So what if my heart is broken?
And if it is indeed broken, then what?
Will it stop beating? Will I drop dead? Will I stop breathing? Will my senses cease to function rendering me useless?
This broken heart will not stop beating. I have not dropped dead nor stopped breathing. And all my senses, they’re working just fine, thank you very much.
So fine in fact that I will dress up and go to church on Sunday morning. I will wait outside the church for the first and second mass to be over. I will find a spot on the church compound where I will spread my lesso on the green, very well manicured grass and watch as people stream in for the first mass, watch them as they stream back out. Then I will watch as the second mass lot, those who like to sleep in on Sunday morning, stream in and then back out again.
Once this second group comes out, it will be my cue. So I will get up, grab my lesso from the ground, give it a good shake, fold it and put it in my handbag. Then, in my perfectly pressed Ankara dress, I will make my way inside the church and sit at the front pew. With all the patience in the world, I will wait for the church to fill up and for the third mass to begin.
You will walk into the church eventually. With you, will come those lips. Lips that I’ve been kissing. They will be perched on a face that I’ve touched as it sweated and breathed on top of me and beneath me and beside me. Even behind me. With you will come the shoulders that I laid my head on as I struggled to catch my breath. With you will come the long hairy legs that straddled me. I’ll even feel the tingly sensation that your hairs left on my skin.
And my heart will break again. But it will keep doing its job. Giving me those beats per minute. Sending that oxygen to every part of my body where it’s needed.
The lips will find their way to the altar. I’ll remind myself how it felt to have them pressed against mine. Broken as it is, my heart will find it in itself to skip a beat in honor of this thought. The scent of your skin will fill my nostrils.
By this time your lips will be moving up and down, forming words like, “In the name of the father–” and “The Lord be with you.” I will sit with the congregation, kneel with them and stand with them. I will even give my offering and receive communion like the Catholic I am. I will keep looking at you, wondering how I did not see you coming. How I never saw this coming. Me, sitting here, with a heart like this and you high up on your horse condemning the sinner. The fornicator. The adulterer. Me. For the life of me, I won’t get it.
But isn’t that what a broken heart does? Sit and ask questions and not get it. Why me? Why not me? How can you be like the rest of them? But then again, how can you not be?
Those lips. Still moving. Lips that said, “Take care of it.” When I announced my pregnancy. Lips that are preaching against abortion. Murder. Hands that are holding the bible. The same hands that pressed five thousand shillings in my hand. Take care of it.
My heart will mend eventually. It just needs a little time. Until it does, you’ll be happy to know that the pregnancy was taken care of. There is no kid, but I will not kid myself either. Taking out something that wanted to make a residence out of your uterus is proving much easier than taking out a man who steals their way into your heart.
So while I’d rather be kissing you, until my heart plays ball, I will come here every Sunday. Third mass. I will sit on this very pew. And I will watch those lips that kissed more than my lips preach against everything that you are. I will keep coming because, for me and my broken heart, this is the somewhere that only we know. For now.
While I do that, I will keep reminding myself that I am the sinner and you are the saint.
Every Sunday until my heart is unbroken.