JB stood mesmerized by her reflection in her hall's mirror.
She looked good. No, she was móto [hot in lingala]. JB didn't see herself as pretty, but the tag stuck just like her name.
Jolie Bébé [pretty baby]. JB grew up as a chubby girl with an adorable face. She was seen and categorized as light-skinned Congolese people thought she was of the Muluba tribes and was known to be fair, flirtatious, and adulterous.
When in fact, she was Mungala [people of the river] by her mother, the warrior's tribe, and Mukongo by her father. The people of those tribes were perceived as intellectuals.
Jolie Bébé detested her name, which sounded pretentious. Hence she went by her name's initials. Only one person deemed to call her by her name.
"Jolie Bébé, mwasi kitoko [beautiful woman/lady] Curtis whispered in her ear as he wrapped his hands around her now snatched waist. She was fit and thick, just the way Curtis liked. JB was part of the lot that got blessed with an hourglass figure once they cut down on the sugar and exercised.
They had met at a party before the first Covid wave came. Their eyes crossed, and their hearts skipped a beat.
Love at first sight? Maybe not.
What Curtis saw was a booty he wanted sitting on his face and what JB saw was a tall, cleansed brown-skinned man with a Rolex and a red Lexus ES.
She didn't try her luck at the party her aunt Mado had forced her to attend. Her aunt had in mind to find the singles of their family suitable spouses. Curtis wasn't easy prey. He was the grandson of a former Congo RDC minister of economics and the son of the retired minister of transportation. He was known to speak little, which was rare for a man in a community where all boasted like roasters.
JB observed him from afar and left the party without exchanging a single word with him. She only took the liberty to like a group photo she was in that he posted on Instagram. It was about all it took. The man did the rest by sending her a private message.
Curtis wasn't her type. Congolese men never were. She had no example of a good, trustworthy Congolese man, but Curtis was different. He was born in France, spoke Lingala with a razor-blade-cut accent, and didn't have this overbearing Alpha male behavior many Congolese men had from JB's standpoint.
JB no longer wanted broke-ass men. He could even have a short dick and be bald as long as his bank account was green. She invested and wasted too much time in relationships without reaping anything. It took her time to realize she groomed men. And sadly, JB came to understand what she represented to most. She was a warm-up, the woman men rehearsed with before picking the ones they would wed.
Women envied her. JB got them all with her mulatto aura, they would say, and that no one would take a glimpse at her if she were plain brown. These women didn't see how men dropped her and the reasons they evoked for the rupture.
JB was too loud, too bossy, too exacting, and not marriage material. She was a dirty slate; some said once they knew her father's past. The most skeptical ones went as far as evoking she was cursed and that some sorcery was involved. One could trust African men to bring out the marabout conspiracy theories at their convenience.
"You don't know how to choose them. You need to aim high, don't be like your mother. Look at what man she married?" her aunt Mado advised.
JB worked on herself and attempted to be these supposedly better women. She tried to tame the lousy temper men accused her of having, lowering the volume of laughter and her voice. She muffled any aspects that made her fall into stereotypes. The only thing JB was incapable of controlling was her love for luxury clothes, shoes, and makeup. Though ephemeral, these things boosted her self-esteem. To thrive on the sensation, JB found herself indebted and paying rent instead of a mortgage, but who cared?
She looked good all day and every day. Clothes were the only things that allowed her to express herself.
Curtis quickly understood what JB wanted. She was no different from any other woman. Summer Walker sang it. No matter the age, origin, or culture, all women needed love and the artifice of romance that came with the package. Many men forgot gallantry was still a thing and that it was wrong to think women were over it. Curtis was the first man to offer JB flowers or not walk away during an argument. He stood his ground and explained his reasons instead of closing himself in a wall of silence.
JB felt understood and valued when the man offered the bare minimum.
This was where she stood when she began seeing Curtis. The man imposed his rules from day one. He didn't like the Congolese gratin [high society] to be all up on his business. He told JB he would never post her on his socials and expected her to do the same. He would decide when they would go public.
His arguments weren't farfetched. People were haters, and Curtis refused to be warped into he-said, she-said games. Also, it was to save each other humiliation if ever things went wrong. Nothing was worse than having all the aunts from Paris to Kinshasa exporting one's name. Curtis was well informed of JB's identity and played on her fears of headlining in conversations.
If JB had her fair share of immature men. Curtis met enough broken-heartened women to know what to expect. For him, there were four types. The ones that crawled back into their shells, the man-eaters, the man-haters, and those who switched to eating oysters.
JB was of the first lot that one had to reel out to discover how a soft succulent being she was. She was at that point where she didn't believe she could find someone.
And in came Curtis, like a night in shining armor, making JB forget the saying everything that shines isn't gold and perhaps what she had was gleaming brass. JB didn't know if she could trust him. Yet, she plunged head-first into their story and hoped to find a raft.
"Oh, you smell so good," Curtis said as he kissed her neck.
"What about the restaurant?"
"I'm so tired. I just want to spend time with you. We can order Uber Eats."
