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A memorable evening

May 19, 2011, 3:28 PM | Article By: Isatou Dumbuya

I can feel the corners of my mouth turning into a smile. I can’t help it because I am sitting in Gaya Art Café with my new husband Buba, waiting for the waiter to bring our orders. There is music in the background and I close my eyes to take in the sweet aroma of the foods in the room. I sway my head this way and that to the rhythm of the music. It reminds me of our high school prom night. That night I felt wonderful, wearing a long purple dress. It was like a fairy tale.

“Yes, darling, the house we bought at Brusubi is ready,” he says.

I beam with a smile and cross my legs showing off my new high heels.

To tell the truth, he gave me those as my birthday present. I reach for his hand on the table and squeeze them lovingly.

“Oh really?” I say.

“I want it to be a surprise, but there is no time like the present, so we are moving in today.”

I gasp with joy. I am speechless. I come over to his side of the table and plant a kiss on his right cheek.

“That is wonderful,” I manage between laughs.

Now the waiter comes with our orders and I go back to my chair. I sip my drink and run my tongue over my lips. Buba looks at me and winks, and for the millionth time I admire his cute tiny dimples and over-sized eyes.

Suddenly, a woman stands over me. “Are you done now?” she yells at me at the top of her voice, “because this puppy here is going back to his mama, to me, where he belongs!”

Buba has an aghast look on his face. Tongue-tied, chills start running down my spine and I can’t dare swallow my own spit. She takes my drink, peers into it and brings it to her lips as if to drink, then as quick as lightening, she throws it into my face. I cannot understand what she is rambling about because she is talking very fast. She flashes an I.D in my face and I read the words, “Mrs. Buba Njie”. I look at Buba. I try to call his name, but the words cannot come. I wish he can tell me that this is just a joke, one of his jokes to make me breathless. That he has paid the woman to put up a show so that we can laugh after that over a bottle of champagne. But he is still. I look back at the woman. Her make-up is applied carelessly over her face; her weave has seen better days, it seems as if she wore her clothes in a hurry because she is struggling to tie her lappa around her obese being. I wonder what Buba sees in her in the first place. Before I know what is happening, she slaps my face. I forget to breathe. My world goes dark and I fall face down on the floor.