Okra, Fries and Finding Mr. Right
Could I Convert for Sex?
I met him on a hot summer day in New York. It was the kind of day that initiates daydreams and the assurance that you’ll meet the guy that might change your life. I felt good, looked great, and as I maneuvered my way through the crowded sidewalks, just as I expected — there he was.
He was tall, athletic, and dark as night with an interesting face. His eyes were large and playful and they were thankfully fixated on me. No offense to my girlfriend who was just as charmed, but at that moment I was ready to win this fight by any means necessary. Luckily, I didn’t have to resort to violence to score. He wasted no time asking me out that evening.
He was a fellow West African from the Ivory Coast, and to celebrate our ethnic bond, we had dinner at his friend’s cool house in Brooklyn. Fried fish, jollof rice, and buckets of beer were all very nice, but I was hungrily anticipating dessert. That came later. It was gratifyingly sweet with an added cherry on top.
I learned new ways to work my hips, and my vocal cords also developed their own personality. I couldn’t get enough of his energetic and pulsating moves; he shifted me around with ease. I wanted more of this decadent exercise —and I got it over and over again. The second night as I lay there drenched in sweat, waiting for him to return to me, my eyes darted to the corner, and that’s when I saw it — the beginning of the end.
My boarding school education taught me well. The blue and white kettle and vibrantly constructed mat were the accessories that many of my friends utilized during their prayer sessions. He was a practicing Muslim. Suddenly I felt like dropping on my knees in an effort to plead my case to the Lord. Surely there was a way to have my cake and eat it too?
I could see my mother and aunts wailing with agony as I explained why I was abandoning my Christian faith and initiating the demise of our clan. Could I callously risk the mental health of the ones who love me the most? Most importantly, could I really renounce who I was for a religion that would force me to shed the parts of me that I care about the most?
The answer was absolutely not. But for the sake of my enlightened libido, I was willing to test the waters.
When I finally came up for air after another appetizing interlude, I cautiously broached the subject. With very little emotion, he blurted out “You will need to convert of course.” He didn’t even try to woo me into the process. I calmly replied, “Well, it wouldn’t be that easy for me to go from a Christian to a Muslim.” With his arms behind his neck and eyes closed, he calmly said, “I will definitely help you, and the other wives will guide you too.”
I found myself laughing uncontrollably. His alarmed facial expression only heightened my hysterics. It felt good to be back in control. And since I knew time was no longer on our side, I was prompted to treat myself to another round of pleasure gymnastics.
His misguided assumption and my brief bout with absent-mindedness had sped up our inevitable dissolution. As tempting as it was to consider immersing myself in the offerings of the Koran, there was no way I would be able to justify tearing my family apart. And a lifetime supply of that “good stuff” wouldn’t make it any more bearable.
Jollof Rice Ingredients
8 skinless, boneless chicken thighs, cut into large pieces, 3 tbsp vegetable or sunflower oil, 1 large onion, halved and sliced, 3 tbsp tomato puree, 1 chicken stock cube, 400g basmati rice, 1 red pepper deseeded and thickly sliced, 1 yellow pepper, deseeded and thickly sliced, 100g okra, halved, bunch coriander, roughly chopped, to serve
Thanks for reading. Please hit the “recommend” button below if you liked it to make it easier for others to find. Follow the Culture Club Collection and check us out on Twitter and Facebook too. Sign up for the Culture Club Weekly RoundUp here. You won’t regret it.