JB sighed; it was becoming a habit. The same thing happened the last three times they met. They had outings scheduled, and everything got aborted for Uber Eats and a twenty-four-hour sex spree. Curtis left happy, but JB felt like a drained mop.
Was it really the last three times, or did Curtis switch his game plans a little before that?
When JB thought of it, the balance began tying after the second confinement. Curtis was stuck in the US during the first. At first, JB spent her time blowing kisses on her phone's screen and ended up stripping like a teen caught in a perverts Web without thinking the man could take screenshots or film. No, Curtis was a man of another level, yet despite her experience and age, JB gave the cheap, if not to say Lidl value [Lidl is a low-cost supermarket branch in Europe.]
Perhaps it was the error she made.
JB wished for them to stay together during the second, but Curtis brought up the stats concerning the breakups of couples stuck together. Again JB accepted his choice. She didn't want to seem clingy. The Virgo man enjoyed being alone as much as he appreciated her company.
"He can afford to lose you, but you can't afford to lose him," her aunt Mado told her as if Curtis represented her last chance.
JB's mother died when she was young. According to the Congolese gossip hotline, rumors circulated that her mom caught an STD during her gold-digging expeditions. When one added her father's past on the table, JB seemed to bring nothing to it but trouble—knowing that Curtis was aware but accepted prompted her loyalty to the man.
"How about it, huh?" Curtis said as he unzipped her dress.
JB stared at her reflection. She suddenly felt less confident than she did earlier. The notion of having sex lost its appeal. Still, she let Curtis continue with the kisses while hoping to warm up.
"What's wrong?" Curtis asked. He was very observant and wasn't the type to turn a blind eye when he noticed something. JB loved this about him. His behavior wasn't like any Congolese or any other black man she knew.
"Come, let's sit down," Curtis said, taking her by the hand and leading her to the sofa. "Tell me; you know how I hate seeing you with this face," he said, moving a strand of hair to caress her cheek. Thank goodness her double-wear foundation withstood this kind of attention.
JB stared into his eyes, "are we okay?"
Curtis chuckled, " what kind of question is that?"
JB slid her gaze to the side.
"Hey, I'm talking to you. What do you mean by are we okay? What scenario is playing in your mind's theater?"
JB returned her gaze to his, "are you seeing someone else?"
A second of silence strolled by where JB fixed him. It wasn't a gift; tv series like The Mentalist got JB interested in body language. There Curtis opened his mouth to laugh, but no sound came out; instead, he pressed his index on JB's forehead. The push was strong enough to make the woman's head slide backward.
"Is that the dumb thought you had? I'm interested to know how you came to this conclusion. Can you please develop?"
JB's eyes darted. Why did she think that but above all, why did she say it?
She mustered her courage and met his gaze once more, "you're different. Things between us are different. I feel like I'm a booty call or something."
"Here we go like the man doesn't take you out to dinner, and suddenly you imagine he's saving his money from someone else."
"It's not that," JB exclaimed. She wondered how she could express her feelings accurately without things blowing up.
Curtis sighed, "Jolie Bébé na lobelaki yo [Jolie Bébe I told you] from the start, if you're going to play it petty and provoke feuds, we better not start. I'm not a breakup and makeup guy. Na za n'a temps te pouna bozoba [I don't have time for stupidity]. You know I'm busy, but I make sure to have time for you. Your aunt Mado can attest to my whereabouts. She's everywhere I go. Doesn't she tell you?"
It was true; JB's aunt kept tabs, and her niece informed. Mado gravitated to identical social spheres. The widow who found herself with her deceased husband's fortune married a man old enough to be her JB's grandfather hoping he too would die soon.
JB still wondered why she spoke when Curtis got up," you know what, let's call it a night."
"Why are you so upset."
"Are you serious? How would you feel?" Curtis asked while he buttoned his shirt.
"What are you doing?"
"What do you think? I'm leaving since I'm not welcome."
"Curtis yaka ko vanda [come and sit down], please," JB said and grasped his hand, "I'm sorry. Limbisa ngai [forgive me]."
JB wore the expression the man couldn't say no to.
"Perhaps it's you who is seeing someone else. How can I trust you, huh?" The man said as he stood in front of her. JB looked up while Curtis looked down.
All JB wished for was to have a man like the protagonist of her favorite book. Of course, the guy wasn't the fans fav, but JB appreciated his straightforwardness and how he taught his love language while taking notes of his partner. He wasn't the first man the female MC encountered, and the woman was reluctant to open her heart after all the deceptions she had. The guy wasn't patient, he exited the slow burn, but he showed her good and loyal men existed.
JB wanted Curtis to be a Guran Kurti.
"Please stay, Curtis. You know I love you."
"Then show me," Curts replied.
JB orientated her gaze under his belt. The argument did not impact the bulge in his trousers; on the contrary, the fabric stretched to make a tent along the zip line. JB unbuckled his belt and looked up, "let me show you."
Hi friends,
Sorry, I missed yesterday's Rendez-vous here because of an after-work. I was too tired. I'm behind on my word count. So I need to write and publish a 1.8K chapter tomorrow to catch up. Anyway, the chapter is here.
I'm interested to know your thoughts about Curtis.
Thank you for reading!