I thrust my hands in-between the irons of my cell: I was standing all through the night, murdered by a pang of grief. Memories of our love story were flooding in my mind: exploding.
The first night when I saw her at Bintumani, she was tender, innocent, pure and exquisite. Prior to that night, I’d not really believed in love at first sight, but her presence, her driven-personality captured my heart. I was nailed and dappled by admiration. She was in a heel, well-composed and well-articulated. She was the host of the Award Dinner I’d attended. Her hair was perfectly braided, oiled and greasy. Her skin was glistening in her blackness. So to say, she was really beautiful— very beautiful indeed. I went off the rail for her— I was intrigued to know her, to know what she does, to know everything about her. “I’d been humbled by love,” I said to myself.

As bashful as I was prior to that night, a new confidence was borne in me, determined and frivolous. On the far side of the stage, I was gazing through the audience to her, she must have noticed me too, with the way she was staring at me. I wore a grin smile, revealing my dimpled cheeks. Like every gentleman could’ve done, I maintained eye-contact and waited for the perfect opportunity to speak to her. As much as my enthusiasm was growing unbearable embers in me, my anxiety was also spreading its tongues within me. Love, something so magical and miraculous, has a perfect way to control us: without restraining its effect. It controls our mind, fuses our rationality and sparks a fire in us to go to any length for it. That was my case. I became irresistible, and I’d never felt that way for a very long time.
I watched her hand the mic to an old, retired investigative journalist, Sep Richard. He was going to announce that year’s best Male Investigative Journalist. And funnily, I was one of the nominees out of the six nominees. That was the perfect time to winnow my lottery— a time to attract her with my short and replenishing speech: a speech I’d written and rehearsed few days ago.
However, last year, I couldn’t win the award, it was won by my friend, Musa. We worked for the same Paper. Perhaps this year would be different. I kept hope alive and dreaming.

Sep Richard stood behind the lectern, clothed in a black suit. He smiled at the audience, and looked into the envelope to reveal the winner. I was sitting, yet my stomach was wobbling. My heart was beating “tump-tump.” An unblinking anxiety— this time more feircely mixed-up my peace. I smiled as much as I worried. I watched his lips as much as I watched his hands. I looked at my “target,” she was dazzling and smiling. Mr. Richard, then took a breath as if it was a way to kill me even more. He smiled again and went on, “The best male investigative journalist of this year goes to —Mr.— Joseph— Brenda.” And the audience stood, as I rose from my seat, rearranged my blazer, rearranged my black-tie, and I smilingly walked to the stage to receive my award. Such moments are appealing and refreshing, rewarding and momentous. I glanced at her, smiled at her. And then, I shook hands with Mr. Richard while he handed me the award.

Standing behind the lectern, I spoke briefly in few sentences. “This award came at the right time when we are still mourning the lost of our countrymen who died in the Iraq war while serving their nation. I doff my hat off to the soldiers. I didn’t miss my way upon journalism, it was planned and so journalism till I die.” I went off the stage as the audience fell to my meet with thunderous applauses.

After the awards were given to the winners that night, I walked to her. “Hi beauty.”
“How are you handsome.” She said.
“I must confess, I was lost in your beauty throughout this ceremony.”
“Awwww!!,” she glittered, “that awesome. Thank you.”
“By the way, I’m Joseph Brenda.”
“Yes, the best male investigative reporter.” She said jokingly.
“And you, the best host, the world has ever seen.”
“Are you kidding?” She blushed as she asked.
“Nope. I’m being honest. I’ve never been alive until I saw you today.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah.I mean you moved my soul, you sparked something in me.”
“Wow,” she continued, “I guess your speech was good to our ears.”
“Kind of!” I laughed slightly.
I stretched my hands towards her, “ Can I dance with you?”
“Mmmm-mmm” she looked around, “Why not.” I took her hand, her palms were as soft as my couch. I landed my right hand on her waistline, I fixed our fingers into each other’s. We began dancing and chatting. “ I’m not so much into journalism, especially investigative journalism. But I’ve read some of your articles, the “Queen Elizabeth Quay Scandal” which revealed the illegal activities in the Queen Elizabeth Quay. I was so impressed how your every source linked to another until you were able to expose the wrongdoings of the Director.”
I was stunned, how she had taken her time to read my investigative story. “Congratulations! You deserve this award.”
“Thanks!” I said.
“So tell me, are you married?”
“No! I don’t have plans for marriage.” She confirmed.
“But why?”
“Love has played tricks on me several times until I longer have the courage to try it on.”
“Maybe you need to give it a short.”I urged her.
“No! Love is not for people like us. Love is not for everyone,” She said, “the tighter I hold it, the more it slips through my fingers.”
“Perhaps, you need to loosen your fingers on it so it doesn’t feel granted and slipped. But love comes at the right time when we least expect it.” I assured her.
We spoke lengthily and exchanged contacts. I gave her a ride to her residence, and we bade farewell.
© mohamedDk@Allahuakbarr