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Forbidden Fruit
By Jane
Musoke-Nteyafas They clashed. She
with her knee length H&M designer suits, suede pumps,
Gucci bags and him with his biker clothes; body-length
black leather coats, spiked bracelets, faded jeans,
laced boots and tattoos. She alternated between driving
a small black Golf and the public transit while he rode
a huge sparkling Harley Davidson motorcycle and took
public transit once in a while. In fact it had been on
the Bathurst Streetcar where they had met; one of those
few times when she took the Bathurst Street route.
Sweet memories.
Chemical lightening in the air. Love sparks.
During the day
Olenka climbed the corporate ladder at a call centre in
the downtown core of Toronto. She worked in the
telecommunications business as a supervisor but once she
left the corporate scene in the evening and headed home,
she loosened her hair from its uncomfortably tight bun,
kicked off her shoes and rushed to her laptop with her
microwaved dinner to work on her writing career. She
wrote freelance for several Toronto magazines and online
magazines. She also painted on the side and a few of her
paintings were often in Toronto galleries. He on the
other hand worked a midnight shift in a shelter for
abused women and the rest of time was spent playing the
guitar and oboe for his band. Occasionally he dabbled
with drums as well and was slowly writing a book.
Their first glance
at each other had been their undoing. Guilt-filled
blushing cheeks and watery eyes. Cupid’s insipid
interference. Scandalizing culture clash like monsoon’s
and midnight summers or like Viking and Masai love. But
Olenka could not turn away. Nor could he. Illicit
longing glued their eyes to each other.
Forbidden love.
“I just want to be
friends.” She lied.
“Me too.” He lied
back and smiled. They both knew that it was a lie but
they understood their secret code language. This time he
kissed her very softly on the cheek, just a few
millimeters shy of her lips, igniting the flames of her
lust even more. His magnetic eyes said everything. They
wanted to make love to her.
They clashed like
the sun and the moon clash, and yet love had found a way
of wrapping its honey syrupy fingers around them. They
loved like artists. Their love was like a global love
which had no boundaries; no country, no language, no
religion, no colour - only the love for art. The first
time she had seen him was a summer ago on the red
Bathurst Streetcar and it was his long wavy silky,
black-like-a-crow hair tied in a ponytail which had
attracted her to him. She remembered that it had been a
sun-drenched Sunday afternoon and she had just come from
the Eaton Centre on Queen and Yonge Street. The fact
that he dared to have such long hair had her staring at
him in the discreet way women stare at men, as she
struggled into the streetcar with her grocery bags.
Everything he wore was black giving him an air of
mysticism. With his dark sunglasses and lean build he
reminded her of the Matrix. He wore black leather gloves
and gothic-like jewellery. Even the huge guitar case he
held was encased in black leather. He was an enigmatic
mixture of a cowboy, Goth and biker. There was something
hard and yet at the same time soft about him.
Forbidden love.
He was pale, and
yet his features made it hard to pinpoint what his
background was. He looked like he could be anything from
Latin to Welsh to Greek. He had a handsome boyish face,
full Indian red lips and unblemished blanched almond
skin. His eyes were hidden behind pitch-black
sunglasses, again highlighting that aura of mystery he
carried about him. It was clear that he had shaved that
morning; his cheeks and chin looked baby smooth with
that smoothness many black men could not attain. He
smelled of a fresh, masculine scent which sent her heart
pitter-pattering. She tried to guess his age. He looked
like he was in his late 20’s which made him older than
her. Just when she started to feel ashamed of staring at
a white man like that, the sunlight glinted a strange
angle in his face and she realized that he had been
staring at her too. She felt herself blushing despite
her dark skin.
Forbidden love.
Olenka was mixed.
