KEITH AND HIS DOUBLES

Ya, that is great! But the hair is a bit too kinky,” Christine said as she twisted her neck like a chicken checking the position of a hawk.

“How kinky?”You ask, worried that Keith may not approve of anything less than perfect. “Won’t you straighten it up, please?”

“Let me use that dark shampoo to wash it down, it will do the trick,” Christine assures you with her trademark finger-dexterity. Indeed you believe her; everything will turn out just fine.

She applies all her skills and the temperature in her fingers can confirm that she is doing everything possible to make you the next diva on top of the world.

When she is done, you survey yourself in the mirror and the figure amazes you greatly. “Alright now that is a good color,” but the eye shadows grab your attention, “I love it, but the eye shadows have too much Mona Lisa brown.”

“But that is the world’s most beautiful woman;” Christine is horrified, “every diva craves to be like her.”

“That is a sweeping statement, Christine,” you shake your head in disagreement, “because I don’t, unless your definition of a diva disqualifies me.”

She shakes her head, but with a smile indicating that she agrees with you, “Why can’t the world get itself a twenty-first-century diva and move on?” she asks. With new zeal, she dabs some salve on the eye shadows the way she deems fit. The result is one which forces even her own mouth to stretch wide open with a wow; “Ha! Stembile, now that is the most beautiful figure I have had the pleasure to see, forget about creating.”

“Okay, coming from you, I have no doubt believing it,” you answer with a smile that is as wide as the Mississippi river. “Now I think I can go, thanks for everything.” You are so excited with the recommendation; beauticians are a breed of ruthless professionals, so fastidious that one wonders whether they get pleased by anything at all.

You walk away from the veranda hurriedly. Your heart is bubbling with incalculable joy, revealed by a beautiful smile playing on your lips.

“Let me shock Mom first, next it will be my Keith,” you wow to yourself as you reach the door to the sitting room where you left her eons back. The door is open, only the dark curtain laces block the inside view. You grab the door handle for stability; the nerves are jingling too much, making your knees wobble as you walk. And with the heart yearning for a happy surprise, you burst into the room shouting a “hello mom there!”

No one answers. Though there are people on the sofa further on, yes but none of them seems to have found a mouth with which to answer you. Worse, they can’t even turn to look at you, killing the expectant mood you had when coming in. Worst, they are busy looking into each other’s eyes as if the whole world doesn’t exist. No, they are not just looking at each other, they are kissing. And one is wearing a wedding suit. No, it is not anyone- you know those dark curls, they are for Keith, your Keith. Whom is he kissing, and so deeply?

There was only one person in the house; your mom. Is he kissing your mom, what a disaster?

Your whole soul capsizes in shock. It is her alright, as usual twisting her neck in a devil-may-care fashion. Definitely, she is roused and this stabs you. Roused by your man, really? Your breathing rate has already hit the sky, even as you shout her name in anger; your voice is choked in the throat and the ears can’t recognize it as yours.

But why shouldn’t it, when the adrenaline surge is killing you? Why would she do such a thing? And, on a day like this one, surely? Questions pound your cerebral computers almost jamming the whole network.

But eons later, she turns her head to look at you; her indescribably big eyes are twinkling with her own question. No, it is not even a question, but a curse. Her lips suddenly curl sardonically like someone chewing a hot bone on a rotten tooth.

“Damn you!” she wails with her mouth but the pain in her eyes is worse, you can’t bear it. “Can’t you see we are busy?”

“Ma!” you cry her name out, your breath is like someone has stolen your heart.

“I thought you are at the altar marrying yourself away to God knows who,” she is desperate to see your back.

Than Keith stands up, looks at you with pity, he grabs her neck for support and then plants another kiss on the moist lips, it is a long, noisy kiss. The sight rips through your heart like an arrowhead, shot at close range. Yes, and the wall clock chimes the hour: twenty minutes to the altar.

TWENTY MINUTES……………………………………………………………………..

“Keith you…” you are trying to shout in anger when a door to your left opens with a crash. Your brain just registers another couple dragging each other in. It is Juliet your brides-maid; she is holding a man on the neck with one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. The man is not just wearing a groom’s wedding suit but also holding her waist as if it is a hamburger. She is looking into his eyes longingly; no she is not just looking. The minx is grinding his lips desperately like someone trying to drain all the saliva. The sight is a temporal distraction, it doesn’t reduce your anger even a bit but the identity of the man adds extra flakes of disdain to it. For five whole minutes, you watch them kissing, no you endure the treachery. Your heart takes a severe squeeze, but it is still able to throw out some rage. The minx is licking the lips, and not just any lips, but for your man, your Keith.

“Keith you…..” you try some chastening with a tone of a mother rebuke a son.

Now, Keith breaks the kissing a bit to look at you, his eyes are without pity, it is not surprising that he discards you like a used doll. No, he doesn’t just discard you, he curses you as well; “damn you, can’t that dress give you manners?”

You can’t figure out what the hunk is up to, you watch him go back to his girl for more lip service, maybe also heart surgery. The sight grinds your heart with terrible pain and you spoil for a real fight. The diva in you explodes, but just than…

FIFTEEN MINUTES…………………………………………………………………..

A door to your right opens with hinges creaking loudly and a couple enters. It is Christine, the beautician. You didn’t choose her for a bridesmaid and didn’t even know she would be there. You are still adding this layer of surprise to your anger like cream when another knife stabs you, and where it kills. Christine is kissing a man passionately like her whole life depends on his lips. She is holding him with her hands passing under his armpits to come up over the shoulders. And the man is lifting her bums with both hands. You almost wow in real glee because they are indeed a great couple, but than you notice the curls and the wedding suit. Only one person wears his hair with that type of curls. The identity of the man is a disaster. It is your man Keith. For five whole minutes, you coach yourself on how best to teach this rebellious bastard how to conduct himself on a wedding night. No this time you decide to insult the woman. A simple beautician cannot steal your man and get away with it.

