CHOCOLATE LOVER

Image- "Good Hair" by Lolita Lorenzo

5 ft 10 inches tall, with skin the color of Ivorian cocoa beans, Brown eyes lined with the color of charcoal, and if you stared into them long enough, you'd see the reflection of your soul. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. Her eyes were the window to the universe. And it takes a lot of discipline not to get lost in them.

Full lips, and a mouth that has a lot to say to the Gods and the world, A bosom made specially by a generous God. When she walked, hips the size of a river Zambesi tributary swayed, beckoning on all who cared to look. It's an ode to the beauty and wonders of nature. Her soft sonorous voice echoed long after she was gone. leaving an after-audio, you craved to savor. It reminded you why the woman was made.

On the day Luke first ran into her in the elevator, He could not help but stare and then, apologized profusely. She was gracious, accepted the apologies in good faith, and introduced herself with the confidence of her ancestral warriors.

"They call me Amaka," she said with a mischievous undertone. "Pleased to meet you."
"Are you sure? he joked. Some creep ogling you"
She chuckled.
"But decent enough to apologize."
"Thank you for being so gracious. They call me Luke." 
"Like one of Christ's disciples? 
"Yes,  but far from being a disciple."
"New in the building?
"Yes. You?

" Lived here a year"

The elevator stopped at her floor. She wished him a good day. Stilettoes clicked the tiled floors as she walked to her apartment. Looked back, and there he was, hands hung limply by his sides as he stared after her, drooling all over himself.

"Ameeka" he called out
"Damn! she muttered under her breath, no matter how simple an African name was, Americans managed to mangle it until you either grew a thick skin or anglicized your name.
She was going to pretend she didn't hear him.
But had to correct him on the pronunciation of her name. It was her obsession.
Although frankly, it was a waste of time because she was sure the next time she met him if there was a next time. He would have forgotten the right pronunciation.
"Amaka" she yelled back.
"I'm sorry, forgive me"
"Amaaka" he said slowly trying it out again.
He had put some effort into it, so, she smiled.
"Not a problem, African names are often difficult for Americans"
"Beautiful names though," he placated.
Amaka licked her lips, he was a charmer
"Yes, beautiful names."
"Our parents put a lot of thought into them, and often consulted the ancestors." 
"I'm sure, have coffee with me, please."
Amaka looked at him suspiciously. Hesitated.
"Err...mm."
"Just coffee, I promise" he smiled showing off a perfect set of dentitions.
"Okay."
"Tomorrow evening at 4.00 pm, okay?
"I will have to check my schedule, why don't I call you."
She stretched out her left palm and he wrote down his number.
"Nice meeting you Amaaka, he said with a twinkle in his eyes.
"Same here, Luke, the non-disciple" They both laughed.

She exhaled on reaching her apartment. That was a close call. Although she had lived in New York for three years, she had managed to avoid dating an American, especially a Caucasian. She was neither racist nor prejudiced but preferred her own. It was easier, less complicated, and fewer explanations were needed. It would be a tiresome relationship if you had to teach a partner how to say your name, your culture, and the nuances of your personality that came with the culture. She did not have the patience for all of that.

But had surprised herself by accepting coffee with him. American men did not ask a girl out for coffee except if they were romantically interested. And where she came from, going out with a guy for a drink did not mean you were interested in him. At the back of her mind, she had no intention of going through with it.
 

Luke hoped she would call later that evening. But there was no call, neither the next day. Not the day after. After a week and there was no call from the Amaka. He thought to take matters into his own hands and loitered on her floor, perhaps he would run into her. 

His apartment was two floors above hers. He took the stairs down. Strolled around the long corridor, but there was no one in sight. What was he thinking? He knew what he was thinking, he was thinking about her. She had made a huge impression on him with her melodious voice and eyes that captured his soul. He did not have her number. She had taken his.

Loitering the hallway, he decided to knock on her door and pretend he was lost. Not an original plot, but he did not know what else to do. He stood in front of apartment 331 and struggled to calm his nerves. What if she was busy with someone? What if she had a boyfriend? Maybe she was married. He had not seen any ring on her finger to indicate, but you never know. And she had said yes to coffee, only she preferred to be the one to call.

He managed a low-decibel laugh. He was acting like a 15 year- old on his first date. He mustered courage, gathered his wits around, and knocked. Waited, for what seemed like a millennium wearing a ready-made smile the size of California.

