Could I really make it around this bonfire one more time with a silly pot on my head? Why did they give me the biggest pot? My arm is really tired. Where am I? He’d made it seem like he was royalty.
Village prince — what I now know as the running joke among African men who’ve come to America and thereafter pursue a white girl.
“Prince charming” may have had its origins in the jungle. But I’m a sucker for good stories. I’d definitely been led to believe we would have running water. We’d stay on a college campus where his father was an esteemed professor of theology. Perfect. My father was a minister as well.
“You stay here. I’m going to go look for a place to live.”
“Why can’t I go? Stay here all alone? For how long?”
“You can’t go with us, because if they see a white woman, they’ll run up the price.”
I’m not sure why I chose to believe him. And perhaps he was telling the truth. But I guess I didn’t have a choice. I was already thousands of miles away from anyone I knew. So, my best option was to stay put. Or was it? Was this my first decision in a long series of decisions that would dehumanize myself as a submissive wife unable to think critically on her own?
So, you see, my therapist wasn’t wrong and yet he didn’t know me at all.
I was an accomplished woman. I definitely wasn’t bi-polar. I was brave. Adventurous. Decisive.