Her mother was a beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed Russian
woman who had fallen in love with her average-looking,
cocoa-brown Ugandan father; at that time a political and
law student at the Patrice Lumumba University in Moscow
in the 1960’s. A few years later, a few harsh winters
later, a degree later, she had been the result of their
matrimony and her five siblings had come along after
her. At some point they had moved to Uganda. But Olenka
was one of those biracial people whose African ancestry
had claimed her physical features more than the European
side. She was more black than white. It was so much so
that the only evidence that she had come from her
mothers womb was her small nose, the fact that she
looked like an Africanized version of her mother and the
touch of burly wood-brown colour which was lighter than
most of her black friends, but only by an nth degree.
Her family was an interesting rainbow of browns with
each of her sibling’s skins getting lighter and lighter
as they were born and their hair getting curlier. None
of them were the same colour but their facial features
were as identical as peas. There was never any doubt
that they were related.
Olenka’s hair was
the wildest, thickest and nappiest in her family. Its
knotty lion-like quality was an inheritance from her
Ugandan grandmother who according to many stories had
been a stunning beauty in her days. All Olenka
remembered of her was a cute, tiny, old woman who wore
colourful busuti’s - one of the traditional clothes in
Uganda. Olenka had triple the amount of hair on her
scalp than most people had on their heads. Her hair had
been a source of frustration for her East European
mother who had no idea what to do with long African
hair, but with time Olenka had learnt how to take care
of it herself after poring through tones of African
American natural hair magazines once they had moved to
Canada from Uganda as political refugees. She was known
to sport crazy traffic-stopping Afrocentric hairstyles;
anything from a huge flaming afro to unique cornrows, to
china bumps to threaded hairstyles. At some point in her
teens, to the horror of her conservative parents, she
had dreadlocked her hair. But she had cut her locks off
after two years because she had grown bored with them
and she was tired of her father harping on the subject
of her controversial hairstyle.
Their family had
fled from Uganda during the Idi Amin era in the late
1970’s when it was clear that her father’s fancy
political ideas, tempered with a few socialist
ideologies, were hitting a sour note with the very
dangerous political system and politicians in the
country at that time. He was the type of African who had
been groomed and educated to survive and excel in Europe
and not in a corrupt African society. So he had found
work as a civil servant in Canada and had abandoned his
political dreams. No longer was he interested in being
killed or harassed for his philosophies.
That was how she
had come to be more Canadianized than Ugandan or
Russian. But at her parents’ insistence she and her
siblings spoke both Russian and Luganda-her father’s
dialect. She had gone to high school in Toronto and
graduated from the University of Toronto. Once she had
left university, finding a job in her field had been
hard and so she had done the easiest thing she could
find and started working in the corporate world.
However, in the process of getting her education, she
had discovered her artistic tendencies and had started
pursuing them on the side.
The streetcar
slowly hurtled northbound past old over-priced,
fern-covered brick houses and numerous catholic schools
towards Bloor Street. Finally she spotted A Different
Booklist, a black book store which she frequented and
the Honest Ed’s store’s flashing neon sign. The
streetcar got to Bathurst Station and like bees after
fresh honey, all the people in the bus rushed towards
the doors, bumping into each other rudely and a few
pushing others out of the way. She did not understand
Toronto people and their ice-cold rudeness to each
other. On all the buses and streetcars they sat in
absolute silence, giving each other stoic stares,
avoiding sitting near each other and were always in a
rush to escape each other once the bus got to its stop.
It was rare to see a smiling friendly person and often
times, when friendly people graced the buses with their
sunny dispositions, they were given furtive, suspicious
looks by the rest.
Olenka remained in
her seat, tired after all her grocery and clothes
shopping. She was not interested in wrestling with
anyone for the door. Finally once the stampeding had
slowed down she got up and headed towards the back door.
That was when she realized that he was still there
watching her with the corner of his lip lifted in a
slight smile. He noticed her struggling with her plastic
bags and walked up to her. He looked like he was about 5
feet 9.
Forbidden love.
“Need help?” he
smiled with a hand offering to carry the bags. She
noticed that one tooth was slightly crooked, giving him
an even more boyish look. There was a tug at her heart
and she felt breathless as his eyes rested on her, but
she forced herself to remain calm.
“Is it that
obvious?” She grinned back.
