, and our beating hearts dancing in wild celebrations. I held your hips; stiff from practice, delicately in my hands and felt the beads about your waist like Catholics fingering the rosary when counting prayer. You were already as slippery as a moist soap, with a scent of readiness, when I eased into you. To not give any leads to a maybe-passerby you managed to swallow your moans, only letting out gusts of groans amidst quavering from enjoyment. Before nightfall of the new day you came for another rendezvous, and came again for another, and after that, and after that, till I lost count of your coming.
Like an unchecked typo you missed your period, and things began to get a little bit awry between us. Your tone, which was in fact a pretense, took to shouting and anger, and sometimes a crazy obsession of me gripped you. In the confusion, with knowing not what to do and since there wasn’t anything else to do at the time, we choose to more sexual commerce, making love on the bed, in the bathroom, against the window railings, on bare tiles beneath the industrial fan, on the cold slab of the deep freezer. We made unbridled love till our bones ache from exhaustion so we could fall asleep like stones. We fucked so we wouldn’t brood over many thoughts amidst the hallucinating heat. We knew what must be done but no one seemed to say it, so we fucked. We fucked till I was spent — not from cums to give but from feeling used and empty. We fucked until the scent of after sex was no longer detected by my nostrils because it has been incorporated into the normal room odour. We fucked till your broadening experience in love making grew in expertise and your once unpracticed waist became a dancing spring capable of acrobatics. We fucked with and without condoms because what is the use of condoms to one already taken in anyway? Even a goat knows that it’s useless.
And one day after a passionate sex, in the midst of afterplay, I summoned courage and told you what needed to be done. I told you without an air of finality, not as an instruction, but more an option, a necessary option. You got all defensive and radioactive. You flared up like you’ve been beaten by red soldier ants, it was as though you were long awaiting to be flicked on so you could prowl about. Even a bull can be tamed, so I cautiously touched you where you were softest, where your walls of Jericho helplessly stood and you crumbled like wet digestive biscuit. There you listened to my pleas and promised to mule over my suggestion.
PS: Julia kept the pregnancy but lost it halfway through. I had already chosen a name, Jaachi, for the forth coming piece of life, regardless of gender. Now that we lost the baby, I feel like an absolute foot rag.