Nala had a taste for all women. The whole-body arousal she felt at the sight of her girlfriend, for example, made her sure she was on the right side of the rainbow. The couple of them were in Johannesburg for a wedding. Nala’s childhood friend was tying the knot.
It’s no wonder then that staying in her childhood bedroom seemed to increase the volume of a small, doubtful voice in Nala’s head. One she’d ignored for years. The familiar voice whispered the little heteronormative stories, hoping to sow doubt where love lived.
The voice was persistent. Yet Nala was a woman of reason. As she reasonably saw it, the issue was that sexuality is a retroactive label. Rather than predicting who you might find arousing next, it merely provides a historical perspective of who she had ‘known’ already… carnally and otherwise.
If she framed it that way, she could almost count the moments that led her to her awakening—the seven beautiful sirens on Nala’s road to herself…
The First Try
It was 2002 and in a small playground in a big African city, a few ten-year-old girls were giggling and playing. None of them was any taller than a kitchen sink. One little girl had the most beautiful, little, cherub face surrounded by brown tufts of recently dreadlocked hair. It was she who suggested that the girls play a game… Hide and Seek. As the counter began, the cherub-faced girl and Nala found themselves scrambling for a place to hide. Both girls found themselves sharing a hiding place. Their cramped spot behind the school building was small but not quite small enough to warrant the close contact the girls had grown to prefer between them. Their giggling became more muffled, held back in fear of being found.
‘Shhhh….’
The cherub’s face stopped all her giggling for a second, then awkwardly reached forward and touched her lips against Nala’s lips. It stunned little Nala but felt nice nonetheless. The space between the girls felt instantly warmed. As the intimate moment lingered, the cherub stayed a moment longer in a close, intimate vicinity. The girls looked at each other for a moment, comfortable though with limited understanding of what was happening between them.
‘I found you!’ the little girl in a blue shirt could be heard shouting so near them. She was thrilled with herself.
Her interjection broke the spell between the girls. Whatever spirit had caught them, just as suddenly, let them go again. The cherub girl broke away first, moving away from their physical contact bubble. A ray of light was coming through an adjacent classroom window and the reflection was beautiful, angelic almost. She decided to follow the light and scurried out of their spot. Her small figure could be seen running towards the grassy knoll where more of the other girls were waiting.
Nala paused then caught herself. Neither girl told anyone about their shared moment.
The Second Attempt
The same girls, both less cherub-faced now, wiggled their shoulders lazily to the tune coming out of the subwoofer loudspeakers. The melodic chords of 2Face’s African Queen were rousing the group to sing along with the dancehall tune’s chorus. Both girls were teenagers now, so the whole experience was mortifying for them. Their moms didn’t care and were singing and gyrating their hips on the makeshift dance floor in the decorated and tented area.
This year’s neighborhood New Year’s Eve party was themed – ‘The Year of Love’. As a new calendar year beckoned, the crowd of dressed-up children and a teenaged Nala were given carbonated grape juice while the adults scrambled to refill their glasses of champagne. The host was pouring as fast as she could while repeating, ‘It is almost time! Get topped up everyone!’
Nala went towards the pouring host to refill both girls’ glasses. While Nala watched, a little absent-minded, the hostess gleefully filled each glass about halfway with the grape juice. She got to Nala’s glasses eventually. While pouring, she winked at Nala as she finished off her glass with a splash of the alcoholic stuff. Typical permissive parenting, a grumpy Nala thought. Still, she gleefully took the drink back to where the two girls had taken to sitting, far from the cringe effect of their respective parents.
More distant from the noise now, the girls still heard the DJ yelling “Ten minutes!” from the front of the party. A teenage nonchalance filled their reactions to this. Cool as cucumbers.
In silence and while watching an unintelligible gay movie on a mounted screen, each girl sipped their first sips of the mysterious drinks gingerly. The irony of watching something so explicitly queer while both of them struggled through their on-again-off-again feelings for each other was nearly too much. In silence, both sipped again. The drink was pink, bubbly, and somewhat unfamiliar. One of them was encountering the taste of alcohol for the very first time. Neither girl found that she liked the weird mix very much. As if inspired by the screen, and with the backing vocal of the party, one of them finally caught the courage to say it. She whispered, ‘So, can I kiss you?’
She is met with a gleeful and careful affirmative.
