FIRST CAME YOUR EYES

CLOTHES OFF

JB stood mesmerized by her reflection in her hall's mirror.

She looked good. No, she was móto [hot in lingala]. JB didn't see herself as pretty, but the tag stuck just like her name.

Jolie Bébé [pretty baby]. JB grew up as a chubby girl with an adorable face. She was seen and categorized as light-skinned Congolese people thought she was of the Muluba tribes and was known to be fair, flirtatious, and adulterous.

When in fact, she was Mungala [people of the river] by her mother, the warrior's tribe, and Mukongo by her father. The people of those tribes were perceived as intellectuals.

Jolie Bébé detested her name, which sounded pretentious. Hence she went by her name's initials. Only one person deemed to call her by her name.

"Jolie Bébé, mwasi kitoko [beautiful woman/lady] Curtis whispered in her ear as he wrapped his hands around her now snatched waist. She was fit and thick, just the way Curtis liked. JB was part of the lot that got blessed with an hourglass figure once they cut down on the sugar and exercised.

They had met at a party before the first Covid wave came. Their eyes crossed, and their hearts skipped a beat.

Love at first sight? Maybe not.

What Curtis saw was a booty he wanted sitting on his face and what JB saw was a tall, cleansed brown-skinned man with a Rolex and a red Lexus ES.

She didn't try her luck at the party her aunt Mado had forced her to attend. Her aunt had in mind to find the singles of their family suitable spouses. Curtis wasn't easy prey. He was the grandson of a former Congo RDC minister of economics and the son of the retired minister of transportation. He was known to speak little, which was rare for a man in a community where all boasted like roasters.

JB observed him from afar and left the party without exchanging a single word with him. She only took the liberty to like a group photo she was in that he posted on Instagram. It was about all it took. The man did the rest by sending her a private message.

Curtis wasn't her type. Congolese men never were. She had no example of a good, trustworthy Congolese man, but Curtis was different. He was born in France, spoke Lingala with a razor-blade-cut accent, and didn't have this overbearing Alpha male behavior many Congolese men had from JB's standpoint.

JB no longer wanted broke-ass men. He could even have a short dick and be bald as long as his bank account was green. She invested and wasted too much time in relationships without reaping anything. It took her time to realize she groomed men. And sadly, JB came to understand what she represented to most. She was a warm-up, the woman men rehearsed with before picking the ones they would wed.

Women envied her. JB got them all with her mulatto aura, they would say, and that no one would take a glimpse at her if she were plain brown. These women didn't see how men dropped her and the reasons they evoked for the rupture.

JB was too loud, too bossy, too exacting, and not marriage material. She was a dirty slate; some said once they knew her father's past. The most skeptical ones went as far as evoking she was cursed and that some sorcery was involved. One could trust African men to bring out the marabout conspiracy theories at their convenience.

"You don't know how to choose them. You need to aim high, don't be like your mother. Look at what man she married?" her aunt Mado advised.

JB worked on herself and attempted to be these supposedly better women. She tried to tame the lousy temper men accused her of having, lowering the volume of laughter and her voice. She muffled any aspects that made her fall into stereotypes. The only thing JB was incapable of controlling was her love for luxury clothes, shoes, and makeup. Though ephemeral, these things boosted her self-esteem. To thrive on the sensation, JB found herself indebted and paying rent instead of a mortgage, but who cared?