I’m a Wall

Tonight, I lose my virginity.  

I repeat the sentence over and over, as if by doing so I’d be realigning my body with my mind. I’m a witch performing an incantation. 

Mama would be horrified.

Magic, she would say, is nothing to joke about, it’s real and dangerous. Since moving out, she often reminds me to protect myself from others, ‘recite your prayers every night and the evil will stay away!’ 

I was no longer in the safety of her coven and needed to fend for myself.

I wonder what she’d think of me right now.  Sex before marriage is forbidden, so does this make me “the evil”?  Perhaps - there’s a reason why my body won’t listen to me: Maybe, I need protection from myself.  I smile then shudder almost immediately.  I daren’t joke about this.  Clenching the sheets on the side of the bed, I look down at my protruding veins.  They look like tattooed branches etched deeply into my arms.  If my mother’s words are the ink then she is also the needle, and she cuts deep.  I feel them pulsating angrily.  Guilt, badoom.  Fear, badoom.  Dishonour, badoom.

My head is spinning, I feel nauseous.  I lie back on the bed.  The sloping ceilings resemble sails; I’m on a boat drifting on unsettling waters, and they’re getting rougher by the minute.  I stare out of the rooflight above me and search lazily for the moon, but there is only darkness in the night sky.  When I gaze out into vastness I often float out of time and space in the strangest of ways.  I’m now looking down through the rooflight and I see a girl in white, lying on white sheets.

This makes me think about my cousin Gigi, and her fruitless wedding night last summer.  I imagine her lying down the same way I am.  How was she feeling at that moment?  She had no guilt looming over her, she was doing everything the “right way”.

Unfortunately for her however, the anticipated post-party pursuit had turned into a somewhat bloody ceremony and not the sacred night she had been dreaming of.  Which then in turn led to a series of nightmarish events; failed attempt after disastrous attempt, countless hospital visits and tests, each one confirming that there was nothing physically wrong with her. 

When all rational examinations had been exhausted, an alternative explanation was offered by the elders.  They called it the rite of ‘Tasfih’.

Of course it was magic.

It turned out that when Gigi was a young girl our great aunt had cast a spell sealing her from “wickedness”. 

 “I’m a wall and the son of others a thread.” 

Gandalf had stomped his staff; the husband had no chance of passing through.

Gigi had obtained the status of a ‘msafha’ before her entry into puberty; and now before her entry into conjugality, she needed a second spell to break the wall.

The charm that was intended to serve as a shield had now become a curse.

At the time, I had laughed at this and told my very serious mother that it was probably just nerves making Gigi too tense or something.  She was persistent and after days of us bickering she finally confessed that she knew it must be true because it had happened to her too.  I wondered why it took her so long to tell me, perhaps it’s the shame of it?  Or perhaps, there’s a part of her, deep down, that doesn’t quite believe it either.  All the same, I stiffen at the memory of this, and I start to panic a little, maybe I need to see a witch doctor?

Stop it, stop overthinking. 

I open the rooflight for some air and sit back down again, grabbing my phone from next to me on the bed; it lights up with my last google search taunting me, “can a woman and a man be physically incompatible?”  Not helping.  I put the phone down and observe the room carefully, like a detective at a crime scene; murky green carpet that needs vacuuming, yellowing white walls, the room smells of freshly burned palo santo.  I like to do this at times I feel could become meaningful or pivotal events in my life.  As if by consciously forming a detailed clip of the scene around me, I’m able to permanently pin it to my timeline. The idea being that, as I grow older, I can jump back to these selected memories to relive and analyse whenever I choose to.  

My favourite one so far is the one I made in the months after the death of my grandmother. 

I’m walking back home from the tube station, the small stones beneath my shoes make loud crunching sounds and the smell of petrichor rising from the newly wet ground fills the air.  I start to feel a burning sensation, you know the one you get when you’re certain that someone is staring at you.  I look up, and there amongst a parade of flowering trees in bloom is my grandmother’s ghost hovering above me.  She has no expression; at least I didn’t register her having one, instead she emits a feeling, which washes over me, then engulfs me inside a bubble, into silence.  The noise that had been keeping me up for months is gone.

