𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫

☾ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3 ☼

|3|
Winding Independence

THE DELICATE chime of singing birds outside my slightly opened window mistakes me for the little girl with rose-colored glasses over the dreamland of her childhood, MoBay.

All signs of nature lead me to the savoring whiff of lemon and mandarin in the early cracks of sunlight as I would admire my granmadda unclipping dried clothing from the clothesline. "Lickkle one nuh jus stan deh help me," she would rebuttal in her calm, raspy voice that muster serenity to my quiet gaze.

She would see me, like actually see me.

My granmadda was the first person to navigate me in the enraptured ways of loving myself unashamedly.

In the late afternoons of us sitting on the squeaking floored porch, she in the white rocky chair and I in between her legs; Each braid she knitted in my hair affirmed you are beautifully and undeniably seen.

She taught me the melody in my hips, the lyrics in my lower body, and the rhythm in my soul hingeing to Jamaican dancehall music. As a child, I remember our family going down to the village's centre as our neighbors would be gathered in the street dancing to reggae music. Women and other pairs would let their bodies flow to the beat, and the setting rays permitted them to do so.

Mamma would pull Papà by his wrist to the enchanted people and bond their bodies and souls to one another as she grinds each muscle to claim his. Granmadda would call it 'boun' redemption' as the loving devotion you have for another dismisses any foretold sin or doubt that could stop you from aligning your tangled soul with theirs.

The kind of love to not complete you but heal any or all despair you experienced before them as it was written in the stars and your shooting goal in the sky was your lover's welcome to the earth.

I miss MoBay, the simplicity of familiar tenderness.

I wish I could see my granmadda and let her take the sharp blades in my heart that cannot seem to stop bleeding to the absence of the person who used to guard it. But, it would then solidify that she isn't here, and I can't come to those terms.

Not yet, at least.

I get my phone from under my pillow and see that it is fifteen minutes after noon and place it back on my side to rub the couple of hours of sleep out my eyes. I groan internally, remembering that my hair is probably a shitshow right now because I forgot my silk bonnet and had to put all my curls into a protected bun.

Luckily Zoya offered brunch, so I'll ask her on our way back to go to the convenience store to get a few items as I forgot a few other things.

I fixed up the room a bit before I went to sleep to add more things: that I knew Valerie would've liked. I added some fairy lights on the wall clipped with pictures of MoBay's culture that I took last summer break, the sage green vintage disc player on the dresser with all the CDs we listened to as children, and the picture of Memo and I when we first got him five years ago in a frame on my nightstand.

The sly bastard was damn near attacking me, and all you can see on my tiny face was a bright smile, simply happy that she took the picture of me.

I get up from the bed and head to the bathroom, that's conjoint to my room, to see the damage, and it wasn't all that bad.

Hell, what am I kidding?

It will take me at least thirty minutes to detangle and moisturize, then another thirty to see if I want to wear it down or pick an easy hairstyle to do.

That's the future Aaliyah's problem.

I do my typical morning routine and go pick out an outfit that fits the slightly humid weather of late August. I decided to put on my low-rise cotton linen pleated skirt, paired with a white short-sleeved collared shirt with my bottom button unscrewed, overlayed with an oversized black leather jacket and calf-high black Lamoda boots.

My hair didn't take a long time to do, and I managed to put it into a slick-back ponytail as my black curls cascaded down my upper back. I didn't feel like doing any makeup and just attached my studs to both ears and sprayed the perfume Mamma bought me for Christmas all over my body.

I look at myself once more in the bathroom mirror, and it might have taken an arm and a leg to get this look, but I look great. Approachable. Timid.

I go back into the room to grab my phone to check the time again, and it was roughly over 1:32 in the afternoon then put the device and other essentials into my black Chanel purse and exit my bedroom.

Zoya was on her phone sitting on the barstool and looked up at me relieved as she sees me fully dressed. "I was getting worried that you weren't up. Ash just texted saying that they're all headed to the café. Are you ready?"

I nod my head and we leave the dorm with her locking the door and heading down the stairs.

Zoya said we have to let the person at the check-in center know that we are leaving so they can give us card passes to scan at the door to get back in.

"Security protocol," she continues.

I wonder if it was because of what transpired or what they believed happened.

Cheryl, the lady from last night, gave us each a silver grey card and reminded us of the curfew and to be safe in downtown London.

This whole 'advantage' concept is starting to feel more like winding independence.

We leave the building, and I ask, "Did you send for an Uber, or should I?" I didn't see any driver outside or any vehicles waiting for us.

"Our chariot today will be," Zoya stop mid-sentence to point to the front of her red Doc Martens.

"Any place you can think of can be traveled to by foot. The café is no more than twenty minutes away, plus the scenery cannot be matched in a car."

"Then shall we get on our way, my lady?" I voice in one of my worst British accents.

Zoya unapologetically laughs, linking her left arm with my right, "We shall."

It was easy to deceive them, but I should've known that lies turn into a mask that we all hide.