The world must be coming to an end because I signed myself up for conversion therapy on purpose.
And now that I’m here, I’m wondering what kind of madness possessed me to even consider it.
Still questioning my life choices, I only half-listen as the solemn, well-dressed receptionist guides us through the registration forms. I already filled one out online and have no idea why we’re required to do it again, but I don’t complain. After all, nobody is forcing me to be here. After she takes the forms from us, she informs us that she will come back for us in fifteen minutes to meet the Bishop for a preliminary group session.
When she leaves, nobody speaks. The other six girls and I return to silence, avoiding any acknowledgement of each other.
I have been to several of these places before, but this is the first time I have chosen to. It had been marketed as a non-judgemental, voluntary conversion therapy. Only adults could register, and you had to come on your own. That made it much different from the ones I was forced to attend when I still lived with my parents. Given my awful experiences, it’s hard to believe I’d choose to be here, but here I am.
I look around the waiting room, which has been decorated with pastels, presumably to make the atmosphere soft and exude calming vibes. If our demeanour is any indication, I don’t believe it works. Apart from the colours, the room looks much like any business waiting room with a reception desk and foldable, white plastic chairs in six columns and two rows facing the desk. The chairs are surprisingly comfortable, so I don’t have to move my ass around intermittently to find comfort for my generous tush as I usually do in plastic chairs. The other six girls and I are seated as far from each other as possible, which is ridiculous. And I was here first, so I didn’t contribute to the seating arrangement.
As I sit there waiting, it occurs to me for the hundredth time that I may have made a mistake coming here. What am I hoping to gain? Certainly not what this place promises. There’s a little niggling voice that says, Stop capping. You know exactly why you’re here.
I think about leaving. After all, it’s not too late to regain control of my senses before they try to corrupt me. Before I can turn thought into action, the main door opens, and she enters. I swear the energy in the room shifts. For me, anyway.
She’s small, or what you would call petite or cute. She’s styled her hair in a medium tapered cut and dyed it ginger. I would bet she had taken quite a while to style her hair for the curls to pop just so. She is dressed in loose denim jeans that perfectly fit her hips and a plain white cropped T-shirt with a v-neck, which accentuates her creamy chocolate boobs. She also has a row of three glittering studs in each ear and a small chain with another glittering stud as a pendant around her neck to perfect the look.
“Hi!” she greets as her eyes scan the silent room.
Her demeanour makes me wonder why she’s here or even if she knows what is happening here. She reminds me of someone, but right now, I can’t remember who.
“Hi”, I wave back with noticeably less excitement, but that satisfies her, and she rewards me with a dimpled smile.
Of course, I’m the only one who answers her. The others look away when she turns her attention to them.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not as if you can catch the gay by talking to me. We all have the same disease.”
That makes me snort out loud, but I cover it with a cough. The sly look she aims my way tells me that I’m not fooling her.
I like this girl. I like her a lot, I think, even though we just met and I don’t even know her name. There’s something likeable about her, and again, I try to tease the memory of who she reminds me of out of my brain.
She smiles when she catches me watching her, and I don’t look away.
Since I am the only person acknowledging her, she sits on the empty seat on my right.
“What is happening? Are we just waiting here?” she asks.
“You’re late,” I inform her. “We have already filled out some forms and the receptionist has taken them inside. They will call us inside soon for our first group session.”
“How long has the receptionist been gone?”
I look at the wooden clock above the receptionist’s desk and frown when I notice how long it has been. “About thirty minutes. She said she would call us in fifteen minutes. Perhaps they’re still preparing the meeting room.”
She shrugs like she doesn’t care either way and announces, “I’m bored.”
I snort, thinking again that this girl reminds me of someone, but my memory is still blank. She hasn’t been here for even five minutes, and she is already bored.
I am bored too, I realise — bored with the whole situation. Watching the other girls who are still silently listening to our conversation but are pretending not to, I think that I don’t belong here. I don’t belong here with women who are still figuring themselves out. I don’t belong with women who are still ashamed of who they prefer in their hearts and their beds. No, I don’t belong here with women who are too afraid to catch each other’s eyes out of fear of a misinterpretation. I have gone through all those stages and reached acceptance. No amount of desire will change who I desire, and there is no prayer or therapy powerful enough to make the gay go away.
My attention returns to the girl, whose name I still don’t know. She doesn’t belong here either, I think, as she fidgets on the plastic chair with barely concealed energy.