The first one was timid, but the second kiss was deeper and awakened something in Nala. She felt heat pulsing straight from her hips, up into her belly and settled into her chest for the first time. The pulsing blood in her veins urged her closer towards the girl, with a ferocity reserved for use by the teenage hormonal body.
Nala shifted her body, still attached at the lips, so she sat straddling the girl’s lap. The girl helped Nala into a comfortable seat then lowered her head down and blew warm, soft kisses down Nala’s exposed neck. It was delicious. Grinding Nala’s hips down and in, the girl pushed her own hips upwards to meet Nala’s own in urgency. With a handful of Nala’s thighs in hand, she squeezed the flesh. More of this before she moved her hand slowly towards the button on Nala’s jeans. She paused on the button, kissing Nala again; this time with significantly less shyness. She was sure that this felt right. It showed in how her tongue moved slowly, torturously so, as they savored each other’s warmth and wetness. Fingers still on the jeans button, the girl paused their kiss to ask for permission to open them. To taste Nala… finally.
But before she got an answer, they both heard the sound of someone knocking at the door.
‘It’s me, Uncle Brian!’ said the gravelly voice from behind the door.
‘…WAIT!’
‘…’
Panicking, Nala hurried to slide off the girl’s lap and back on to the couch. She was just quick enough. Uncle Brian was slow and the meat platter in his hands made his movements more cumbersome. It bought the girls a few moments. Eventually, Uncle Brian walked into the room. He froze, briefly seeming to understand what he may have walked into. Instantly, the girls felt white-hot shame spread at the prospect of being found out. Nala’s heart was beating, galloping so hard that it felt like it was insisting on leaving her chest.
Uncle Ben looked around, looked at the girls, and noticed the frazzled girls’ clothes. Not well known for an ability to read the room, Brian chose ignorance and leaned into his most offensive stereotypes, saying ‘Were you talking about boys? I can tell you about boys.’
‘Yes, tell us about boys!’ Nala responded, eager to deflect.
‘Did you know boys don’t like girlswhoowntheirbodiesormighthave…,’ Brian prattled on, returning to the comforting and understandable relationship scripts of his world. And yet for the girls, their eye contact barely concealed their still-burning desire for one another. Neither girl was listening to poor Brian.
On his third monologue about what boys might want (and really, who cares?), Brian seemed to ask the girls a question and genuinely expected an answer. By then the girls were sitting side by side on the couch and looked passably platonic. ‘Yeah, Uncle Brian! Imagine that?’ Nala said, fake knowingly. She had no idea what he had said.
It was enough dialogue for Brian to launch into another background noise monologue.
Nala noticed something while he spoke; her lips tingle. Perhaps the drink mix was playing Cupid, summoning love using champagne. Or was it the kiss that made the tingling happen? Who could tell? Either way, it felt enchanted. Serendipitous.
And as a new intimacy unfurled itself between them, the girls settled into the party and into themselves. Awkwardly at first then like old lovers, they danced the night away.
The Third Base
Nala’s Third walked into the Moroccan antique shop where Nala worked in high school to earn some extra money. It was the Moroccan girl’s uncle’s shop, yet Nala had never spoken to her during her prior visits. They even went to the same school, but Nala was quiet, and the Moroccan had just joined the school.
Usually, only her uncle spoke to the girl and always so in Arabic. One day when she came shuffling in after her uncle had already left, it was a surprise to see her come in loaded heavily with new art supplies. Quickly, she realized her new A1-sized canvas bag was too wide for the narrow slips of the over-packed antique shop. After an awkward attempt to wiggle it through, she seemed to finally concede defeat.
‘Sorry, where can I put this down?’ she asked Nala. Nala looked up and saw that her only customer was looking flustered. Nala got on her feet from the cushioned chair to help her customer. Five strides later, Nala reached where the Moroccan stood and offered her a hand to unload the canvas bag on to. Up close like that, Nala caught a whiff of the vanilla body spray that intensified as the Moroccan girl tried to pass in front of her in the narrow slip path. Both girls held their breaths, hoping not to break anything. This close, Nala noticed how the Moroccan had pitch-black hair that escaped her two vertical cornrows and formed soft, dark ringlets around her olive skin. Nala found herself thinking that she was beautiful, feeling mesmerized by the close-up view she had been gifted by fate. Both girls got through and the Moroccan got to the back of the shop with her supplies safely. Still, that close contact moment had done something to Nala. Suddenly made more aware of herself by a desire to get closer to the girl, Nala toyed with the possibilities in her head. She’s gotta be straight, right? Unable to answer definitively, she decided to think no further about it.
