The Spongy Rainfall

Andrey Zvyagintsev-3839f352

I don’t think he gets it.


I’m not trying to be someone else, with my darkened eyelid and my smart mouth. How can I copy something I already am? It makes no sense.

Maybe I shouldn’t have gone too close, losing and finding myself in the process at the same time. Thomas was the best guy for Lara at the time. She loved it when he put his hands through her permed hair and called it rainfall on a beautiful night. Every time he did that, she blushed terribly with the dark rogue that never left her face until bedtime.

Parading her to his friends wasn’t an issue, because to them, she was the exception to the black women they had come across. They made jokes when they came over for dinner, riled up by Titi’s “untamed” hair and Amaka’s strange accent. Particularly in love with her Lasagna, always paired with a glass of Nero d’Avola, hearing these jokes became the norm. Lara laughed alongside them, pleased to not be the subject of their ridicule; pleased she had made the choice to be like them.

But now, Lara has become Omolara and I can’t seem to get it past Thomas. It started with the slow disappearance of the rogue, but he didn’t seem to have minded. Then I introduced myself as Omolara to his new associate, and his disappointment was frightening. But it was nothing compared to the moment I changed my hair back to its natural state.

“What will my friends say if they see you like this?” Thomas said the moment he got over the initial shock.

But who cares? This is me doing what I should have done from the very beginning. He refers to my hair as an old sponge, thick and difficult to manipulate. He cancels dinner each time I walk out of the room in an Ankara-infused attire.

I’m still trying to figure myself out, to study, experiment, and return to my roots. I’m not sure of so many things, but I know that my hair is the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.

I also know that Thomas isn’t good for Omolara.

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