What do you see?

  

    Red Velvet

  Jasmine Garnett

Short, shallow breaths were all I could muster as my aching ribs suffered increasingly. My skin seemed to sear underneath the scratchy fabric of the tight, lacy corset I had donned earlier. Mummy had pulled savagely at the strings in the back until inches gradually petered out of my sides, leaving me with an enticingly tiny waist.

Shimmying into the obscene, strapless red dress had been no less grueling. ‘Bandage dress’ was what it was called. Bondage was what I called it. It was a skimpy thing- velvet and pretty, stretching across my lithe body like masticated bubblegum. Mummy had chosen it for pun’s sake; red velvet, my favourite cake, which had marked all my birthdays. This was somewhat like a birthday, wasn’t it? The red, velvet dress would mark my impending and inevitable coming of age that night.

I sat cross-legged at one of the VIP tables, my chin slightly jutting out in defiance. Although, I sensed that the façade would soon wear off, I maintained the arrogant set of my jaw. My make-up was flawlessly done; smoky eyes and bloodied mouth. The expensive Peruvian weave was up in a large bun at the top of my head, resembling the roll of ankara fabric that roadside hawkers place on their heads before mounting their wares.

My creamy skin was everywhere, exposed and vulnerable to piercing scrutiny which was boundless in this place. Eyes belonging to men of varying ages shamelessly ogled my sixteen-year-old figure. I cringed covertly, veiling my discomfort with small, seductive smiles that deepened my dimples as I batted long, false eyelashes- just like Mummy had taught me.

The sleazy men hovered around me like flies romancing a ripe mango in the rainy season. This was the rainy season after all, figuratively speaking; it was the penultimate week before Christmas when men rained money on girls like there was no tomorrow. So, when Mummy finally succeeded in getting me an invitation card to this party, organized and graced by the crème de la crème of Abuja, she had also expected me to return soaked and dripping with ‘rainwater’.

 As the night drew on, the men grew more and more intoxicated with fine wine, up-beat music and dancing girls. I regarded the girls with disdain. They were dressed like women of the night, which were what they probably were. But then, I glanced down at myself, clad in the wristband which had cunningly masqueraded itself as a dress. Like a stealthy burglar, shame crept into my spirit and stole a sizeable portion of my dignity. Then, Sunny stole the rest of it.

 

I slumped unto the floor. The coldness of the hard marble tiles seeped slowly into me through the backs of my exposed thighs, my aching head against the cold enamel of the sink. Warmth fled my body, as the menacing draft stole in, numbing me everywhere. Hot, heavy tears fell from my eyes, leaving a scalding trail down each cheek.  How could Mummy have orchestrated her own daughter’s ruin? How had I not realised the folly of my compliance to her gentle urgings?

I let my eyes flutter open, and peeked at the indicator again. The blue streak gazed back at me, unblinking. The exact same shade of blue I had admired in an adorable white baby I had seen when I was little; back when I had fantasized about getting married to a white man, and having a baby with similar eyes. It was cruelly ironic now as I stared woefully at the pregnancy indicator, its blue streak mocking my childhood dreams as it confirmed my ill-fated condition.

A wave of nausea hit me, and I bolted towards the WC and retched, more tears rolling down my cheeks. The morning sickness had not started already; it was the mere thought of carrying Sunny’s child that sickened me. I shuddered involuntarily and wrapped my shaking arms around myself, rocking back and forth, trying to comfort myself.

I thought of Sunny Amoku, the wealthy business tycoon cum politician I had met at the party the previous year- Sunny, with his beer-filled paunch, reminding me of a kangaroo’s, even as he pranced around, just like one. Sunny was married, with five kids, and he kept two mistresses aside from me. What had I been thinking?

“What is all this wailing about, eh?”

I looked up at Mummy’s advancing form with fear. She would be upset at my carelessness. I whispered the awful news to her. She stared at me blankly for a while, then bunched up her wrapper and began to dance.

“Come and join me sing halleluyah…!” she sang, joyfully.

I stared at her, flabbergasted.