[ON HOLD] LOVE ME LIKE ART

12

IT WAS A BROWN, nondescript envelope carrying a wrecking revelation.

A note of bitter vindication to Mrs Rolt that she had watered her own grass whilst Brian Rolt had abandoned his. An anthem of sweet justice as his lies could no longer be masked by legal drivel when the truth is in these photos. Unwavering relief that she could now pull in the tide as it raged over her head. Though, it was Imani in the centre of these incandescent photos that ripped the words out of my mouth.

It floored me.

It felt like I was a speeding car climbing the motorway, but firmly out of control seconds before the lash. I expected the photos to be gutting, even devastating but I didn't expect this. I couldn't have expected this.

All week I've been in a posture of disbelief, not that I've ever experienced a smidge of her true character but she purred with honesty. She was honest that she was a woman afflicted, but I could never have guessed that it would be this type of affliction. I tried to convince myself that I'd heard it wrong, that she had to have been mistaken but her brown orbs could trap me anywhere. I still remember the contours of her lips. The tantalising draw of her perfume and the brown cascade that framed her eyes. She's right in the middle of a spat between a pair of warring ex-lovers that will only end bitterly. She is now a chess piece in a game free from any strategy and intellect, but instead ruled by emotion.

I remember, overwhelmingly, when Mrs Rolt revealed Imani as the subject of her distain, I could feel shock dancing around the chords of my chest. I never would've expected Imani, the pretty woman in a lonely bar, to be the other woman. The woman who caused a flood of fire to seep into what was once a sturdy foundation. To wind herself in sheets that will only leave her tangled. I couldn't say anything tangible after because it felt like a grenade was dropped in my lap.

And now, the sour truth sits on my doorstep. It's not something I can throw out or pretend that it doesn't exist because Mrs Rolt wants an apology zinging with numbers.

She wants to be publicly vindicated, as she should. But, I can't hide that I'm torn by two spheres of loyalty. The duality of both sides of the coin tears at me. One is unwavering loyalty to Mrs Rolt. She is the one whose heart has been violently pierced, whose own home is flaming. The truth will unwind secrets that span more than a decade. Secrets that tell the tale of treachery, humiliation and emotional damage. The other feels like it's to Imani, whilst she's not entirely blameless, I surmise that she isn't as culpable as Mr Rolt probably is.

Maybe, it's a good thing that Imani remains this stranger in my head and not a new friend or a lover that I would ordinarily go the nine yards to protect.

"I can't believe I'm out again with you man." Tobenna barbs at us, as he drives a gust of smoke out of his nose. He settles himself with a glass of Jack 'n coke carved in his other hand. He is carping at us, like he is a man without any agency when he brought his own two feet here.

"We didn't put a gun to your head, nigga." My friend, Temidare Lawal chides back. "Your respite lasted what? 2 days, g?"

"Cause you man run bare chat in the GC. Always suffocating the fuck out of my mentions." Tobenna throws out an explanation, in an attempt to make it stick. He tries to make us believe that he's here outside his own volition but that isn't the case and will never be. Tobenna is an atypical Taurus, fixed in his nature—unyielding. Nobody can make him do anything if he certainly doesn't want to.

"Hear my man?" Tem's facial features screw in a jovial grimace, "You're talking like you don't know how to mute us. It's WhatsApp, g. You're moving like a real grandad." This elicits a chorus of laughter of Hamza, Tino and I.

"Whatever." Tobenna shrugs, kissing his teeth.

"Why you pressed? It ain't even like you had suttin' else on, akh." Tinotenda Abasi throws out a grin, as smoke pours out of his mouth.