Last Updated on 6 months ago by Joel Samuel McQueen
Part 1
Back in primary school, Misty was my first love. To say that Misty was perfect in every way was no exaggeration. She was a black Barbie. Her dark, smooth skin glistened like freshly dug soil; her big, white front teeth stood like the gates of heaven; her soft, curly naps bounced like sponge cake; her long finger nails gleamed like translucent crystals; her small, pubescent breasts were rounded like two sugar apples and her flat stomach concaved like a valley in which a marble or a penny could easily role into.
As much as I loved Misty, her heart belonged to someone else—a boy named Ronaldo. He was all beauty and no brains. He could barely read and write and at the end of the school year when our teacher Mrs. Cumberbatch ranked the class in order of academic achievement, Ronaldo’s name was always at the bottom of the list. This fact, however, never seemed to bother him, as he had learned—even at his young age— that his good looks was all he needed.
Every day during recess, the girls swarmed him like ants to ice cream. They stood in awe of his honey brown complexion and even took turns braiding and styling his soft curly locks. In their giggling, girly gossip, they revealed their burning desire to one day marry and mate with him, producing a batch of light skinned babies with good hair. Back then I never understood this fascination with Ronaldo’s limp hair, and as far as I was concerned my afro, which my father insisted that I keep short, was far much more interesting in the way it grew up and not down like Ronaldo’s.
If Ronaldo was prince of the school yard, I was king of the classroom. Except for mathematics. I excelled in all my subjects–reading comprehension, writing compositions, science and history. For my hard work, Mrs. Cumberbatch promoted me to the front of the class in the seat next to my darling Misty, whose every move and every breath I observed.
Misty’s penmanship, for example, was a site to see. Each letter of each word was neatly formed and rounded so nicely as to resemble pearls on a necklace. Furthermore, the space between each word had a subtle evenness, allowing the reader’s eye to move with grace and easy. Finally, the virginal whiteness of her composition paper was never compromised by the careless smudges of a rubber eraser.
Compared to Misty’s, my handwriting resembled the scribblings and scratches found on the bathroom wall of a rum shop. Moreover, I had developed the bad habit of eating while completing my homework assignments, which resulted in more than a handful of stubborn curry, gravy and mango stains being left on my notebook. As for the content, I poured out on every corner of every page my boyhood imagination, my fantasies, my fears, my daydreams and even confessions of love in the form a love letter.
One Monday morning the windows of heaven opened when Mrs. Cumberbatch, having unearthed the batch of outdated, dusty Mathematics texts from the back of the room, ordered the class to get down to work on a few problems. We were doing our best when Misty raised her right hand and asked for help.
“Nigel, would you mind helping Misty,” asked Mrs. Cumberbatch?
It would be my honor and great pleasure, Mrs. Cumberbatch, in fact the greatest pleasure in the world for me to help the helpless, I said to myself. But being unable to speak, however, I simply shook my head in approval.
“You two, join your desks,” ordered Mrs. Cumberbatch.
My heart skipped a beat as Misty delicately pushed her wooden desk next to mine. And as the two desk touched, I felt an even more intimate touch of her right and my left leg below.
“How much is the thirteen times thirteen,” asked Misty with a straight face.
What an odd thing to ask, I said to myself, considering that Mrs. Cumberbatch had never bothered teaching us to multiply beyond the twelve times table. Hoping to impress Misty, however, I quickly wrote the numbers on the blackboard in my mind in an attempt at mental math, but when this failed, I confessed.
“I doh feel I know that one yet nah,” I said with regret.
Misty wasted little time moving her desk next to the wizard of standard three mathematics—a ball-headed, glasses wearing boy named Donald, who was more than happy to help her. And as easy as Misty came she was gone, along with my chance to deliver my declaration of love.