When the knock on the door came, she had been trying to catch the last few minutes of "The Golden Girls." on the TV. It was not until a couple more knocks that she rose from the sofa and opened the door.
The smile froze on Luke's face. He recovered from the surprise as quickly as he could. Still smiling but now, the smile was the size of Rhode Island.
"Yes, how may I help you? asked the middle-aged woman sweetly.
"Sorry Ms...I must have the wrong door."
"Ms. Schwartz, you do? Who were you looking for?
A long-drawn silence filled the spaces between them. Luke tried to remember how to say the name right
"Ameke....the African lady."
"Oh Ameaka, you are looking for 334 then." She responded with a wink.

 Luke apologized again and thanked her. He started down the corridor, but he did not hear her door close, looked back, and she was staring at him with a mischievous smile and a wink. He did not want to imagine what was going on in her head.

He returned a polite nervous smile. Now at 334, the older lady watching him, like a reporter eager to give an account of her mission. Luke inhaled and delivered two resounding knocks on the door.
No answer. Waited one minute and gave the door a couple more still no answer. He stepped back like a defeated warrior. 

Ms. Schwartz was still at her door and he had to pass by her to get to the staircase. He made an instant decision and walked to the end of the corridor to the elevator leaving a very disappointed Ms. Schwartz with his retreating back. So much for courage. You don't go knocking on a lady's door without first calling. He knew that. He had just wanted to see her again. And extend another invitation this time to a Knicks game. He had come with two tickets and did not know what to do with them.
It would have been a way to introduce her to the American culture, that is assuming she was not yet introduced to it.

He was not sure, how long she had been in the United States. Their conversation had not gone that far, yet he had gone looking for her without an invitation. Talk about jungle fever! He laughed at himself and chided himself at the same time. He would never say such a thing aloud "Jungle fever." It was racist. He was not racist. Heck! He was chasing after some African girl he met in the elevator a week ago. But these words got bandied around as a joke and somehow make a nest in one's subconscious.

He took the elevator to the lobby and onto the street. His destination, the Wolfgang's Steakhouse. Having been cooped in his apartment all day working on a painting but constantly distracted by the thoughts of the African lady with the sonorous voice, the beautiful voice called to his soul.

Luke was not exactly one to get all mushy, especially over a girl he had just met who ordinary was not exactly his type. His type, he chuckled at the choice of words. She was a beautiful woman and beautiful women were his type. Although she was a darker shade than he was accustomed to. but who cares, he did not. He had not been able to get the image of her natural sensual full lips out of his head. It was the lips he wanted to paint and kiss at the same time. The way her lipstick outlined her lips, made him wish he was the lipstick. He wanted to paint her lips on canvas. Her lips were fuller than any he had seen or kissed. It was the color of hazelnut, no Ivorian cocoa beans. He had to take a second look to be sure.

HAITI

Toussaint Louverture International Airport looked better than the last time she visited.
Amaka shuddered trying to forget the events that had prompted her first visit to this Caribbean nation. Opinion makers constantly proclaimed the poorest country in the Western hemisphere
Low GDP maybe, but Haiti had a soul like none other. She fell in love with the Island's vulnerability, language, food, culture, and history.
Once every year, she made this trip. It reminded her of her homeland in some ways. The difference being Haiti lacked the resources to lift itself from the grinding poverty. Her homeland squandered its wealth while many of the citizens lived in penury.

"Bonjou kouman ou ye," hello! How are you? She greeted the taxi driver.
"Mwen byen mesi.". Jean-Jacque answered, grinning from ear to ear.

Every year he came to welcome the woman, who helped save his daughter's life. Anytime she came into the country, he volunteered to drive her around the city. She declined but accepted the pick-up from the airport and back. And always insisted on paying her fare and a generous tip.

"This is your job Janjack, she loved to use his Kreyol name. you need the money, she insisted
Yes. He needed the money but he would never forget her kindness. She inquired about his daughter and he filled her in on the developments since her last visit.
"It is beautiful what they have done with the airport," Amaka commented
"Oui." Janjak echoed.
The African lady's Kreyol was not fluent and so, they oscillated between broken English, Kreyol, and French. He liked her. 

They drove through Port-au-Prince, and she asked to see parts of the Tent City. There displaced survivors from the last devastating earthquake still waited to be relocated. a drive from the airport through the city center. Janjak drove away from the city center into the suburb of Petionville, named after one of the founding fathers of Haiti; Alexandre Sabes Petion.  

The Club de Petion-Ville golf course is a nine-hole course. The only one in Haiti had become a tent city to house victims of the earthquake. She remembered how they furiously worked to save as many lives as they possibly could in the golf clubhouse that was turned into a field hospital.
That was three years ago when the magnitude 7.0 magnitude earthquake affected 3 million of the 10.5 million population. And made Haiti the center of an international aid scramble.