“Christine! You silly bitch!”You howl putting as much anger in each word as your heart can muster. But they ignore you and your insults. You don’t exist at all and that makes you almost fly out of your skin before your own Keith favors you with a glance, glancing at you like a teacher who suddenly finds a dog sitting on his chair in class.

He frowns and curses you; “What is the matter with you?” The mouth twists, the eye flashes, and the mouth curls grip your heart. It is your time to say worse stuff, but just than…

TEN MINUTES………………………………………………………………………………..

A shuffling of feet at the stairs tells you some more people are coming down into the sitting room. They are giggling slyly like small parrots eating groundnuts. That voice, oh yes that is Sibongile, the diva you envy for her bums. Oh! Not just her bums but also the delicious smile which can dry all the water in the Niagara falls. But who is her man? You wonder. You are still grappling with the Christine betrayal, but the giggles draw your eyes to the stairs. It is your wedding night; no one should see you angry. You pretend to exercise some control over yourself. But the sight makes you stand there for eternity, no it is five minutes.

You discover what the name Sibongile really means. On one hand, she holds a glass of sherry wine which she struggles to pour into her mouth while grinding a million-dollar body against some hunk. The other hand clings to a man who is holding her bosom possessively as he directs her steps coming down. And than you see why your heart was invaded by a swarm of butterflies. The hunk is wearing a groom’s wedding suit and his hair has curls. It is Keith. Sibongile, the most beautiful diva is with your Keith. Now you are finished. One kiss on those big lips will make him forget all the hundred kisses you gave him-he must have got himself ten kisses by now. You complain. No, you decide to fight

The transformation back to rage is remarkable and without thinking you shout; “Keith, you …”

Keith looks at you like a doctor who has to touch a corona patient without protection. His eyes show a man scared that he might contract a killer disease simply by looking at you. And he puts his hidden feeling into words; “don’t Keith me, damn you!

You want to retort, to put the punk in his place, a pigsty, but just than …

FIVE MINUTES………………………………………………………..

The door behind you opens with the ratatat sound of someone hurriedly tearing a curtain. Giggling voices sail into the sitting-room again...you whirl around like a ballet dancer. Your tired heart must again receive a dose of terrible shock. This time it is Matilda clinging to a man. And as usual, they are kissing while walking haltingly into the sitting room. Just to be sure you steal a glance at the man. Your eyes immediately land on those unforgettable curls. There is no more fight remaining in you, you have given up “Noooo! Noooo!” you cry internally and luckily your decision making process springs back to life. You can’t wait to see what you Keith is up to this time.

You suddenly see that there is still one door open, just ahead of you. It leads to the pond, a fish pond, presumed to be ten meters deep and twice in width. Trying to leave this great shame behind, you crush through that one door at great speed. You are racing blindly but the intention is clear; to cross a twenty-meter wide pond when you don’t even know how to swim. But it doesn’t matter now. 

The long wedding dress trips you. Your whole body takes a headlong dive a meter from the pond and suddenly your mouth rips the cool night with a ghastly peal of fear. Surprisingly you don’t touch the cold cobblestones on the road or the water in the pond at all.

Some hands lifted you up as if someone was just waiting for you to fall. No, they didn’t just lift you up, they swallowed you up. As if they owned you. What sacrilege?

Your wails change to those of anger, but even those don’t last a second, they are hurriedly shut out by some stupid lips grinding yours hungrily.

The taste of salt suddenly injects some fight in you. “Leave me, idiot,” you shout as your hands strike blows. But the grip is an expert one, leaving no room for you to maneuver.

“Ya only one minute is remaining,” a familiar voice yaps.

“What minute? Leave my hand, stupid!” you howl angrily. The man is holding your hand, not holding your hand but putting some cold thing on your finger. When the cold thing settles on your finger, the man again pounds your lips as if he owns them. And then the whole group of twenty couples comes out of the house singing wedding carols; wishing you a blessed marriage. The mouths that cursed you a few minutes back are now shouting; ‘Hurrah! Thank God for Stembile and Keith, long live their sweet matrimony.”

You look at the man, and indeed he is no other than Keith, your own Keith, wearing a groom’s wedding suit. Your brain is now dizzy because he could as well be the next man a yard away, seated on the chair.

With dark eyes glittering like hard chips of ice you survey the couples pouring champagne into there wide throats. Some are also dancing gaily, others chatting on hard-backed booths or meandering like rats around laminax tables. But all, starting from your mom who had to shed off decades just to be here to the voluptuous Sibongile tearing down roofs with her booming laughs, had identical men; same dark curls, same body build and same Seville Row suits. Failure to tell these men apart is sending your heart into total turmoil; why all the twenty men here tonight are identical duplicates of one man, Keith?

Jingling nerves almost throw you down on the cobblestones as much as some invisible hand busy churning your emotions into total chaos. You are kissing a man, but could you be sure it is Keith? If not what are you doing? A swift stab of fear races through your heart like the shock of a knife wound. To end this emotional dilemma you decide it is high time you cut the charade and fled.

Hastily you push with savage force, but Keith is a mind reader; he grips you firmly, blocking every way of escape.

You are trapped like a rat in a cage, what will you do? Continue kissing a man whom you know is no different from the next man? Keith, why this torture?

But you make a quick decision; pretend you are willing to enjoy the surprises in store on this side of life. You kiss him back with a vengeance. He relaxes his grip allowing you small space. That is enough to see you dive into the pond-better die with my honor protected.