Part 2
That night as I sat down to rewrite my love letter to Misty, I was careful to avoid any gravy from my plate to stain my precious, heartfelt missive. The letter was decorated with rainbows, butterflies and roses and then folded six times to the size of a match box. Here it is. My acrostic masterpiece:
M is for a million miles I would walk for you
I is for the Island of love we share together
S is for the Sweetness of your skin
T is for your Tender touch you give to me
Y is for You and I together forever.
The next day during early recess, I traded five marbles with Ronaldo for the promise he would deliver my letter. He quickly accepted and without hesitation walked across the school yard towards the flock of girls skipping jump rope. Upon seeing him the group stopped their game and with great adoration and awe stood in silent attention awaiting his arrival. Seeing this, I began having second and even third thoughts about my flimsy letter now resting in Ronaldo’s outstretched hand.
“See this,” he said, “this letter here in meh hand is for one special, girl.”
Believing that the letter was from Ronaldo and that they might be that special girl, the female mob went wild, with some clutching their chest while others bent over as if in pian.
“Who is the lucky girl,” said a lone female voice.
“Me Ronaldo, pick me,” cried another.
“I want to see a straight line against the fence,” demanded Ronaldo, relishing his supreme authority.
The girls quickly obeyed and stood shoulder to shoulder like contestants in beauty contest.
“Now girls,” declared Ronaldo in a rare show of compassion and wisdom–“I don’t want nobody to feel no way if you don’t get pick.” In life a fella or a gyal should learn to take the good with the bad. The up with the down, The hot and the cold. So don’t feel no way. Next time it could be you.”
By this time, a small crowd of onlookers had gathered to witness what they believed was the prince’s selection of his new princess. Scanning the line, he walked passed girl after girl before stopping before Misty, who spined giddily, as her extended arms and pleated skirt makes a human helicopter. She then grabbed and took off to edge of the field by the chain link fence.
Part3
That night, I imagined that Misty–having read my letter a half a dozen times before drifting off to sleep– would be excited to see me as I her. The next day I awoke early and carefully ironed a pair of clean khaki pants and shirt, which surprised my mother who was already up. It was well known to her that of all the things her last son cared about, his appearance was at the very bottom of his list. I hardly believed, however, that with seven other children to care for that my poor mother knew her son had fallen in love. And with a brief exchange of good morning between us, I skipped off to school on a bouncy cushion of hope that Misty would be mine.
For one entire week I hovered around Misty like a dog itching for a bone from his master ‘s table. Her scraps of attention- a carefree glance in my direction, a small request to step out of her way- I took as solid proof that things were heating up between us. And when this turned out to be notthe case, I never confronted Misty but simply returned to my school boy obsessions.
One of my favorite shows growing up in the 1970’s was The Six Million Dollar Man. The show’s main character, Steve Austin, is a former NASA astronaut badly injured in a plane crash, resulting in the loss of his right eye, right arm along with both legs. Faced with permanent immobility, a team of futuristic government scientists and doctors replaces Austin’s natural body parts with robotic or bionic elements. This miracle of modern surgery results in Austin gaining the superhuman ability to see further, run faster, jump higher than the rest of mankind.
As a boy I idolized the Six Million Dollar Man. He possessed the power that all boys craved. The power to win, to be the best, to defeat the enemy, to get the girl. In one of my favorite episodes Austin activates his bionic legs and pursues—at the speed of sixty miles an hour–a blue station wagon driven by a pair of bandits that had previously abducted his beautiful blonde girlfriend (Jamie Summers). As the action picks up, Austin leaps onto the roof of a five-story building in order to cut off the suspects’ car, which he does by jumping from the building unto the roof of the speeding car. Then without breaking a sweat, he rips open the car’s metal roof like a can of sardines, rescuing the girl.
Like the six million dollar man, I dreamed of saving the day and Misty in my own small way. As faith would have it, I was busy cleaning the blackboard for Mrs. Cumberbatch one Friday after school when I noticed an expensive lunchbox that was left behind.
“Mrs. Cumberbatch somebody leave their lunchbox” I said.
“That must be one of the girl children lunchbox,” she said. See if there is name written on the side.”