“I’m hungry,” she announces now, even though she has been there all of ten minutes. “Want to go grab a bite?”
She doesn’t say it in a low tone. Her voice isn’t loud either; it just carries because of the silence in the room.
A chuckle escapes me even as I notice the other girls watching her with varying levels of shock, bewilderment, and a bit of envy. I wonder again why she even came to such a place. She belongs here even less than I do.
“You just came in. How are you already hungry?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “There is something about these places that makes me hungry.”
At first, I think she’s joking, but her expression tells me that she’s serious. Then it hits me. This isn’t her first time at conversion therapy either. She acts jaded and unimpressed because she is, in fact, jaded and unimpressed.
“Why did you come here?” I cannot resist asking.
Sometimes, words come out of my mouth before I think about their appropriateness. This is one of those times. I open my mouth to apologise for my question. After all, it is a somewhat stupid question. We all know the reason we are here.
She grins cheekily before I can apologise and exclaims, “Good question!” Then she turns around in her seat to fully face me.
“Well, the simple answer would be that I am here for conversion therapy. But the real question is, am I here because I want to be converted, here because I believe I should be converted, or did I come because others think I should be converted?”
She pauses as if waiting for an answer, then grins. “If you guessed number three, you’re right! I am here to mark attendance to appease my mother. The poor woman believes I have been cursed by my father’s family. Now that I’ve been here, I can tell her that I made the effort. However, the spirit of conversion did not enter me. Eventually, she will have to accept that the “curse” from my father’s side is too powerful and just give up.”
A girl in a red dress two seats away snorts out loud, then covers her mouth in dismay. I can see varying looks of disapproval and scandalousness on the faces of the other girls. I wonder if this is their first time in any kind of conversion therapy. Do they feel guilt for their “taboo desires” and truly believe they can be cured of their affliction?
“So? Wanna eat something?” my petite new friend asks again, drawing my attention back to her.
With an arched brow, I stared at her until she realised what she just said. She laughs when she gets it. “Food! I mean real food with chicken and stuff,” she clarifies. “There’s a KFC right next door.”
Biting back a smile, I rise from my seat. “Alright. I’m actually hungry. For food,” I clarify when a teasing glint appears in her eyes.
I hadn’t been hungry before, but now that she has mentioned KFC, I feel a craving for their chicken burger wrap.
We’re almost at the door when the receptionist bursts into the room, her hair slightly askew and fingers still buttoning the last of her shirt buttons. “Miss! Madam! The session is ready to start!”
We all stare at her in surprise and confusion. Where has she been, and why does she look so messy now? Her lipstick is smudged, and as she tries to fix herself, I realise what she’s been doing. The irony of the situation almost makes me laugh. We came here to be “purified” and here were the Bishop and the young receptionist playing hanky-panky at the office. And I am pretty sure I saw on the website that he was married with two kids around the same age as her.
“Is this the receptionist?” my new friend asks me.
“Yes,” I respond, wondering what she will do.
She smiles at the woman. “We’re good, thank you. We decided that we don’t need to be converted after all. We’re going out for lunch. Wanna come? No? Okay, have a wonderful day!”
The receptionist watches her in open-mouthed dismay as she drags me through the door after a quick wave. I can’t help but laugh and wonder if perhaps my new friend is a little crazy.
And then it hits me who she reminds me of. She reminds me of Missy, my cousin Fafa’s toy poodle — in a good way. Missy is small, adorable, bold, and just a little bit crazy.
“Why were you there?” she asks as we walk out of the building. “You never told me your reasons.”
“I was curious,” I tell her honestly. “I saw it online and wanted to know if it would be different from the other places I was forced to when I was younger or feel different if it was my choice. Perhaps I will write an article about my experiences one day.”
“Have you been to many?” she asks as we walk the short distance to KFC.
“Yes, but I believe this will be my last. I don’t think any of them have anything different to offer. And frankly, I‘m not interested in what they have to offer anyway.”
“What about what I have to offer?” she asks, a cheeky grin in place.
I glance at her. “That sounds much more interesting.”
As we walk in companionable silence towards the red, white and black building, I sigh in relief and self-acceptance, knowing that I am done doubting myself and who I am. “Missy” is ahead of me, and before she opens the door to enter, she glances back. “Hey, what’s your name?”
“Wendy”, I tell her. “And you?”
“I’m Afia. Wendy, I’m glad I went to conversion therapy today.”
I never thought I would ever say this, but I chuckle and tell her. “Yeah, me too.”