Like other friendships, the kind gesture was enough to enamor Nala to the Moroccan. It was her who suggested their exchange of cell numbers. After a lot of texting and memes, their friendship began to grow into something else. Before either noticed, their time during school and after school was spent together or texting one another. When their grades slipped from the divided attention, Nala threw herself more fervently into their budding romance.
“Truth or Dare?”, the Moroccan said in her accented way during a lazy Friday afternoon in February. The girls were alone in the shop.
“Dare!”
‘Hmmmm…. Kiss me?’
‘Sure, on the cheek?’
‘Anywhere you want….’ she said, in a closer whisper.
Nala paused, then burst out in a disbelieving giggle. She looked into the Moroccan girl’s big brown eyes to make sense of the request’s seriousness. Nothing showed on her face but earnestness. Determined to give one more benefit of the doubt to the platonic connotations, Nala quipped, ‘That’s your real dare?’
The Moroccan girl looked at Nala, serious as ever. She nodded. Then she held Nala’s gaze as the full moment descended on them both. The Moroccan girl had unmasked their shared, haphazardly hidden desire for something more. Definitely not straight, Nala thought. The shift in the room was palpable.
Not one to back down, Nala conceded, ‘Okay. Come here.’
Nala reached out to the little ringlet of hair, while moving her body into the space between them. Less than a breath from the Moroccan’s face, Nala paused and looped that ringlet behind the girl’s ear. She saw the Moroccan closed her eyes. Enjoying the touch, it was only a moment before she was purring and nestling her cheek into the palm of Nala’s hand. Nala could feel the temperature of the girl’s breath as she looked into her eyes and leaned in to kiss her softly. She touched her delicately. Then soon, their tongues were in a soft and sensual twirl that seemed to last a century.
The Fourth Wall
A statuesque Congolese woman used to cosplay on Titillating Tuesdays, as Le Sapeuse* at the local club on Bree Street. “When she finishes her shift, she is known to take a woman or two home,” was all Nala’s friend had to say to convince her to go see the show. By then it was common knowledge that her love for Janet Jackson had snowballed into a love of all ostentatiously erotic women.
On Tuesday night when she went to see Le Sapeuse, Congo Brazzaville was celebrating another decade of independence from colonial rule. Everyone was in high spirits. Chez Ntumba, the club the masculinized woman performed at, was pulsating with wet bodies and the animated hordes of faces and limbs endemic of the best Afrobeats dance floor in the city.
Later that night, when Le Sapeuse kissed Nala and moved downwards from her belly, she found herself pulsating for more as if kissed by the god of abundance Herself. Le Sapeuse’s agile, muscular body moved so her arms captured Nala’s thighs in a tight embrace. Being pinned down made Nala aroused, arousing the performer too. She took her time and that mattered. That night, Nala came to learn about the important role that paving plays in intimacy. Her imagination was captured for hours as she languishingly kissed, licked, fucked, and ducked her way down the path of hedonistic desire. Le Sapeuse played only in the realm beyond the point of tempered tastes. She wanted it all.
That night, Nala celebrated as if Congo was her homeland too.
The Fifth Toe
When Nala was of age for university, she picked a school in a faraway province from her home. She wanted to explore her identity without the burden of people who knew her before. So, it was hardly a surprise when she found herself lonely there. Attempting to cure this, she went online and made a connection. The woman she connected with was interesting and joked about being “silly in the mind”. Whatever that meant, the jokes made Nala laugh, even if awkwardly. She was a bit older than Nala and she described a sorrowful life with a frigid husband who barely touched her.
In her husband’s defense, her proclivities were a bit… novel. When the two of them were intimate, she seemed to find new and inventive ways for every act to lead to her putting Nala’s feet in her mouth. Or in her pussy. Sometimes, she decided on one for each.
When Nala told her college friends about this woman, they unanimously agreed that this is why women should avoid dating online. The creeps are all over, they warned. They seemed to hint that continuing to see this woman might be too risky. By then though, Nala was enchanted by the sparkle in the woman’s eye when she got her way, seeing the deep satisfaction spread on her face as she flicked her tongue expertly over the smooth ridges of Nala’s pedicured feet. In essence, she did not want to stop. And she did not.
