Farai from Bo

📅 April 26, 2026

I.

First time you saw her was a Saturday, outside church. You were in purple joggers and she, well, you do not remember what she was in. Why, it’s been 19 years. You remember the day because that was just about the only one your church held a program big enough to spill outside.

She was a pale little thing. Not yellow, not light. White, pale like a sheer curtain.

Usually, when people stare, they try not to be seen doing that. You, idiot, were staring for the exact opposite reason. You do not remember anything other than you were pleased when she noticed you noticing her. You did not speak to her, but you began practicing conversations in your head.

You met her in church the very next day. This was the second time you saw her. Without meaning to, you began to time your Sundays around her.

On one of those Sundays, which is the third time you’d see her, she came from nowhere, nudged you in the rib and said hi with an easy smile. Your mind hit a blind spot, and those conversations you’d practiced turned to smoke. You do not know what you said. Shit, it must’ve been a hi too; that, and your name. But, somehow, that was enough. The typical space between strangers collapsed and you both just started talking. You were seventeen. She was thirteen. And, no, this is not a love story. It’s a murder story.

________

Sundays had become more about her than about sermons. It was the same for her. If she got there first, she kept a seat for you. If you got there first, you kept one for her. One Sunday it was too full; you’d come late, and someone the seat she’d kept for you. you found another and from where you sat some nine rows away, you kept looking at each other, over heads and over shoulders, like one of you was about to die.

Immediately after the close of service you walked out. You heard her behind you, calling your name, catching up, a little out of breath and confused. You kept walking. You didn’t even know what you were angry at. It wasn’t her fault. You knew that. Still that irrational anger had you marching, and you liked it for you liked that she cared about you enough to keep following.

The next Sunday, she didn’t come. You had a sense that she intentionally didn’t to punish you. You very much would’ve wanted to pay back her payback, but you just hadn’t the will to do without her that long. The hug the following Sunday was long and tight, and the church looked at you two with suspicion and Pharisaic disdain. Fuck em! You had your baby back and that was all that mattered.

_________

Time passed, years. Seven of them. Through the moments and happenings that made those, life had run through you, stripping you of innocence and leaving you a cold, brooding figure. You carried a Gordian knot of evil in you, and if someone had called the name of that Sunday school girl, you’d have asked who? For every girl you’d been with, at least three others shared the same name.

You were headed to the bank that morning when you received a call. The caller asked if it was Farai from Kebbi. You paused. Yes, it was Farai, but this was Farai from Bo, not Kebbi. You were talking but at the same time rifling through memories and files and old rooms, struggling to place the voice. Nah, it didn’t matter that it’d been altered with time. To your ears, it was almost as physical as looking at a much younger version of someone in a photograph. You knew you knew that voice. You asked who it was. She told you her name – Lai. Your heart skipped. Lai? Like, Lai who kept seats at Sunday school?

Yes.

Something in you gave way. It wasn’t the bad kind, it was the good kind, like a hot, sweet piece of cake between the fingers, like something warm finally loosening after years of being held too tightt.

__________

She didn’t come when you asked her to, and for good reason. You’d FaceTimed and she dissolved into tears the second she saw you. You had imagined they were tears of joy, but the longer she looked at you, the quicklier that story collapsed. Those were no damn reunion tears, c’mon. Those were tears of disbelief. Your wild hair, hollow stare and black lips set in a hostile sneer had terrified the poor girl into tears. You might have known how much you’d changed; you just didn’t know how far it showed. At least, not until you saw it reflected back through her.

What happened, Fari? was all she said. What happened?

This wasn’t the Farai she knew. And it appeared that the more she looked at you, the more she kept pulling up old versions of you, trying, unsuccessfully, to match them to this you trying so hard to convince her you were harmless.

You sensed she wanted to help you, and you swooped in on the opportunity to be helped because you had a good mind to fuck her. You told her that you truly needed help, that you weren’t okay, that there was something wrong with you and you didn’t know what. Stop. You were normal as fuck. She was just looking fresher and more succulent, and you wanted a piece of that.

She must have sensed the evilness of your intent, for her expression gradually changed. Not a single word from those black lips felt honest. In fact, the faster your tongue moved, the further she was like yeah, nah.

You guys wouldn’t reconnect for the next two years. You would have grown, and so she would, too, both in physical and mental maturity. And when she would finally get over her boyfriend and you and your haggard little look, you both would meet and spark chemistry. Which I shall now tell you.

_______

When she said she would come to you, you only half believed it. She had a job, the distance was great, and she had yakked about both so much that you just learned to let it go.

Before this whole thing, you two had reconnected. She no longer feared you for she, too, that fragile petal of two years ago, had become something hard. Time had done a number on her. This didn’t make her any different as it had made you. If anything, it chiseled her features and increased her appeal.

At first, you talked with the carefree abandon of old friends, but with time you began to think about her in certain ways. Where attention had been given whenever it came, it began to be demanded. Where teasing had previously passed for apology, conversations now had to be had, responsibility now had to be faced. There was this seriousness gaining ground neither of you wished to acknowledge, but which, anyway, insisted on being seen.

Now you had flown in. And, oh, how happy she was! She would come to see you, she said, but she wouldn’t spend the night.