“If there was ever
a damsel in distress, it would be you with those bags.”
His eyes looked amused behind the daunting sunglasses.
“Thanks.” She gave
him half of her bags as her back and shoulders were
starting to hurt. Who was she to refuse help when it was
offered freely? “I am going West bound though.”
“That’s ok.”
They both walked
off the streetcar and down the stairs into the subway
system. Across on the other side of the ramp was a long
multicultural line of people waiting for the Bathurst
North bus; a woman wearing a beautiful violet Indian
sari with two little rambunctious boys who were chasing
each other much to her obvious distress, two elderly
Portuguese men who were checking out three young black
girls in skin-tight jeans, t-shirts and weaves, a group
of Chinese students in short skirts, colourful
schoolbags with Japanese cartoon prints on them and
pigtails, an older West Indian couple - the man wearing
an elegant 1940’s hat and the women decked out
glamorously as if she was going to church, two bearded
Arab men who were chatting, a gang of white boys in
baggy hip-hop gear and an angry-looking pale as chalk
white girl with black lipstick and enough eyeliner above
and under her eyes for the entire country.
Olenka and the
handsome stranger walked past the drycleaner’s shop and
the Ethiopian-owned subway bakery where she sometimes
bought samosas and muffins. She caught whiffs of
freshly baked cakes and felt a small pang of hunger.
There was a blind, middle-aged white man playing the
violin in one of the corners. The music he played
sounded so harmonious and out of place in the not so
glamorous subway station. He had a tin on the floor
where people were dropping whatever money they had. As
she walked past him, she noticed that she was getting a
lot of stares; curious stares, confused stares, angry
stares and admiring stares. At first she did not
understand but when she saw a reflection of them
together in a glass window, it suddenly hit her how
different they were.
She was wearing an
all-blown out Afro which circled her head like an
angel’s halo, immaculate Mac makeup and a beautiful,
colourful flowered summer dress which revealed her
well-shaped shoulders, part of her back and pronounced
her breasts sensuously. At 5 feet 7 she was all curves
with cello-shaped hips and a considerable Africa-blessed
behind. Her pretty feet were in flat brown Aldo sandals
and her toes were perfectly manicured with silver nail
polish. She wore a toe-ring on each second toe. She did
not quite look like those high-maintenance girls who men
tried to avoid in an effort to control their wallet
strings, but it was clear that she took care of herself.
She looked beautiful with her small nose, thick lips,
trimmed eyebrows, long lashes, high cheekbones and her
large sepia-coloured eyes.
But next to him
she clashed.
They got to the
West end platform and he faced her somewhat awkwardly.
Since they were standing in the way, people skirted
around them and walked to the other end of the platform,
occasionally stealing inquisitive looks back at them.
They were a rarity. An aggressive wind came from the
subterranean black hole from which the silver train
would emerge, blowing both their hair. Leaves swirled
and a few people started running down the stairs with a
sense of urgency.
Her train was
coming.
“Well I am going
to the East end. So I guess this is it.” His eyes stared
into hers with lots of unasked questions. They were
masked pools of turbulent emotions.
“Oh! I thought you
were going to the West end too.” She failed to hide the
inflection of distress in her voice.
“Sorry to
disappoint, but I am going to practice with my band in
the East end.”
“So you’re a
musician?” She asked stupidly trying to prolong the
conversation and spend a few more stolen moments with
him.
“I thought the
guitar gave me away.” He said with tongue in cheek
precision.
Touché.
“Sorry. That was a
stupid question. So what kind of music do you guys
play?”
“Anything from
jazz to soft rock.” He responded.
Why did she think
that it was heavy metal, techno or acid? She was
shocked, then she realized that it was ignorant of her
to make such assumptions. She of all people should know.
