I won’t tell…

She was a different kind of girl

From a distance it was hard to tell

That she had already been through hell

It’s like on her, a bitter past had cast a spell

Whether she was born cursed/just not raised well

That was a story, of which only time would make a tale…

Not like it’s the life she chose

But hers was the kind void of chores

Clothes & shoes came from the finer stores

Mummy spoilt and pampered her simply just because

When the gods decided to pour favor, it’s on her they chose

But you see, her idea of a dad’s affection, is not quite like yours…

Good grades, perfect dentals

Full natural dreads, not the rentals

Hers was a skin free of acne, scars & pimples

Thanks to her dimples, no one ever noticed her tears

For hers were the kind of eyes in which resided the stars

But unfortunately, it was her beauty, her gift that left her with scars…

For her mind, everyman was hers

She drew them in like she had powers

Neglecting all the caution, of all her aunties

Her worries often dropped faster than her panties

And no, she wasn’t the kind to lure or impress with cars

She was raised in and around those, but behind closed doors…

And it’s behind those doors

That she saw things nobody knows

The guilt and self pity toys hers with its claws

Once too often again she has contemplated an overdose

Coz it’s behind those very doors, that she learnt all she knows

Yet it’s behind those very doors, that her innocence came to a close…

Since her dad had often abused her

In her mind no other man had really used her

And so she let them have their way, till they bruised her

All the way from her village to college it was public knowledge

That she was that ka-cute smart gal cum rich spoilt brat turned slut

For an identity society offered her that. She accepted. She embraced it…

As fate would have it

Soon her dad and mummy passed

Left her with rather handsome lump-sum trust

And now she is finally into fashion, her new found passion

Since she owns lots of nice clothes, she figured she could make those

I mean, what else was there for a girl that spent half her life watching fashion shows…

To bury her past, first she must face it

But she chooses to deny it, of love in pursuit

Men still pursue her, trust me it’s many she has met

But every time she’s falling or someone offers a compliment

Every time she tries to get intimate, it’s by a violent torrent she is met

A bitter torrent of memories that serve no purpose but to haunt and torment…

She finds herself unworthy of loving

Considers herself a lowly unworthy being

Sex is that gift she is incapable of ever enjoying

Coz off of her gifts, it’s daddy that did the unwrapping

That led her into a lifestyle of shame and an unclean craving

That degenerated into an addiction, one from which there is no saving…

Addicted to a different kind of pain

She is ad’dick-ted to different kinds of men

Much as she hates it, when she does she wants it

And given her money & kind of beauty, she always gets it

She had met one too many a prospect but just couldn’t commit

And when she was willing to, upon hearing her past, every guy just beat it…

Only truly like minds will most likely mind

When they search love’s mirror and do not find

A reflection of themselves personified as a passion blind

But seeing how fate ensured we met, our love was one of a kind

I met her at a runway, she was launching something, I was onto something

I was a young writer in search of my next short story, but her, she was only flirting…

I asked & jokingly she obliged. And just like that, a date was set for the interview

I said, ”Care to share a little about you?” She said; ”To the world or with you?”

”Being a young fashion mogul, I’m sure many could use your points of view”

And then came the question, ”Can I trust you?” – ”Who? Me?” – ”Yes, you”

I said, we could consider this an interview or our private chat, just me & you

But she just smiled. And then gave me a lot much more than just her points of view…

As she poured out her past to me, I wanted to say sorry

But I could tell she wasn’t telling her story just to get a sorry

And somewhere in the back of my mind I kept wishing so madly

And so badly that she was lying. But no she wasn’t, it hurt me honestly

When she was done I stood up, walked over to her and hugged her lightly

Starting to sob and lost for support, she held onto me tightly, a tad too tightly…

The gentleman in me wanted to wipe her tears

But then I hesitated & instead bowed in to my fears

For fear of seeming like I was not a professional on duty

I decided to disengage from the tight embrace of her beauty

Unlike the so many other random guys in her past seeking pity booty

I simply whispered sorry, patted her slowly and said, ”I won’t tell our story.”

To lift her mood

I took her seat instead

Then offered her mine and said

Your turn, now you’re interviewing me, let’s start

Before even wiping her tears she smiled and shot straight

”O.k, spill all of it. Every detail, even if you’re gay, it’s alright, I can keep a secret.”

We chuckled, soon we were both laughing about my past, we even agreed to a dinner date…

I will be very honest

I tried to resist but my sorry was genuine

Despite her past, like her smile, her hug was warm

And for some reason she didn’t hesitate to confide in me

The fact that I had said ‘our story’ must have had some kind of charm

That’s when I flirted with the idea, that maybe it was her, was she the one?

I gathered myself & convinced myself, if any woman deserved my love, it was her…

Later on I would learn

As I walked out of her office

She saw but pretended not to notice

That I was rugged but cleaned up kinda nice

And as I was home playing back her recorded voice

I received an SMS. It read, ”Tonight I cooked pork and rice.”

And the rest after that is classified. Just as I’d promised. ”I won’t tell.”

By

Th’ KlaFella™

Kidron Nabende Googo (theklafella.tumblr.com | facebook.com/TheKlaFella)

<em>There's half a verse in this piece I owe to one Philip Matogo. All due respect to you my man, I stumbled upon your post titled ''My kind of girl'' and thanks to insomnia and UG plus a tree or two , that single verse inspired me to compose this piece, or rather to share this entire experience. Based on true events. Maybe not. Enjoy this not just for the honesty, the suspense and sadness in it, but the sense laced in it. I've done my best to preserve her identity and in the process not spared my own.</em>

Written by Kidron KlaFella

I'm the king of my mind and the prince of my time. Master of my thoughts and judge of my conscience. To my ambitions, this body is a slave.

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A Story, Part 2 – Beneath the Wheel

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