Page 263 of Invisible Bars

"Mm-hmm. Please, go on," I encouraged, leaning in closer to hear more.

"He works at the hotel," she explained, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He's really cute, and he has these long, neat dreadlocks.”

“A dreadhead bombaclout,” escaped before I could stop myself.

The enthusiastic outburst sliced through the air, breaking the charged moment like a klaxon in a silent film.

Chiamaka laughed, then suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with guilt.

“I’m so sorry! I wasn’t trying to laugh at your tics!”

I chuckled, waving her off before she could spiral.

“No worries. I give people passes when I say f-funny stuff.”

She visibly relaxed.

With a playful nudge of my knee against hers, I asked teasingly, "So, does this boy of interest provide room service with a side ofextraattention?"

Chiamaka laughed again, quieter that time.

“He flirts... a lot, but he’s also really sweet and respectful. At least, I think he is. I’m still a virgin, if you’re curious!"

As I looked at her, my smile gradually faded, replaced by a more serious expression, knowing there was something deeper I needed to share with her.

“O-Okay, that never crossed my mind. But listen, Amaka. I’m n-not judging—I’m not even one to talk—but don’t just give your body away because it feels new or exciting. You d-don’t have tobe in love, but you do need to be sure that he sees you, hears you and you respects more than your curves and your smile.”

She nodded slowly, her fingers playing with the thread on her sleeve again.

“Virginity isn’t some prize to be won or shame to be rid of; it’s just… a choice,” I continued. “And it should be yours… not his… not anybody else’s.”

I sounded like my grandmother in that moment. I smiled to myself, certain she was looking down on me right then, nodding proudly. I could almost hear her voice, that warm rasp in the back of my head, reminding me of all the times she told me,‘Baby, your body is yours before it belongs to anybody else.’She’d say it while braiding my hair, stirring a pot on the stove or fussing at me for staying out too late—like she knew I’d need those words long after she was gone.

Chiamaka reached over and touched my hand, startling me.

A tic shot through my shoulder, but I masked it with a stretch.

She clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.

"Sorry!" she said quickly, her expression shifting to one of concern, as if she feared I might scold her.

I chuckled, my shoulders relaxing as I held up my hands in a gesture of reassurance.

"It's... it's okay. Really."

Her expression softened with relief.

I picked up her hand and enclosed it with mine.

“Even though I never got to meet you, I missed you... in a crazy way.”

Her eyes glistened with tears. “Not crazy. I used to pretend you were sneaking letters to me, but they just never made it. That’s crazy, huh?”

“No,” I whispered. “That’s what I… I should’ve done. Even if I turned my back on them, I shouldn’t have done it to you. So I’m… I’m sorry.”

We clung to each other, tears streaming down our faces as quiet sobs escaped our lips. My body trembled with an overwhelming rush of emotions, and I found myself blurting out disjointed thoughts and fragments of memories—phrases that spilled from my mouth uncontrollably, like leaves caught in a tempest. Yet, through it all, Chiamaka remained steadfast, her grip tightening around me, as if to anchor us both in that moment of chaos. The warmth of her presence was a beacon, offering comfort in the shadow of our shared pain.

When we finally pulled apart, Chiamaka took a moment to compose herself, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. With a brave, yet slightly tremulous voice, she asked, “I know this might sound sudden, but… would it be possible for me to stay with you? Just me?”