I inspected the lunchbox as Mr. Cumberbatch waited in anticipation. Then I saw it. Her full name, Misty Night, written on square white cardboard protected by a plastic shield.
“Well. Whom does it belong to, “she asked?
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“Not sure. I go take a look inside,” I said,
“Well, she asked again?
“It’s Misty,” I cried.
“Don’t make joke, these children going to forget themselves one of these days,” said Mrs. Cumberbatch. “Run and see if you could catch her. She might still be by the front gate waiting for her mother.”
Part 4
As I approached the front gate of the school, a neat blue sedan immediately pulled off with Misty’s in the back seat waving at her friends through the rear window. The car then travelled for a short distance before stopping at the outside perimeter of the school grounds for a group of boys on their way to pitch marbles. I hesitated before giving chase, which turned out to be a big mistake, as the peppy sedan took off with burst of speed at the very moment I reached its trunk.
“Mother ass,” I said under my breath.
Standing deflated in the middle of the street with Misty’s lunchbox swinging from my right hand, I suddenly heard the theme music and voice over for my favorite show playing in my head as I became the six million dollar man:
“Steve Austin, astronaut. A man barely alive.”
“Gentlemen, we can rebuild him. We have the technology. We have the capability to make the world’s first bionic man. Steve Austin will be that man. Better than he was before. Better — stronger — faster.”
Through the narrow and circuitous routes — up this land and down that that street, around bends with left turns and right turns along the way –I kept sight of the blue sedan until its final turn onto a small quite lane in a part of town reserved mostly for middle class islanders and white people. Standing at the edge of the main road, I watched Misty exist the sedan and opened the iron gate. She waited dutifully as the car entered before closing the gate behind her. Except for the occasional telephone ringing or barking dog, the lane returned to its comfortable silence.
I walked pass the compound wall several before finding the courage to knock the gate. As I stood there waiting, the same small dog barked followed by the alerts of a much larger dog along the lane. Finally, the front door opened and Misty’s mother appeared. She wore a long floral house dress and on her head a bee hive hairdo that resembled Diahann Carroll from the television sitcom Julia.
‘Good afternoon, may I help you little boy,” she said in a formal tone?
“I here for Misty,” I replied.
“Yes, what do want with my daughter. And how do you know her.” she asked with growing concern?
Before I could answer Misty appeared from the house wearing shorts and a halter top.
‘Mommy, that’s my classmate.” said Misty.
“I have Misty lunch box. She leave it in school.” I said.
“And you walked all the way from the school to our house here with that lunchbox,” asked Mrs. Night.
“Yes Mrs.” I replied.
“Oh Gosh, you too darling,” said Misty’s mother , before ordering Misty in the house for drinks.
As we waited for Misty’s return, her mother continued to question me from the gallery but never once came to the gate.
“That’s real far,” she replied, after I had told her where I live.
When Misty returned, she carried a box juice in her hand and a caramel wafer, which she handed to me from across the gate in exchange for her lunchbox.
“Thanks, I go see you Monday,” she said before returning to the house.
The end
On my walk home I had a lot to think about. I came to realize that Misty and I lived in different worlds. Her was one of comfort— the big house, louver windows, green lawns, pitched roads, car parks, swing set and slide, running water and best of all indoor toilet. I, on the other hand, lived in a small house on the side of mountain with impassible dirt roads, zinc drums for collecting rain water, bush, snakes no telephones and the infamous latrine.
The following week the storm in my heart for Misty slowly subdued as I returned to being a reckless, carefree boy. She on the other hand kept up her chase of Ronaldo, who refused to be caught by her. As for my love letter, I had forgotten all about it before it turned up unexpectedly. We were playing a game of cricket during recess when the ball I had previously swung at and missed Wasnow lodged in the chain link fence. I had retrieved the ball and was prepared to return to the game when I noticed a single sheet of copy paper flapping in the fence like a fly in a spider’s web. The handwriting looked eerily familiar and so I inspected it– my tattered love letter.
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