Something was alluring to Nala about someone with such deep passion channeled so singularly. Even if that singular passion was one’s feet. Soon Nala found an appreciable sensuality that was building up in her, every time they met. Yes, there were no orgasms for Nala, but long nights spent in foot worship would become thrilling voyages through a buffet of God-like treatment that Nala could grow accustomed to. From this place, Nala found herself a deep eroticism in their encounters.
On account of her marriage, the woman had created a rule to avoid kissing “too much”. She had not given a specific criteria for “too much” so Nala avoided initiating their kissing at all, lest she find the limit to be one single kiss. She let the older woman take the lead there.
After weeks of worship, they finally kissed. The woman was generous enough, but the cool touch of her lips was unmistakably not Nala’s preference. It seemed the frigidity had been transmitted to her, even if non-sexually. Soon after, Nala chose to end their relations.
The (Non) Sixth
<<<<Text message from Nala to Sinawo, 07/11/2011 at 3:47 AM >>>>
‘You know, I almost kissed her, that little ex-girlfriend of yours.
We just went on a date.
The one you cheated on me with? Her.
She’s lovely, by the way.
It isn’t a reason for your actions, but I like that about her.
She smells like cinnamon.
But taste? She tastes like infidelity to me. Grainy and so boring that she made me want to choke to death on my wine tonight.
I think it is ironic that she ripped your heart to shreds so soon after me.
I hope you’re happy together because you deserve each other.
I hope she breaks your heart again, and again, and I hope just one of her contact points will make up for what you’ve done.
I’ll cut my hand off Crucible-style before I reach for you ever again.
I’m glad I never got to kiss you; I might’ve found your poison sooner and with fewer antidotes available to me.
Good riddance.’
On the Seventh Kiss to Heaven
At the big, lilac-lined venue hall, Nala was ready to retire to her room for the night. Her girlfriend Tati was her date and they wore matching outfits. They looked like the perfect pair.
When she finally found her, Tati was looking into the large bathroom mirror and admiring herself. Tati had on a red dress that hugged every curve down her curvy, sexy frame. The dress pulled the viewer into tracing a long, A-line from her waist down to her legs. Red platforms adorned her feet. The softly flopped cowl neckline accentuated her decolletage beautifully. And since Tati didn’t believe in bras, her burnt, sugar-brown bare nipples were slightly visible as two circular traces. To top it off, the luxurious, buttery fabric of the dress made Tati look polished and very nearly edible. Her confidence did the rest as she held her head high and deftly leaned forward to peer closer into the bathroom mirror. She was slowly and seductively reapplying her lip gloss. She could feel Nala looking and had decided to make her wait.
Nala walked down the stairs from the entrance to the sinks and stood at the adjourning hand basin. She stared and waited, admiring her girl before she sprayed hand wash from the dispenser and into her hand. Nala took her focus towards washing her hands properly, while intentionally saying nothing to her still-performing girlfriend. Finished with the wash and rinse, she took a slow minute to stack the rings that usually adorned her hands. Nala’s motions were slow as she felt Tati’s gaze now. Their eyes met as Nala put on the last ring.
‘I like your dress,’ Nala said, ‘…and I like you in it. Do you think I can take you out of it though?’
Like the seasoned hands of a lover well-known, Nala made quick work of Tati’s dress and hiked it up to her hips. With Tati bent over the sink, Nala leaned in to give her a big, wet, sloppy kiss.
–
Several hours later, Nala heard Tati softly sigh and then snuggle deeper into their embrace. It was her favorite way to spend her Saturday morning.
The room around them was a mess with the dresses and rings of the night before, haphazardly strewn across the orange bedspread. And of course, the red poster of Janet Jackson’s Control cover adorning the wall caught her eye again. Maybe Janet was her white rabbit all along, she thought. Then she trailed back to sleep.
[Note: Le Sapeuse, or sapeur, is a woman in the Congolese fashion and performance subculture of dandies. It is a type of street fashion that reimagines the European suit-and-tie into a colorful, unmistakably African dance and flare routine. Some women use it as a way to redraw the lines of gender and reverse unequal power dynamics. See Tariq Zaidi’s shots of sapeurs here.]
