The Sweetest Taboo Part V:

Accused of witchcraft:

Their eyes are trained on me. My love is nowhere to be seen. Why is he taking so long to drop bags in a bedroom that doesn't seem that far away?

"Listen up, this is Thesna," his mom introduces me with a flourish and a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
My head is spinning from all the names I just know I'm going to forget.
I am notoriously bad at remembering names. I tentatively sat down on the armchair someone had hastily vacated.
I am ready for the interrogation that I feel sure will happen.

The interrogation:

"So, where in Cape Town are you from?" Friend No. 1 asks.
"The Cape Flats," I answer with a sardonic grin.
"Oh!" Says Friend No.3, glancing at her with an "I told you so" look on her face. Smug.

At any moment, I expected to see money pop out of bags or bra's based on the bets I felt sure they made before I got there.

"Yes, the funny thing about Apartheid was that people who look like me couldn't live in the suburbs," I sarcastically reply.
"Yes, of course, we know that. We didn't mean anything by that. It's just that it's violent there with all the gangs," Friend No.2 stated the obvious.

I want to give these women a history lesson they won't forget, but my words are swallowed when I hear a voice behind me, "I see you've met everyone, my darling, aren't they lovely? I grew up in front of these women!" My love says proudly.
Lovely? (Insert eye roll here) I think not but let me not voice that thought aloud.

"You do realize we have never seen him so in love," says his mom.
"Yes," the friends all chorus, "It's strange to see him like this because women love him, and he loves them!" I'm sure the last bit was a dig aimed to hurt me.

I look over my shoulder and give him a lift of my eyebrow, and because he knows me, he knows that I'm probably about to blurt out some sarcastic comment.
"That was then," he answers as he rubs my shoulders, "this is now, and I am going to grow old with her!"

If it wasn't for the "stiff upper lip" the women displayed, they would have "blown up" like dynamite when ignited by a match.


You could hear the dog across the street barking. Even the soft music playing in the background seems to have ground to a screeching halt.

I pat his hand in a comforting gesture while laughing softly" He's kidding. Tell them you're joking!" I insist.

"No, I'm not. I said I would grow old with you from the moment we first started dating." He counters.
Why does he have to say these things in front of them?
Why not wait until he is alone with his mom, or better yet, don't say anything.

Wait, I saw that look that just passed between Friend No.1 and Friend No.3.

What's going on?

Conspiracy Theories:

While music is playing and people have broken off into different "conversation groups," I still have those two women staring at me and talking to each other with their eyes.
Do they think I can't see them? They're not very subtle.

I am tired now, and all I want to do is have a nap before we visit his dad later on.

I've had about enough of being looked at and questioned. I am so exhausted from these not so subtle gestures and messages those 2 friends of his mom have been doing since I got there.

"Please excuse me, everyone I, would like to nap. Lovely meeting you all," the polite me says as I move with my love to the room allocated for us.

He leaves me and says he is popping out to see a friend down the road.
Yeah! Yeah! Whatever, I'm tired. My brain answers.
He leaves, and I drift off to sleep.

Not too much later:

I am woken up by an eerily quiet place and a faint whisper of voices.
Now everyone knows that there's a reason people whisper, and if you are the topic, it's never good stuff being said.

Oh, what the heck, I get up and creep a bit closer so I can hear because the voices have become a bit louder.

"She's Catholic Ma: I've been to church with her!" He sounds impatient.
"Well, don't say she didn't warn you because she told me what they do," his mom insists.
"There's no black magic she used MOTHER:"
"I fell in love with her," his voice rises as he answers.
"How do you know? Apparently, it's a potion they use from the "witchdoctor" they then put it on
their vagina's, and once you make love to them, that's it; you're hooked for life. She says you dont even know when it happens" his mom insists.

Okay! I heard enough. I need to breathe because it feels like fire coming out of my nostrils, and if I was a dinosaur, I would breathe fire on all these ignorant women and their idiotic beliefs.

I march down the passage, demanding to know what this witchcraft was all about!

Furthermore, who told the mom such nonsense. She confesses that her friend who grew up near my type of people knows for a fact that all Black and Brown women consult witch doctors (, their word) obtain some muti (potion) that they use on their vagina, so the man they love or wants will never leave them.

I am speechless!

For a moment, I don't know what to say to someone that seems convinced that it's true.

His mom found it "easier" to accept or believe bullshit than her son had fallen madly in love with a brown-skinned woman.

I sashayed across the room towards my love, in what I hoped was a seductive way, kissed his cheek, put my arms around his neck, and turned to face his mom. With "sugar dripping" off my tongue, I sweetly say, "I love your son, and he knows that but here's the thing, if I could get my hands on this "muti" your friend is referring to, I would be in Hollywood trying to seduce Richard Gere or Idris Alba instead of someone "ordinary," that works with me. Think about it, the possibilities are endless, and I would not need to stop there as I could have a different man every day of the week; men, who are rich and famous!" My mind wanders to images of Richard Gere and strawberries and champagne while Idris Alba rubs suntan lotion on my back.

Thump! Back to the present with a bang when I open my eyes and those women are now looking at me with mouths open like fish out of water.

I remove myself from the conversation and smile inwardly, thinking," Yes, chew on that titbit!"

If my first few hours were this dramatic, what could I expect from his dad later that evening?

To be continued......Part VI

Pop goes the weasel.



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