Vulnerability and Laughter
The joy of sisterhood
On a bed surrounded with novels, lying down on my left side totally lost in the words I was scribbling in my book.
I was wearing sweatpants and a crop top that to me was my comfortable gear but one that actually showed off my sexuality in a way I could never see and would never understand. In the background my laptop was opened to Spotify playing sweetly to my favorite playlist while the sound of rain drummed softly on my window.
But somehow when I looked at the image Chisom had painted of me it was something or someone totally different I saw.
She had managed to make my eyes look haunted even while I looked like I was content with my world. My left hand continually disturbing my short curl of hair while my right hand was busy scribbling away.
My long and scattered lashes covered my eyes slightly, but it couldn't cover completely the haunting look in them.
My midriff was exposed from where the crop top stopped and by some design, the waist of my sweatpant was a little bit lower from my waistline showing the beginning of the boxers short I wore inside, which in a way draw focus to my pierced navel in a kind of not so casual way I've come to see it as.
The deep blue sweatpant I was wearing stopped well above my ankles showing that I've outgrown it long ago but I couldn't bring myself to stop wearing it because the material had always felt like my second skin, warming me up and making me feel like I don't have to wear anything else as long as I have it.
Above my ankles my beloved sweatpant stopped, revealing the double-silver anklet I wore on both ankles. I don't know how Chisom did it but the anklets shined in a way that made my green painted toenails look…different in a good way.
I looked at her and then again at the image sitting on her work table, and tried to look at it from another perspective, thinking I will stop seeing what she had intended to be seen and I will just see my normal self.
But I kept seeing what she had painted, how she had made my ginger colored hair compliment the nude of the crop top I wore and my dark skin in a way that almost looked like I had been born with that color of hair. How my sweatpant hanging below my waist looked normal like I've always worn it like that, and the anklets shining at my ankles look more than a piece of cheap jewelry.
The books all around me made it too real in a very disconcerting way, because I remember clearly it had been just like that when I was writing earlier.
My best friend of ten years has always been a genius when it comes to painting on canvas or doodling on paper and I've loved everything she ever created with her hands, but somehow this recent work of hers isn't sitting well with me.
I felt like she had captured something I wasn't comfortable with anybody else seeing, which made me berate myself for getting lost in the world of my own making that I didn't realize Chisom was finally living in one of her longtime wish – to paint a full image of me awake when I was unaware of anyone around and couldn't plaster my this-is-me face that I always manage to wear anytime I'm with people aside from her.
I felt kind of betrayed by the painting which is why I replied darkly to her gleeful question of "so what do you think" with "it's distasteful."
Anybody else would have been hurt by that I believe, but Chisom being Chisom threw her braided head back and let out a joyful laughter. "This," she said, pointing to the painting "my friend is our ticket to the future we've always dreamed of because this is what I'm showing to that gallery owner on the island we met last week that wanted to see one of my best work, and I've decided that this is my best."
Before I could tell her my displeasure at that she rushed on to say, "I also know you've written a masterpiece to submit to that online publication by the way you got lost and didn't realize I was painting you till I called out your name, because I know none of the inspirational maguire to aspire you've always written could get you that deep."
I probably should be angry at how she just described my writings, but I was flushed with shame and guilt at the reminder of what I had just written.
"Oh Tamilore Gbaja I could see pink painted all over your dark face. What did you write?" She asked me, her voice sounding mischievous.
I tried stepping around her to go back to my side of the room but she grabbed my wrists and held on tight while still piercing me with her gaze until I squirmed and said grudgingly "I wrote a fiction."
I tried making it sound like no big deal but she saw right through me, "...and this fiction is about?" she prompted, her eyes searching me out.
Not able to stand her inquisitive eyes any longer I blurted "I wrote about the one night stand you had with that cute stranger you told me about last year."
I waited for her to tell me I had no business writing about that, but I should have known better because again, she threw her head back to laugh like a drunk.
"You are weird." I told her in-between her laughter.
"Oh baby, you like me weird." She retorted.
And taking me totally by surprise, she lifted me off of my feet and swinged me around. Laughing like she just won a lottery. I looked down at her and it just felt wrong not to be as happy as she was, so also throwing back my head I laughed at our silliness.
Suddenly exhausted, we fell on our ass looking at the painting of me she just made on her worktable.
"I have a feeling about this Tamilore, a good sweet feeling." She said breathlessly.
"I hope you feel that same way when you read what I wrote about you," I said.
"I actually told you that with the hope that it will put you in your writing zen and you will create a masterpiece just like I know you can." She said grinning at me. "But it took you ten months to do it and I can't wait to read it."
I frowned at her. Looked at her sheepish smile and said, "Again, you are weird. But maybe I love you."
"No maybe about it babe" she said standing up and going towards the bathroom, "you love me just like I do you. Let me put on a little makeup and we can go get a cute cake and ice cream to celebrate the beginning of our future"
I looked at her, her short silk gown swirling to the movement of her curved hips, and wondered not for the first time why she is not using her beautiful tall frame, clear golden skin and curvy body as a fashion model.
Sighing, I looked back at the painting of me and thought to myself maybe this will really be the beginning of the future we dreamt of many years ago while putting up with every shit our lecturers threw at us…
I wrote this with three of my beautiful female friends in mind; Halima, Ibukun and Tomiwa. I hope you see a little bit of yourself in Chisom…don't come and ask me to explain 😏
