It was Monday, 16th July, during the wet season of 2019, you skipped breakfast and first period to eat scotch eggs with your classmate in the school’s garden, knowing you were not supposed to.
You ate silently and sat with your back touching the water fountain decorated with the red roses that junior students plucked and threw sporadically around the gardens. He sat beside you, close enough you could hear his pattered chewing but not too close for your shoulders to touch. And whenever he stole glances at you, you felt the beating in your chest, and it hurt; that panging emotion like drums, like your heart wanted to forcefully escape to him. His eyes were soft and unsure; he looked like ihe egwuregwu, a teddy bear. And when his hands finally crept to meet yours, the tips of his fingers brushing the hair of your skin, your heart did a light dance: it flipped, tumbled, and swayed like butterflies. So, you focused on your chewing and counted the palm trees that lined the garden to distract yourself from his hands tracing faint lines on your palms.
“one,” “five,” “sixteen,”
You must have counted nearly thirty palm trees at that moment before he pivoted slightly, kneeling, facing you, full lips and all, with his hands now fully holding yours. He asked what you were thinking about. You thought the morning sun gave his skin a glistening tan effect; it looked almost golden, like cream caramel. But you did not tell him that. Instead, you stuttered as you told him that you were counting the palm trees in the garden. Then he laughed, and it was just like the rest of him–sweet and genuine. But you did not laugh. Instead, your legs shook, and your palms were sweaty; you imagined that you had messed things up. But there he was, kneeling, still facing you, with his eyes focused on yours, like they saw into your soul. His stare consumed you with an intensity that scared you but also made you revel in the possessiveness. So, when he gently pulled you closer to himself, you did not resist. He kissed your lips, and you thought of rainbows, deciding that that was how its colours would taste: warm, soft, minty, like Richard’s lips.
That Monday morning, as you hastily dumped wraps of extra scotch eggs into the bin in preparation to leave the garden and continue your secret catholic lives, he held your hands, looked into your eyes one last time, smiled, kissed you and walked away. And at that moment, you remembered that out there, Richard was just a stranger whose laugh you would recognize anywhere.
Read – Night Raid – A Flash Fiction by Olabode Oluwabukola, Nigeria
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