Now, years later, whenever I feel overwhelmed, I go back to it for a little dose of calmness.  I’m not sure what this new memory being formed now will provide for the future ‘me’, but I do tend to over romanticise, and tonight is important.  Not that anything about tonight is romantic.  Alex hadn’t seemed to think it was necessary to tidy up for the occasion.  Clothes from the past week are scattered all over the room.  Four, no, five cups of tea or coffee sit precariously on the bedside table, some of them no doubt layered with mould.  I should really move one of those cups to the floor.  His laptop peeks out from in between piles of books on the desk.  Sheets of paper sprawl across the floor, riddled with red markings.  He’s just had his tutors' notes back on his master’s thesis.  It must have been positive because he seems to be in a good mood - he’ll probably want me to ask about it.  I grab the top sheet of paper and start to read. 

“Great work Alex, I think you should add more on how ritual performances sustain collective memory and identity.  Have a look at Paul Connerton’s: How societies remember, he argues that….”

Identity.  I hate that word.  No one really knows who they are, do they?  I certainly don’t.  I think I must have created thousands of different versions of myself since moving here.  But then, isn’t that what University is for?  Trying on personalities like they’re clothes and then, just as an outfit feels right, it’s time for graduation?  At least that must be how it is for some - I probably need a few more costume changes. 

Then there’s your family background.  For most I imagine, this one is easy, but I’ve always found it confusing, and apparently government forms think so too; I’m part of the ethnic group: 

Other. 

In my eyes that’s a licence to be whoever and whatever I want to be. 

“Where are you from?” people question.  Some ask because they want to know which part of England I’ve come from.  But there are others who ask because I look different.  

It can go like this:

“I'm from other”

“Oh really, your english is great!”

Or like this:

“I'm from London”

“Ah cool and your parents? It’s just, you look like you could be from…”

Afterwards, there’s always the pressure of acting a certain way.  You’re judged for drinking or for not drinking.  For dressing modestly or too western.  It’s a lose/lose situation really.  So, I decided to just make it up.

“I’m half white and half other.”

People don’t ask so many questions that way - you’re more like everyone else, but with an exotic kink.

Shit.  The words “ritual performances” are bleeding on the page. The rain has started so suddenly it’s as if the sky had opened, or is the saying the heavens opened?  I quickly jump up and close the rooflight, the rain slashes against the glass as I thud the window shut.  More of the red markings are smudged.  Double Shit.  Through the sounds of the beating rain, I hear footsteps coming up the stairs.  A pause, then a muffled conversation on the first floor.  It's Alex talking to his housemate.  He’s coming up. 

I hastily spread the papers out on the ground, hoping that they’re still legible after they dry, and stand up to look at myself in the full-length frameless mirror.  My silky outfit is speckled with rain drops; I smooth the silk over with my hands to try and help it dry faster.  I had bought it a month ago at the only department store in the town centre after deciding I was ready. Alex and I were already three months into the relationship and had been best friends for over a year, of course I was ready..?

“Would you stay with me if we can’t have sex?”

“Truthfully?”

“Of course.”

“Well, no, I don’t think I would.  I just think it's a key part of a relationship.”  He was being honest and it was all I needed to know.

“You’re right. How about tomorrow?”

“Are you sure?”  He was excited and I could tell.

“Mmhmm!” Smiling back at him. 

That next day, I went shopping.  I don’t think I ever made the decision to wear white, I just knew I would.  There was no doubt about it.  Feeling like a fraud, I walked into the bridal section of the department and gazed at the variety of white night wear.  I went to the nearest aisle and chose the cheapest item I could find.  A mid-length slip dress with a lace detail on the chest.  Too ashamed to try it on at the store, I waited until I was home. 

It was perfect; 100% silk. 100% Virgin. 

It’s now my third time wearing it.  Third time’s a charm, right?  I don’t know why I keep putting it on, it’s not like it’s given me any luck so far.  It’s like I can’t help it, like it’s in my blood.  Nature triumphs over nurture.  I can try to defy some things but deep down inside of me assemble the ghosts of my ancestors, guiding me, or should I say haunting me to keep the torch burning; the traditions, the rituals. We’re linked, from generation to generation, the living with the dead.  The weight of it sits heavy on my chest, it's sometimes hard to breathe, but at the same time the torch light keeps me warm. 

