My Secret, My Safe Haven (2)

Three sharp knocks echoed from the door.

“Hosanna, this is the last time oh!” The hoarse voice on the other end of the door had a thick West Central African accent, coated with frustration.

“Sorry, Maman, I’m coming!”

Zan knew better than to make her mother late for church. She coaxed her dress down promptly and made her way towards the door before briskly pausing in front of the mirror. She fixated her eyes on the curves that were made more prominent by her mother’s favourite bright blue bandage dress, struggling to associate with the person in the mirror. She scanned herself thoroughly, imagining what others saw when they looked at her. She wondered if she looked feminine enough to blend into the crowd. A full face of make-up successfully made her look just like her mother’s perfect version of a daughter. She waddled towards the door, adjusting to her 5-inch heels. 5 inches too high, she thought. She made her way towards the door and pulled it open, bracing herself for what she assumed would be a scowling frown from her mother. Unfortunately, she was right.

Her mother stared her down from head to toe, as if she was checking a parcel upon delivery, examining every single corner and edge to make sure it was flawless.

“Good,” she finally said briefly, before turning and walking towards the door. “We can go, everyone, Hosanna is done.” Almost immediately, Zan’s three brothers made their way out of the door, in sync, like something out of the military.

“Can you at least act like you want to call me Zan?” she muttered under her breath.

“I don’t. I won’t lie on the day of the Lord, Hosanna. Don’t make your mother lie.”

The car ride to church always felt tedious for Zan. She never understood her mother’s reasoning for insisting on travelling to the only Congolese church in Cape Town. Her mother insisted that church should feel like home and she never had the courage to question whose home her mother was referring to. It was always a source of frustration for her that there were perfectly suitable churches in their area and, more importantly, she would be allowed to speak English and wear jeans. When she was younger, she would use the 40-minute road trip to practice her French phrases and perfect her greetings, so as not to embarrass her mother. Now, she would just stare out of the window and imagine 100 different ways she might trip and fall during holy communion.

At the door of the church , the ushers and preachers greeted every one of the new arrivals. “Ah, yes! The Fatuma family! Welcome, welcome!” the usher boomed, his smile beaming. “The beautiful Hosanna! We’ll be competing to pay your dowry soon, hey?”

Zan hung her head and pulled down her dress, avoiding stares from men who thought it was charming to make others uncomfortable. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted someone else looking directly at her. The welcoming girl’s cheekbones rose, revealing her dazzlingly white smile, only for a moment before she mouthed hey, Zan and flipped her wig off her shoulder exaggeratedly. Zan couldn’t help but giggle, winking in response. The tall girl always had a way of making Zan smile. Time slowed down around her. It was easy with her. Zan felt her heart jump up into her throat, making her realise she had been staring for too long. The girl held up 10 fingers. Be out in 10 minutes. Zan nodded.

As soon as the opening prayer had concluded and the first two songs had been sung, Zan started scooting past the church members in her pew and headed towards the door while her mother wasn’t paying attention. Stepping outside, her first instinct was to take her shoes off. Finally feeling an ounce of liberation, she turned the corner. “Hey Dee.”

“Hey, you, I was starting to think you were bored of me.” The girl, Dee, had already traded her heels for sneakers and her wig for the buzz cut that was hidden under it.

“Me? Bored of you? Never.” Zan couldn’t help but stare longingly at the tomboy who stood in front of her. Her dark skin was a flawless, so much so that she warranted the cliché ‘chocolate beauty’ compliment. Zan could only think about how she wanted to hold her, to breathe her in. Her thoughts were only halted by the loud praise and worship inside the building. Dee reached out and grabbed her hand. This is wrong. These thoughts are wrong. Zan was often conflicted by her feelings. She knew she believed in God and she could never part with her faith, but she always wondered if she was betraying the LGBTQ community by believing in a God whose people so often rejected them. She wondered if she was betraying Dee. Sometimes, she wondered if she was betraying herself. Thoughts of how she would be treated if she was open about her sexuality haunted her. She knew her future would either entail a series of conversion camps or immediate disownment. She wondered if it would be worth it.

“Okay, I know you want to hear the sermon, for whatever reason, so I say we have 30 minutes to hang before we have to be back. Ice-cream?” Dee asked, finally breaking the silence.

Zan nodded and squeezed Dee’s hand, consumed by the guilt of what she was doing, but grateful to feel accepted.