I was not the first to hear it.

I knew because I heard it from three people at different times. My momma was one of them. She was bent over the family stove; stirring pepper soup with a wooden spoon. "Have you heard?"

I said "hm?". I was reading. Momma always said girls my age were making babies. In my head, that seemed like a rather tedious task. But I never said that to momma. Instead, I said "Morris? I hear he's in town".

"You should go over to visit" And like an afterthought,  she added, "Everyone else has gone to see him, to give him a warm welcome"I did not think everyone in town had gone to visit Morris as momma put it. But I didn't argue. I said I would go when I had time. She said I had time now. I said now? I'm reading. She said "okay" and mumbled about how I needed to move on and embrace change.

My momma was old then. There was a slight limp in her stride that made her wince when she walked. And she stopped sewing. She made up tons of excuses. Nobody even sewed anymore. Everybody bought their own dresses. She would go back to sewing the moment she saved up, from her income on the cocoa farm, for a sewing machine. But I knew she was growing and momma would never admit it.

In my mind, I was relieved that she was not like the other towns women. They, who rubbed white powder on their faces to hide the wrinkles. And as if that was not enough, they lined their lips with thick red lipstick. I hated that one. The lipstick.

Which is why I didn't smile in the mirror when my friends made a sort of lady out of me. The force in my pout could set off an airplane and yet, they didn't seem to care. "We are determined to make you beautiful", they had said.

I gave up as they used a straightener to let my natural hair fall to my back in a spongy bob. Then there was the powder. A dab here, a dab there. I remember the feel of smoothness of the foam across my face with grace and experience.

How did they learn to do this? How did they grow up so fast?

But I never got to ask those questions because the dreadful lipstick had then been pressed on my lips. Red and thick. I shut my eyes and begun to plot all the mean things I would do to them when all that was over.

But when I opened my eyes, I was a little ashamed because I did appear as a rather fine lady. There was a dress too. Green the color of lemon. And a neat pair of flat shoes. When I asked where they got all that from, they said "your momma". My momma? It brought tears to my eyes but I wasn't allowed to cry. They said tears would ruin the powder. So I shut my eyes again to keep it all in.

Morris wanted to see me. He had brought a car with him. Perhaps the car was for me. Perhaps he would take me away with him to the cold land.

There were stories. There was a different version to each story. Some, I believed. Some, I couldn't care much about. Others were just too silly to be considered.As I walked over to his place, I kept thinking if all this mattered. In the books I had read, people rehearsed what they would say if they got too nervous. I tried to think along that line:

"Hi Morris, welcome back home." "I missed you while you were gone" "I see that their cold didn't freeze you"

I would say something nice about his shirt. And if he's grown a little taller, I'll acknowledge that too.

I knocked on the door once and waited.When I heard the door open, I looked down.

Your shorts were gone.

A fine leather belt, lacing through your belt hole,  had replaced your thread of maize husk.That's when I run. I run fast in my green dress. Tears streamed down my cheeks and the powder rules from my friends didn't hold anymore. And even now, I don't know why I run.

Maybe I was angry that you'd never use the scarf belt I sewed for you. Maybe I was angry you stood in the doorway for too long and didn't say anything. Maybe it was not for as long as it seemed. Maybe I was just scared, Morris.

Scared of what?

I run to the river. I was relieved there were no children bathing in the water. A  twenty-five year old crying all by herself surely didn't create a good picture.  The water was cool on my face. I felt it run down with traces of white powder.

You came behind me then. "Salma". You were out of breath.

Your voice. It was different. Too good in my ears.

You had been running after me. Why did I run? Was I crying? But why? What happened to me?

Stupid fancy accent. Making music in my ears.

And you crouched beside me; you and your stupid leather belt.

That's when the walls came down.

Walls built over the fifteen years that you had been gone. Stories rolled off my tongue in fear and grief. Too fast, too slippery. As though I'd been waiting for this moment to share the burden. Waiting for new ears that would listen to my side of the story. I talked about my brother drowning. About hearing him call my name and not being able to save him.

It was his birthday and there was cake.

I told you about the rape in January. How I was grabbed late that night.

He had strong arms, Morris. And I still feel his weight on mine.

I told you about my friends making babies and no one wanting me. I told you. I told you I never waited for you. I told you to go away with your stupid leather belt. I hated it. And the powder and the lipstick.

The powder is just covering up all this dirt that I am. I am brown brown dirt, Morris.

And all the while, you rocked me in your arms. Like a baby. And you said over and over again "Salma... Salma... Salma..."

As though I wasn't in your arms.

As though I was slipping right through your fingers and you were calling me to stay.

Calling my name.

It has been thirty years after Salma Salma Salma. Thirty years since I felt your arms around me by the river. Thirty years after "Marry me, Salma." "Please be mine". And "No, Morris, I'm sorry". "My past is too dark to walk into the light with you".

Thirty incredible years and you have a wife. Cynthia. I see your sons too. I see how they have grown, Morris.

Everything has changed and nothing at all has changed.

When we see each other from across the street, your eyes always say the same thing:

I have always loved you, Squark.

I see how your eyes hold questions you are too fearful to ask:

Are you fine, Squark?  How's the weather in your heart?  Does it not get too cold and a little lonely?  How long till light, Squark?  How long?        

I am sorry this couldn't be our story. We've always had a different story.

Love a little too unusual and undefined.                                                                                            Wounds too deep to be left as scars. Honesty that crawls on its knees to be heard. And fears that even the bravest hearts can't bear.

And what you don't know is that from the very first day, I had wanted to hit you with snail balls.

It was never about your shorts, Morris.

It was as if I knew. That you were going to show up and make me feel in ways I have not known how to.

That in the end, all these feelings would stay here in this lonely heart of mine, in my kind of weather with only a scarf belt to keep warm.