The murmuring downstairs stops, and the footsteps continue again.  I glance down at the sheets of paper drying on the floor, they look okay.  The door opens and Alex walks in carrying a bottle of Vodka in one hand and a carton of Cranberry juice in the other.  A single glass sits upside down on the Vodka bottle.

Alex is tall, and although very skinny, his broad shoulders make him seem like a giant.  He ducks his head as he walks through the doorway, the room feels so out of proportion when he’s in it.  It’s as if he’s climbing inside a doll house.  

He’s dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, with a red flannel shirt on top.  Alex is considered cool at university; his elusiveness has made him mysterious to others.  It’s funny how we create personalities for people we don’t know, nearly always assuming they’re better than us.  Then as you get to know them you realise, we’re all just the same, anxious and desperate to fit in.

I like Alex a lot. 

I like

-   his high cheek bones on his gaunt face and how red his top cheeks are, as if permanently burnt by the sun

-   the way he breathes out smoke from his cigarette

-   how focussed he gets when reading a book

-   how confident he is when he talks about things he’s passionate about.  How he’s doing that now, talking about his thesis.  He loves studying anthropology, he loves studying me..

“So?  Are you happy with the feedback?” 

He bends down slightly to kiss me on the cheek, then puts down the drink.

“What happened?” 

“It started raining, sorry!  So are you?”  

He tuts and doesnt’t respond.  His eyes start scanning the text to make sure he can still read everything.  

I like

• his eyes. They’re big and blue, magnified by his glasses

• the confidence he gives me when we’re with other people, the feeling of relevancy, the hope 

of really being a part of their world. Maybe after tonight I will be. 

Alex pours a generous serving of the cheap vodka into the glass, then pours cranberry juice until the glass is full.  He gives it to me and watches me drink until it’s empty.  I drink it in seven gulps.  I hand the glass back over to him and he starts to make another. 

Drink one. 

“Yeah, I’m really pleased with feedback.  She wants me to delve deeper into collective memory and explore the different methods of social memory transfer..”

Drink two.

“It really made me think about you, you know?  Your inability to just be who you are, I mean you were born here for christ sake.  You’re chained to these traditions that make no sense in today’s society, I never really understood it before..”

Drink three.  Alex starts to kiss me. 

Drink four.

We’re in a mirrored room. The floor is white, everything is pristine and sterile.  I’m in a hospital.  I’m lying on a reclined operating table and my head is being held still with a metal frame that’s bolted onto the table.  It looks like a mouse trap over my head.  I’m locked in it and there’s nowhere for me to escape.  Alex is sitting on a swivel chair next to me wearing a white lab coat.  He starts to caress my cheek with one hand, while injecting my veins with pink fluid - he tells me it's nothing to worry about and it’s only to calm my nerves.  His pupils are moving up and down like a mad scientist, his eyes are now triple their normal size.  As soon as the pink fluid is emptied inside me, he swivels to a tray behind him carrying his instruments and picks out a pair of forceps. 

He’s now standing behind me but I can see his multiple reflections from all angles.  He’s looking down into my head where my brain lies exposed and vulnerable.  Alex open’s the forceps and jams them in. 

His hands start shaking as he starts to tug on something.  What is he doing?  He’s now using both hands, a dark grey cloud begins to emerge out of my head.  What is that?  The mass is getting bigger and bigger until it finally pops out, still connected to the inside of my skull by a thin string.  Alex takes a tiny break and carries on pulling.  There’s more? 

I watch the mass floating around the room as it starts taking more of a familiar shape, before it hits me.  It’s my grandmother’s ghost!  Except not like the one I’d seen before, this one seems meaner and I’m overcome with fear.  The next mass is my Uncle who died in a car accident when I was a child. The one after that is my great Aunt.  Still more keep coming out but I don’t recognise them.  Please Alex stop!  But he keeps going and quite soon the room is full of the dead.  I can no longer see myself in the reflection as they surround me, stretching on for infinity in the mirrored room.  They’re closing in on me, I’m petrified.  I let out a loud scream.  There’s a flash of blinding lights shining over me, I can’t see. 

Alex has turned on the ceiling light and my vision slowly adjusts.  He’s still fully dressed as he looks at me with a worried expression.  I look down at my dress smeared with my own blood.  My hand sliced to ribbons on broken glass.  I’d smashed my glass against the other cups on the side table.  I really should have moved them down.