Some of the black people at her university had thought
she was stuck up because she loved classical music,
Shakespearean poetry and the opera. Forget Beethoven,
Pushkin and Measha Brueggergosman, there was some weird
unwritten rule that black people were not supposed to
listen to and read the finer things in life. They were
supposed to be glued to only hip hop, R&B and slapstick
African American novels with the same ghetto formula of
broken homes, broken relationships, broken marriages and
illegitimate babies. She preferred the Maya Angelous,
Isabelle Allendes, Nino Riccis, Austin Clarkes,
Langston Hughes and Wole Soyinkas of the world.
Besides she only shared the same interests as her
father, a romantic at heart who had raised her up by
taking her and the rest of the family to watch the
theatre and opera.
People could bite
her if they thought she was too bourgeois for them.
“So where do you
perform?”
“Anywhere we can
get a gig, like the Indian Motorcycle, Soular or
Revival….”
“I see.” She said,
calculating in her mind how she could see him again. She
wondered which nights they performed but she did not
want to come across as too forward.
“You’re an artist
too aren’t you?” He asked catching her off her guard. He
was very perceptive. She liked that.
“Yes. How did you
know?”
“Artists can
always tell. There is a certain flamboyant flair about
artists. It’s in our self-expression, how we dress and
our energy. ” He grinned again and she noticed for the
millionth time that he had dimples. She wanted to touch
them.
She wanted to
touch his ponytail. She wanted to wrap herself around
him and hold him forever. She felt the strong forces of
lust begin to flood her breasts and her groin area. But
before she could say anything, the train had stopped
behind her with a screeching sound and people had
started flowing in and out of it. For some reason she
did not take her bags from him, nor did he offer them to
her. A speck of dust landed in her hair. He removed his
sunglasses for the first time and his sparking candy
eyes soaked into hers seductively as he removed the
speck from her hair. It felt like he did it in slow
motion and time stood still. It was such a sensual,
intimate move that she felt a lurch in her ribcage. She
felt helpless as she was sucked into his universe
through the pool of his eyes. She almost felt as if she
had known him all her life. They just started at each
other, their eyes locked in a magical dance. They both
felt each others scents of sensuality.
The train left.
Then he blinked
and tried to shake off the sorcery of her gaze. But the
moment was much too poetic and he stumbled with his
words. They rushed out of his mouth in a bedazzled
stutter.
“Well. I am
running late so I will have to go then.” There was
regret in his eyes.
“Wait.” She opened
her purse and pulled out a pen. She had never done this
in her entire 24 years, but something deep in her veins
and nerves told her to do it. She pulled out a piece of
paper. It was her bus pass but she no longer needed it.
“If you do not mind, I would love to keep in touch.”
“Sure. I would
like that too. ” He said excitedly and took the paper
from her. He wrote down his name – Chris - and a
telephone number. From the number she could tell that he
lived in the Dufferin and St. Clair area. It was not
such a stretch from her apartment at Dundas West
Station. When he gave her back the jagged piece of
paper, their skins touched and they both recoiled as if
they had been scorched.
Forbidden love.
“I am Olenka.”
She introduced herself and they shook hands while
ignoring the electric sparks which they both felt. Then
she tore off a piece of paper and scribbled her name and
telephone number on it. She held out her hand and gave
it to him. His fingers curled around it as if it were a
national treasure.
Forbidden love.
“I am Chris. I
was not going to ask you for your number, because I was
not sure how you would react, but thanks. I shall be the
gentleman and call you first.”
An attractive
black guy in a gray suit walked past them and looked
Chris up and down with as much disrespect and disdain as
he could muster, his eyes not believing that this white
dude would have the audacity to talk to a black sister.
Then he gave Olenka the most lustful, sexual look he
could conjure up. It was a look of masculine ownership.
She noticed him from the corner of her eye and ignored
him. His lust then turned to icy, accusatory glares.
“Well it will be
nice if you call. I just want to be friends.” She lied.
“Me too.” He
lied back and smiled as a second train heading West
bound hurtled towards them They both knew that it was a
lie but they understood their secret code language. This
time he handed her back her bags and kissed her very
softly on the cheek, just a few millimeters shy of her
lips, igniting the flames of her lust even more. His
magnetic eyes said everything. They wanted to make love
to her. But instead he watched as she was swallowed up
by the train, waving at him until she disappeared.
