Ties That Tether

by Jane Igharo

Tonight, I belong to no one but myself, driven by my desires and impulses despite any consequences that might follow. One night. It’s all I can have and all I can give to Rafael, a man who seems worthy of so much more.

Black women deserve more than to have one night to themselves/their desires!!

I’m wearing my jewel-toned satin stilettos, an imitation of the iconic Manolo Blahniks Mr. Big proposed to Carrie with in Sex and the City. They’re stunning but the wrong choice for a day when I want to go unnoticed.

Whips, handcuffs, and hot wax would definitely be needed.”

Canadian. It’s a title that is both empowering and demanding as it requires me to give up portions of my Nigerian culture so I can fit into my Western setting. And I’ve been doing that for years—compromising, losing bits and pieces of my original identity in an attempt to reinvent myself. However, the one thing I can’t compromise on is the ethnicity of my future husband.

my entire life was an extension of my lineage.

“My point exactly. You’re betting your life on a test you bought for a dollar?” “Plus tax.”

I step out of the conference room, my head bopping to Beyoncé’s “Diva.” The song is on replay, an earworm that’s the perfect soundtrack for this moment when I’ve just slayed the FeverRun presentation.

And it feels so good to only have humor between us—nothing else, nothing complex.

Here he goes again, looking like Morris Chestnut circa 1999.

I learn he’s of Spanish descent. His parents are from Spain.

Immigrants chase success differently because we have something to prove to the people we left behind and the people who note our differences—our accent, our appearance, our religion, our culture—every day.

I had to give my parents one less kid to worry about.

“Hey. It’s okay.” His hold on me tightens, and I bury my face in his chest. “It’s okay.”

With a white scarf holding my braids in a high ponytail, I look like Janet Jackson’s character in Poetic Justice—in the last scene when she accepts Lucky’s apology, kisses him, and gets all giddy. I love that scene. It’s the best part of the whole movie.

He thought I might be hungry.

child. I see the man who shared stories with me yesterday and made me laugh, then held me while I cried and told me everything would be okay. I see a friend, and somehow, the sight of him at my door doesn’t seem outrageous. In fact, it’s rather comforting.

surface of my skin. My nipples, covered by a thin fabric, are in jeopardy of hardening and protruding. This is bad. Really bad.

to Banky W’s “Made for You.”

And by a man who isn’t Nigerian.

“Ayo” by Simi is playing;

Madonna’s “Papa Don’t Preach”—a

There’s a scene in The Sound of Music where Captain Von Trapp and Fräulein Maria share their first kiss in a stunning glass gazebo. A lot leads up to that moment—wanting glances, intimate dances, heated arguments that underline mutual attraction. When the kiss finally happens, it’s slow and sweet and tender.

How can one touch do that to a person? How can his touch do that to me?

accentuating the parts of her body that are slender and curvaceous. She isn’t wearing a bra. There’s a gentle outline of her nipples. Shit. My heart races. Does she have any idea what she’s doing to me right now? Does she have any idea what I want to do to her?

melodies that are smooth and edgy, soulful and sensual, dark and light. Latin jazz. It’s my first time listening to the genre, and I’m captivated.

Rafael has brought me to an upscale jazz club downtown. It’s a stunning space.

I’ve somehow been transported into the movie Dirty Dancing. I’m Baby and Rafael is Johnny.

He continues to lead our sultry dance, and I focus on him like he’s some rare, unearthed treasure.

When he takes over, I’m breathless.

“I dare you to take me home and do everything you wanted to do to me that night at the office.”

The combination of multiple sensations sends me screaming, pleading, crying as a climax builds and implodes.

I won’t be until I’ve felt every inch of him inside me.

reaching a spot no man has ever reached before.

For crying out loud, the man is at my mom’s house, grooming her lawn with precise focus like it’s his livelihood.

The grand gesture is one of the most pivotal scenes in romantic movies. It’s a moment meant to accomplish one or all of three things: prove one’s love, earn a lover’s forgiveness, or win back a lover’s affection.

Brown Sugar,

His exact words: “Sidney, I have loved you from the first time I laid eyes on you. And I love you still. You’re my air.”

The dramatics of a Nigerian mother is nothing, nothing compared to that of an Academy Award–winning actress. Viola Davis, take a seat and behold my mother.

I’m not. My family are a panel of judges, and I’m awaiting their judgment.

“It’s okay,” Rafael whispers into my ear. “Breathe, Zere. Breathe.”

“He was scared our culture and heritage would become diluted and you would lose yourself.

She’s referring to Mike, my sister’s best friend who also doubles as a mock boyfriend.

“Azere, you are slowly losing yourself in this country—forgetting your culture. It’s a huge shame.”

“But Mom, do you think it was easy to move here—to fit in without losing some aspect of our culture?”

conform. It was a survival mechanism—alter

reconcile my heritage with my new environment

To myself, I made room in my life for two distinct worlds. I redefined myself—created a new identity. And my mother resents me for that.

But ask yourself this: How much more of

yourself, of your culture will you lose to accommodate him in your life?”

How much more of yourself, of your culture will you lose to accommodate him in your life?