Love in the shadows.

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LOVE IN THE SHADOWS

It always surprised me how someone with billions of daddy issues could be so mesmerized by men. The hardness of their faces sent me places. The long, firm bodies, the slightly bowed legs, the rough smiles, the dangerous looks—I could go on and on. There was something about the male species that kept me tuned in.

In March 2010, my sixteen-year-old self was mourning. I had buried many things, but I had never allowed myself to truly mourn and cry for the things I loved dearly. On reporting days, I always rode back to school on a motorcycle, my luggage tightly strapped close to me. There was little room for breathing—only prayers for safety as the boda boda man ignited the machine that claimed tens of Ugandan lives every single day.

I envied children whose fathers showed up as if they were born to love their daughters. I had given up on my father. I had given up on expecting him to save me. I was a product of a relationship that failed before it even began, and I was done playing therapist to my parents. I realized that the man I had created in my mind as my father didn’t exist. Instead of facing that shock, I chose to protect the father in my head—maybe one day I could gift that version of him to my children.

When the music died, my strong desire for the opposite sex became a burden I couldn’t bear. The fear of giving birth to another version of me terrified me. So I started dancing in the shadows. It was safer to crush and love in my head. At least there, I was safe. My ovaries were safe too.

As if killing my desires wasn’t enough, I lost my perfect skin to an army of pimples. My mother and I barely had enough money to survive, so skin care and clothes were luxuries we never considered. I buried myself in books. Even with the extra effort, I never made it into the “clever circle,” but at least I had a distraction.

Days came and went, and I was content—until the day I walked into a creature perfectly molded. He was the definition of a man meant to be loved. His beauty made me forget my ugly skirt. Just looking at him made my skin feel smooth. I wanted to fight for his attention. I wanted to smell him. I didn’t care that he had a girlfriend. All I cared about were the signals he gave me. He looked at me with something that felt like love, his yearning energy matching mine. I knew my chance had come to finally fall in love. I was about to know what it felt like to love and be loved.

But there was something beautiful in the mystery—the conversations only our eyes could interpret. It was safer to love you from a distance, though I sometimes believed you were just afraid of your girlfriend.

I lost all words in your presence, and part of me wishes I had been bold enough to say hello. But maybe the best decision I ever made was loving you from a safe place. I wasn’t the only girl mesmerized by you—I saw them throwing themselves at you, and I was a little too proud to compete for attention.

Today, I think some love is best experienced in silence.

A few years ago, I met your ex-girlfriend. She looked lost and tired. I wondered what you had done to her. You were the ideal man, and I would have thought the world of the woman you loved. For years, I wondered what demons you hid inside that beautiful body.

I met her again a few days ago. She had a handsome man on her right arm, and her glow had returned. I promise you, you would have loved seeing her like that.

I still hope you had nothing to do with her pain. And if you did, I hope your soul found help and now matches your perfect body.

To the looks we shared and the silence we enjoyed.

Written by

Namata Mariam

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