A night in New York with its requisite kisses left fog on my eyeglasses. I drank myself into oblivion. The deed was done. I showed affection to a stranger. I whispered I love you to someone whose name I did not know. I was pressed against the wall at the bar. Love covers a multitude of sins. This nameless person - the object of my affection - seemed like a prize to be won. His green eyes, his six-figure career, his sense of the ridiculous - these attributes endeared him to me, but this was the last I saw of him. He ghosted me when I texted him and when I called. Now, alone in my apartment, I sobbed wondering when things would change. When would I wake with someone beside me - someone who understood the full range of my emotions?
The morning light pierced through my window. I missed another set of prayers. I used to wake early to worship God, but now I stay awake through the night and sleep at daybreak. I am on my own wrestling in white sheets drenched in a massive comforter.
I read the New York Times on my phone. I’m tethered to the news in Ethiopia. The war crimes and atrocities are enough to bring anyone to tears. East Africa is in shambles with interethnic conflict. Leaders struggle for power and force unity in the equation by silencing opposition.
I’ve known many lovers, but none of them could tolerate my voice. I want to speak out against injustice, but I gave up hope on protests.
I am drawn to men who know nothing of my culture. I belong to Addis Ababa, the “New Flower,” the capital of Ethiopia. In the dark, I erase my pain and history. I forge new territory. Even Sheba was abroad when she met Solomon. Home is “The Land of the Burnt Face.” Home is where we enjoy coffee ceremonies with incense and popcorn.
Life is like a movie. The screen is the Holy of Holies, the innermost part, the image of God. I watch my dreams projected onto a wall of my imagination. Like Plato's cave, dancing shadows fill the space with make-believe. Am I really better off with feminism and freedom? How do I cultivate understanding in my wounded psyche and in the community?
I take a shower. I feel like a vehicle as water hits the surface of my skin and bubbles up. I dry off. Many days, I rest with compulsory illusions. My heart beats sacred Morse code. I am open to possibilities and to love. Yet, no one plants roots in my soul. No one speaks my language. You reap what you sow. I’m waiting for love to grow. Instead, I find distance. I’m alone. So, I heap on sweet mysteries, like adding sugar to coffee, and stir. I am waiting for someone to stay, so I can explain myself. I reside in a black hole. I disappear from the scene, from the screen. My money drained. My faith eroded. I need to find fertile ground and to lean toward the light. I am too often a prisoner of the night. It is torture tangling convoluted limbs. I am ruled by the moon. One day, I will be governed by principles other than fear and grief. One day, the road ahead will be clear.
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