When she found
her seat in the train, she told her heart not to expect
too much and convinced her body not to sit by the phone
and wait for his call. Men and women operated
differently and the last thing she wanted was to get
hurt. Already she had crossed the boundaries and made
the first move, something that she had never thought
herself capable of doing. She had hit on a guy and a
white one for that matter! So she went to her apartment
which she shared with two of her siblings and as she put
her groceries in her fridge and cupboards, she tried to
forget him.
She failed. She
was too feminine to do that. She was all hormones and
emotions. She was all heart and feelings like a typical
woman and so getting him out of her mind was an
impossibility she was going to have to deal with. So she
bit her nails and waited for the call as if her life
depended on it.
Chris was true
to his word. He called her that night.
Forbidden love.
The fifth time
they had made love his fingers had explored her long
lion’s mane in awe, exploring the wool texture which
identified her as a black woman. Her fingers had also
explored the slippery, silky softness of his hair,
appreciating the difference but feeling a slight kink in
them. His hair smelt of Head and Shoulders shampoo which
she inhaled as if it were a perfume. She liked all of
his different scents.
“I love your
hair you know.” He murmured in her ears seductively.
“It’s so beautiful.”
“For real?” She
was shocked.
“Of course. It’s
so amazing, so different.” He kissed her forehead and
massaged her scalp with the tips of his warm fingers.
She closed her eyes and relaxed against him. He was so
loving. She loved the fact that he was expressive and
was not caught up with the whole being
too-macho-to-show-his-sensitive-side revolution. She had
had enough of that.
“My last
boyfriend hated it. He was always trying to get me to
perm it.”
“He was insane,
drunk or high.”
She giggled.
“You know Chris,
you hair feels like a biracial person’s hair. If it were
not for your white skin I would wonder what’s in your
past.”
“Appearances are
deceiving aren’t they?” He mused with an amused tone.
“You are biracial but if anyone looked at you, one would
never know. I am not as lily white as you think, you
know.”
“No?” She raised
an arched eyebrow.
“No Olenka. My
family is the United Nations. I am part Native Indian,
Jewish, Irish, and my grandmother is a beautiful black
woman from Nova Scotia. You should come to our family
meetings and barbeques. You’d think you were at a United
Nations Convention.”
“Wow! I had no
idea.”
“That’s what
makes things interesting in this country. Things are not
what they seem. Canada is more multicultural than it
seems. Canadians are more mixed than it appears.” His
eyes met hers. “So according to the one drop rule...”
He rolled over
her, his masculinity covering her soft felineness and
started kissing her again. She permitted herself to be
caressed by his expert touch. One thing she had to hand
to him, because it was the fourth time they were making
love that night, was that when it came to making love,
he knew what he was doing. He brought out a wild side of
her that shocked her. She did not recognize the wild
nymphomaniac who had no regard for his neighbours as she
cried out loudly with passion in response to his loving
thrusts, but nobody had ever moved her in that way.
Forbidden love.
He stroked her
body slowly, his fingers and tongue traveling over her
mountains and valleys and exploring every single inch,
crevice and hollow of her body. He discovered even more
of her secret spots as he licked, kissed, sucked and
fondled her so that she opened up to him willingly. Her
entire body was filled with a universe of love. Gazing
deep into his eyes, into the vulnerability of his soul,
she could see that his love matched hers. When he
finally claimed her she was a trembling, hungry mass of
love and desire. She responded with an explosive energy
which she had never known she possessed. Female and
male, black and white. Now their bodies merged,
thrilling, throbbing, and she was black woman, welling
up inside, knowing for certain that no color could
overcome human emotion.
*
* * * *
Edited by Bruce
Cook of AuthorMe All rights reserved. No portion of this
work may be duplicated or copied without written
permission of the author
Copyright JMN Jane
Musoke-Nteyafasã2006
posted 31 March 2006 *
* * * *
updated 22
October 2007 |
