By Hassan Arouni - all rights reserved
Alimatu Jones was a woman of vibrant contrasts. At fifty-two, she carried herself with the air of a queen and the charm of a diplomat. Her Krio heritage shone brightly through her rich caramel skin, sharp tongue, and penchant for pepper soup laced with just enough attitude to make a grown man weep. Born and raised in Freetown, Alimatu was the daughter of a strict schoolmaster and an indulgent seamstress who had prayed fervently for her daughter to live a life of piety. Alas, the prayers of the righteous sometimes go unanswered.
Alimatu’s romantic résumé was legendary, whispered about in beauty salons, marketplaces, and the exclusive clubs of Freetown. She had a way with men, particularly the strapping young ones, their bodies chiseled like Greek statues, their aspirations ripe for molding. Her friends often teased her, calling her "Madam Casanova." But Alimatu always laughed it off, declaring with mock solemnity, "Di heart noh de keep count, en di body noh de remember."
Her body count, however, was said to number in the hundreds. Some claimed she had bedded a minister’s son while the minister himself was preaching on the sanctity of marriage. Others swore she had enticed a visiting footballer with nothing but a well-timed wink and the aroma of her cassava leaves. But all that was in the past, or so Alimatu told herself when she met the man who would bring her world crashing down.
Enter Abdul Kamara
Abdul Kamara was thirty-three, a civil engineer with a penchant for leather jackets and an honesty that bordered on naïveté. He had moved back to Freetown after a stint in Ghana, determined to contribute to his homeland’s infrastructure. He was also, inconveniently, a staunch believer in fidelity and the virtues of a "pure" heart. Alimatu first met him at a mutual friend’s wedding, where he was discussing bridge designs with the kind of intensity that made her want to cross all sorts of uncharted territories.
From the moment their eyes met, Alimatu knew Abdul was different. He wasn’t like the others, who were all too eager to tumble into her web of charm. Abdul was cautious, polite but distant. The challenge thrilled her. For weeks, she orchestrated "accidental" meetings, dropping bits of Krio wisdom and compliments about his intellect that left him flustered. Slowly but surely, Abdul softened. By the time he invited her to dinner, Alimatu was convinced she had found the one man who could finally tame her restless spirit.
The Lie
It was over dessert—a deceptively simple slice of plantain tart—that Abdul leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "Alimatu," he said, his voice tinged with sincerity, "you’re an incredible woman. But I need to ask you something important."
Her heart raced. "Yes, Abdul?"
He hesitated. "I believe in transparency. My past isn’t perfect, but I’ve only been with two women. I need to know... how many men have you been with?"
Alimatu froze. In that moment, her past loomed over her like an overripe mango, ready to drop. She had a split second to decide. Should she reveal the truth? Confess to her jouissance of decades past? Or should she tailor the narrative to suit her new vision of a virtuous life?
She chose the latter.
"Abdul," she said, her voice trembling just enough to sound earnest, "I have only ever been with one man before you. He was my first love, but it didn’t work out. I have been waiting for someone like you ever since."
Abdul’s face lit up, a mix of relief and admiration. "I knew you were different," he said, reaching for her hand.
The Problem with Lies
The trouble with lying, as Alimatu soon discovered, is that it requires impeccable memory and quick reflexes. Abdul’s questions came fast and curious: "What was his name?" "Why did it end?" "How long were you together?"
Alimatu concocted an elaborate backstory about a university sweetheart named Emmanuel, who had tragically moved to Canada. She sprinkled her tale with just enough detail to make it plausible, but vague enough to avoid contradictions. Abdul seemed satisfied, and for a few blissful weeks, they settled into a rhythm of quiet dinners, long walks, and passionate debates about politics.
But Freetown is a small city, and secrets have a way of slipping through the cracks. One evening, at a crowded birthday party, Abdul overheard two women giggling behind Alimatu’s back.
"She really thinks she can settle down now?" one whispered. "I swear, di list long pass dem census figures!"
"Ah beg, hush. You think Abdul go gree if e know di truth?"
Abdul didn’t confront her immediately. Instead, he began a quiet investigation, dropping hints in conversation and observing her reactions. When he asked if she knew a man named Tamba, and she replied, "Who is Tamba?" with such conviction that it could have won an Oscar, he knew she was lying—because Tamba was his cousin.
The Confrontation
Abdul invited her over one Sunday afternoon, the air heavy with unspoken tension. Over a bowl of her favorite groundnut soup, he leaned back and said, "Alimatu, I need to ask you something, and I want the truth."
She smiled nervously. "Of course, Abdul. You can ask me anything."
"Did you ever date Tamba?"
Her spoon froze mid-air. "Tamba? Abdul, where is this coming from?"
"He’s my cousin," Abdul said calmly. "He told me you two were… close. And not just him. I’ve heard stories, Alimatu."
The room fell silent, save for the distant hum of a generator. Alimatu weighed her options, her mind racing. She could deny everything, double down on her lie, or… tell the truth.
Finally, she sighed, setting her spoon down. "Okay, Abdul. I won’t insult your intelligence. I’ve had… experiences. More than I care to admit. But none of them meant anything. You’re the first man I’ve ever truly loved."
Abdul’s face was unreadable. "Why didn’t you just tell me the truth from the start?"
"Because the truth doesn’t fit into the neat little box you wanted, Abdul," she snapped. "You think love is about numbers? About how many people came before you? I lied because I knew you wouldn’t see past it."
For a long moment, Abdul said nothing. Then he stood, walking to the window. "You’re right," he said finally. "I’ve been naïve. But trust matters to me, Alimatu. And you broke it."
Her heart sank. "So, what now?"
He turned to her, a faint smile on his lips. "We’ll see. But next time, just be yourself. It’s much more compelling than any lie."
Epilogue
They didn’t end things that day, nor did they ride off into the sunset. Their relationship became a careful negotiation of honesty and forgiveness, filled with heated arguments, laughter, and the occasional pepper soup truce. Abdul would never fully reconcile with her past, but Alimatu learned to embrace it—not as a burden, but as part of the rich tapestry of her life.
As for Abdul, he discovered that love, much like Freetown’s bridges, required a sturdy foundation but could withstand more weight than he’d imagined.
Hassan Arouni is a former BBC Producer and Presenter. He is now a PR and Media Consultant.
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