True talk #5: Two women

Confessions on love and life over dinner

Sympathy by Olawale Babalola

I met two women at restaurants in Paris. Both strangers, both in their forties, both wanting to spill secrets and share reflections from across the table. They were in very different places, speaking of what it means to have love and a full life. And it made me wonder: Which of them was happier?

Last summer, I went to an African restaurant by myself after work, craving the taste of chicken yassa and alloco with bissap, as I now reached to Senegalese food for comfort in this new city. It was quite busy for a wednesday night, and I was made to wait outside. After some time, the bouncer came back with a proposition. There was a table for two, and standing next to me was another woman, in a purple frilled knee-length dress, the front twists on her natural hair framing her face.

“Si vous dinez ensemble?” He asked, pointing at the both of us. We looked at each other and exchanged a warm smile.

“Pourquoi pas?” We echoed, walking into the restaurant in a cloud of awkward laughter.

We were seated across each other, and soon we launched into conversation, welcome practice for my French. She was friendly, interested to learn about me and what brought me to this city by myself. I told her about my work, my love for writing and travel, my desire to be inspired here. And she smiled. She wanted to write too, she told me. There were many things she wanted to do, and so many places she wanted to go. She had travelled for a while following one passion, and then she had become a teacher, gotten married and had kids. Settled and reliable. Her eyes glistened as she smiled. She took a sip of bissap and told me, in a hurried breath, that she would like to leave her husband. And then she laughed quickly, to fill the space my silence left, to rid the words of some of their weight. I gathered myself, sharing vague encouragement, as she spoke for the rest of the night about the interests I had inspired her to explore.

A week before my birthday, some months later, I went to a gathering and met another woman who had been born the same day as me but 15 years before. She was African-American and making her way through Europe by herself, stopping in Paris for a few months and trying to soak up as much life and colour as she could find. She wore a tall black hat and had pressed her full figure into a black jumpsuit which gaped in places, but she seemed not to mind. Her lips were a red colour and she had a bright smile. She gifted me with a little phone light that burst into colours when plugged in. It was the perfect thing to match her personality. She told me of her freedom. Of how her ancestors had lied to her. Of how she had been expected to get married and pop out an infinite number of kids.

“My parents are not even happy, like what the fuck,” she laughed. “I don’t want to be held down to anyone. There’s too much of me for that,” she said, laughing again. She could have as much or as little as she wanted of men, she said, stroking her fingernails, and always, she could move on. “You must have the life that makes you happy”, she told me, reaching forward and holding my shoulders, passing down the wisdom she could offer me. I wondered if she was happy — if this was always the way she had felt, or if this was what she had resolved to feel as her life unfolded.

I was moved by both of these conversations — struck by the candour of these strangers who had shared so much with me. And it made me wonder why they had done it; whether they had seen something of who they were or who they hoped to be, in me. For my part, I respected both women and the bravery of their words and choices. One had picked a more traditional life and regretted all that she had left unexplored; and the other had opted not to be tied down by anything or anyone. It made me think about what I wanted. Both these people seemed to be searching for different versions of love; both wanted to make space for their passions; and they either felt constrained or liberated to do this.

I realised that neither of them was me — what I wanted was different, and perhaps a combination of both. I wanted to have my passions; to feel like I was being my full self; but also have love— a stable, long-lasting love that I wouldn’t regret; that would give me the space to be myself; to still pick up whatever tugs at me. And this is what I search for — Communion.

As we reflect on what love means, here is a video of me, from three years ago, reading my poem, “Communion” (on everything it is not).

May we all have the find the kind of love we are looking for.  

Prompt:

What does love mean to you? What is your ideal version of love? Write about it and share it with me (by sending it on instagram, or replying by email if you’re a subscriber) in the next week, and it will go up on the Instagram page.