Written by Mercy Williams
Beauty And The Beholder
The woman stands at the balcony and holds a bouquet of roses to her nose. She exhales softly with satisfaction and smirks at the golden sunset before her. Her visitor, a man in his mid-40s clad in a navy blue urban traditional Yoruba senator-style outfit, smokes his pipe, completely enthralled by the woman on the balcony.
“You’re beautiful…” he blurts out confidently.
Silence.
She lets out a long sigh and keeps looking beyond the balcony’s glass balustrade. She doesn’t look back at him. Doesn’t acknowledge his words; doesn’t stir.
“I know,” she finally responds while watching the clouds float across the purplish-orange skyline. She runs her forefinger along the petals of each flower.
“…and so is this gift you brought for me. Very beautiful.”
Danielle gets up and towers over the seated gentleman in her white silk robe. It accentuates her slender body and tiny waist. Then she returns her gaze to something at the balcony that he can’t quite place. Is it the garden? Or the skies? The man wonders. The man is completely distracted by this woman’s physique and she seems to be aware of it. “But what I don’t know is why beauty in itself feels like such a transient, fleeting thing…” she continues.
“Or is it all just in my head?” She turns and faces him, orange streaks of sunset curving themselves around her hips and poking her visitor’s eyes.
“Have you ever thought that my beauty would last forever, Mr Olabode?” Her voice is calm and soft but interrogative.
For the first time since he’d walked into the apartment, her full bosom and hardened nipples came into view. He avoids staring directly, adjusts his glasses, and sits up.
“What would you hold on to if something tampers with it? Would you still want me, or would you walk away?”
A deeper silence seems to swell into the room, and the man suddenly looks uneasy. “What happened, Mr Olabode? Cat caught your tongue?” she chuckles and walks over to the dining area.
“Men! You’re all the same, aren’t you?” She pulls and pops the cork of a wine bottle. “All you want is a pretty face without knowing how to manage the entire package that comes with it.”
The fizzling sound of the golden-coloured alcohol flowing into a glass cup melds itself into the now tense atmosphere. Danielle walks over to her console and turns on the speaker. She plays one of her all-time favourite songs by Beyoncé.
As the song intro plays, she closes the balcony doors as well as the curtains and leaves the room dimly lit by her vintage lampshade, which doubles as a centrepiece.
“I’ve been drinking, I’ve been drinking
I get filthy when that liquor get into me
I’ve been thinking, I’ve been thinking….”
Danielle struts over to Mr Olabode, who quietly takes in the almost poetic performance as he struggles not to let his primordial lustful instincts take over.
She takes the pipe from him, inhales deeply and takes off his jacket as she lets the smoke escape through the tiny outlets of her perfect little buttoned nose. She picks his hands and hands him the silk belt of her robe to pull lightly. As the almost piece of transparent clothing falls to the ground, she grabs him and feels him harden while the music hits a sharp crescendo —….
“…Last thing I remember is our beautiful bodies grinding up in that club
Drunk in love
We be all night, love, love.”
A Girl’s Girl
Your best friend is a good girl. Seemingly naive. Innocent. But not untouched.
You know desire when you see it. Staring back at you through the burning eyes of your best friend. Fiery. A quiet girl locked behind the bars in her brick-walled mind; a quiet girl who sees much but says little. A good girl. Hungry for a fire that started years ago, before she met you.
One sunny afternoon, when her parents were out, the housegirl stretched herself into her, started an insatiable flame, left her to shrivel up, and made her swear to silence. But she learnt to thrive in it, you see.
Your best friend is a good girl. Innocent.
But
not
untouched.
One who has seen much but has said very little about any of it. Burning with a fire that started long ago, hungry with the same desire the housegirl had. And she is sitting right in front of you, eyes boring into yours.
You know desire when you see it, but do you know what to do when it’s focused in your direction?
What does your grief taste like?
Is it like your five daughters being sold to Chief Kachi and his two sons for one meagre plot of land?
Or the streams of salt and water that waste away through your tired tear glands and overworked body?
Is it like your husband’s concubines, mocking you day after day for his failed attempts at marital fidelity?
Or the evidence of your marriage vows that now sits forgotten on a dusty shelf in a corner of your room?
Is it like your husband’s mother hurling curses at you because your womb has refused to bless her with a grandson?
Or the voice of your own mother’s spirit confessing that this life, this hard life of yours, was a promise she made to the gods with two feathers and a red cloth by the sacred river if and only if they would give her a male child, your now successful brother, Ikenna?
Grey Areas
When people told you that you had swapped places with an orphan, you laughed.
It seemed absurd that one day, you would become the wife of a man who was never truly yours.
And it seemed even more absurd to think that, within the same time frame, an orphan boy, your driver, would slip into your home and into the hidden corners of your lover’s life.
But see now, death isn’t the only thing that can take a person away from you.
Look how this little orphan boy came into your house under the guise of loyalty and took your man away from you.
You see him draping his arms over the boy, like dripping ice cream over a crisp cone.
Look how his selfish desires threaten the love he once promised you, while you slowly wilt away in this puddle of loneliness you now find yourself in.
Do you hold onto the semblance of a marriage, preserving your dignity? Or do you confront the unbearable truth, risking everything? You wonder helplessly.
You know you must pick one, despite the pain that accompanies each option.
You must make a decision. No grey areas.
About the Writer
Mercy Williams is a multi-passionate creative whose non-linear career blends storytelling, product design, and advocacy, with a gift for writing everything from scripts and poetry to essays and fiction. As the founder of Denlaa Creative, she nurtures a vibrant community of African storytellers, using her layered voice to immerse, disrupt, and leave a lasting impression. She is on the writing track for the 2025 Adventures Creators Programme.