On the day of the earthquake, she had worked a night shift and had just woken up from a long-deserved sleep. Turned on the TV, and the news flashed across the television screen. She called Marie her Haitian colleague and friend. After several rings, it went to the voice message.
She left a message and paced around the apartment. After several calls to the hospital, no one had heard from Marie
It was her day off. Amaka checked her phone messages and Marie Antoinette had left a frantic message. She had been trying for hours to reach her family in Port-au-Prince and Jacmel without luck. 
The lines were jammed as would be expected, as everyone was probably doing the same.
She would let her know as soon as she had news.

Amaka had sat and watched in horror the coverage of the wreckage after the earthquake.
Healthcare workers were desperately needed. She called her local Red-cross and volunteered.
As a nurse, she would be greatly needed. She had a few days' holiday. She called work to take the month off and packed suitcases, old clothes, food items, and anything she could lay her hands to give away.

That was three years ago.
Today Haiti was recovering slowly but so much progress was being made. Many have left the tent city, and others still remained. Hollywood actor Sean Penn was still here helping build new homes for the displaced. She went to her hotel in Pentonville. It felt like home.


Luke ran down the alley, past the Church, and kept running. A few meters in front was the sea. He did not stop but kept running. Looked back intermittently to gauge the distance between him and his pursuers. He reached the beach. Stopped and without taking off his clothes jumped into the sea. Swimming like his life depended on it gunning for the horizon in the distance.
He was a strong swimmer and swam for miles. But never reaching the horizon. Weary and out of breath the strong current overpowered him.

The group of Black teenagers taunted him, jeering, chasing him in the waters, almost catching up with him. He dived deeper, hoping to lose them. Then he heard her voice.
"Hey, it's time to go."
He felt himself being roughly shaken several times, groggy with sleep and something else.
Someone was having a concert in his head. A base drum banged louder. A bad hangover. It had to be. He tried to situate himself and recollect to no avail. Where was he? How did he get here?

Luke remembered going to the bar and buying a drink for a redhead sitting next to him.
He now looked into the angry face of a redhead. He got off the bed, he was naked but for his wifebeater shirt. She shoved what were his clothes into his face.
"You need to leave now! She ordered.
Luke took a quick glance at his nakedness. And belatedly tried to cover up, dragging his long slim legs into his trousers. She was staring down at him.
Confused. He felt he owed her something and reached for his wallet. Counted five hundred-dollar bills and left them on the nightstand.
She was livid on seeing the money.
"Fuck you! And your money. You low life."
He was more confused.
"Was that not the arrangement? He had no clue, what he had done wrong.

He reached into his wallet for more bills It came so swiftly he did not see it. She whacked him across the face so hard, that his ears rang. Before he could utter his surprise or make an exit. Luke bent over and puked all over her floor.

"Get out! You son of a bitch" 

"I am so sorry," he mumbled mortified. He did not know, his crime, before now.

"Let me pay for the cleaning" he pleaded. Struggling into his shirt and leaving more bills on the nightstand. Hurriedly putting on his shoes which were now partially covered in vomit and stumbled towards the door.
"Son of a bitch, take your fucking money with you" She threw the bills at him.
" I am not some whore, you picked up at a bar"
"I am sorry" Luke apologized again. 

Bending down to pick up the notes which were now scattered on the floor around him. A strong urge to throw up again overwhelmed him. He paused and it passed. She stood there like an amazon watching him in disgust. Luke retrieved the last bill, stood up staggered, and locked eyes with her. Apologized for the umpteenth time. Thanked her and stumbled out of the door.

The cold January air blasted his face and awakened his senses. The ride home was long and reflective. When he reached for his keys. It hit him that they probably fell out of his pocket in the nameless woman's apartment. He stood with his head resting on the door for a few seconds. Hoping the headache would ease. It did not, the urge for a painkiller in whatever form assailed him. But he knew better, he was trying to stay clean.

Reached into his pocket and luckily for him, his phone lay snug in his pocket. He called the building supervisor and waited patiently. Tried hard to remember the events of the night before and failed miserably.

Three weeks later, he still had not heard from Amaka. He gave up hope and tried to forget her. Then one fine evening, his phone rang but stopped before he could reach it. It was one of those days. His mood was down in the doldrums. The constant nightmares, often left him wanting to leave this world. The nightmares had plagued him since the accident. He believed it was his punishment for what happened to those boys. He still relived that night like it was yesterday. The phone rang again, an unknown number appeared, and a knock on his door. It was a light tap, noncommital. He opened the door and answered the phone. at the same time. "Are you free for that coffee tonight?

He exclaimed in surprise. There she stood, speaking into the phone, on his doorstep. The woman whose lips he wanted to paint and kiss.

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