Spend the night? You asked. Who said anything about spending the night?

Just saying, she replied.

She never did come when she said she would. You were hurt, but you bit your tongue.

Again, she said she would come.

Now it looked like she was repeating it to measure you, to gauge how much you needed her by your level of indifference. You didn’t respond this time either, so she moved on to talk of work and distance and everything else that made it harder, every practical reason there was that let her step back without saying she was stepping back. Which was why you had finally let go.

But there you are in your hotel when you receive a call from the receptionist, telling you you have a visitor, a certain Lai.

You sit up at once.

Say what?

She repeats herself. Lai.

You try to steady your voice when you say, send her up, but its already messed up, but it doesn’t matter anyway, for she is now knocking on your door.

_________

Nine years. Nine years, and now she’s standing before you. This is her, real and breathing, still the same height, but a little thicker at the thighs. This is her, wearing just one half of that easy smile, slightly unsure of where to place her hands. You start to chuckle, and she asks you what, then joins in. There is nothing to laugh at and at the same time everything to laugh about.

You step aside. She walks in.

You are staring at her, seeing flashes of the girl she was, overlaid with the lady standing right in front of you. She’s staring at you, doing the same. Conversation starts like cramped feet, then finds a rhythm quicker than expected. You both talk too much and not enough, skipping the years, circling them, touching them lightly but never staying too long.

Underneath all of these something is building. It’s in the pauses. It’s in the way she comments on your muscles and touches your arm, not just squeezing, but letting that touch linger and rub all the way down. It’s in your shift of posture and how off your voice feels. It’s in the way you two shift gaze when your eyes meet. It’s in the silence.

There’s hesitation, but it’s thin, more acknowledgement than resistance.

She stands to get a drink, and you playfully (but hopefully) ask her to sit on your lap. She scoffs, Are you mad, Fari? But she does anyway, a casual drop like she belongs there, her hair in your face smelling of coconut cream and watermelon.

A moment later she’s chuckling and shaking her head.

What? You ask, even though you know.

You’re asking me what? she replies. You, what is that I’m feeling?

This is when you know it is time.

You say her name, Lai. The instant she turns, you lean in and press a quick peck to her cheek, then another just at the corner of her lips. It’s light, almost casual. You half expect her to react, but she doesn’t. She just stays still with a faint smile, like she’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.

Heat builds in you and your breath collects. You lift a finger, easing her hair aside. Your lips find the edge of her ear. You feel a subtle shift in her reaction, she lets out a sigh like silent surrender. You have touched her core. Now, it’s her turn, she turns and takes charge.

She initiates the kiss, it’s small and unhurried, almost leisurely. Your face is in her hands, and your hand is in her hair, trailing down her back and finding the helm of her shirt as she gives pieces of herself to you. There’s a shift in tempo the instant your hand slips underneath. The kiss turns eager, heated, a continuous rhythm that doesn’t pause for breath or thought.

The couch will do, but the bed is right behind yous. You try to rise, barely lifting before her weight presses you back down. You try again, lust still burning, but get your footing this time, bringing her up with you. There’s a brief imbalance and a quiet laugh, but no real pause. You move slow across the room, her still wrapped around you, her fingers clawing through your hair, and her voice low and encouraging.

You lose your footing and fall. There’s no time to rise. It happens right there, raw and unchecked, like animals. Unhinged animals.

 

II.

It’s the way she glances at you during quiet moments, just to confirm you’re still there, the way she smooths your collar mid-sentence and keeps going like it meant nothing. It’s in the small excuses for contact, your hand brushing at some thread or crumb on her lapel that isn’t there, the way you both start to swap “I” with “we”. It’s the strangest thing ever, but, yeah, strange shit sup. You got into this relationship totally forgetting you were already in one.

You fly back. The relationship still holds, but a little after seventeen days, the novelty ebbs and you begin to understand that you just might have joined yourself at the hip with an intense egotist. It’s the way she twists a story and stations herself in the center to court admiration or pity, depending on the story. It’s the way she makes demands without actually placing them, accusing you of a lack of empathy when you sidestep her implicit request for aid, offering advice instead. It’s the spite in her tone when it is not her way. But, perhaps, the most unsettling is the refusal to admit wrongdoing without a “but” to justify it.

She still holds your heart, but it’s no longer for free. It is now a tool to punish, to reward, sway or coerce.

One day you ask for a picture. You’ve been asking for one for the past few days but have gotten none. Finally, she does, but when you go to check, it has been deleted. WhatsApp automatically downloads your photos, a feature which you hate but have postponed correcting. You head to your photos and it’s there, the pic she sent. You are amused. It’s a selfie and she’s wrapped up in a towel with her lips pouted. It’s a stunning picture, so why did she delete it?

You want to ask her, but you already know her response, so you do not and just wait for one.

On closer look, you see the silhouette of another man.

You know, I would have wanted this story to continue, but you know what, I suppose I’ll just stop here and continue the moment I stop feeling for Farai.

“But you said it’s a murder story”

Yeah, right. You're free to complete it. Go to Guest Content, upload it, and if I see it’s befitting enough, I’ll approve it and send you $200. You can bank on it, no pun intended.