☔ Umbrella

I sifted through the innumerable khakis in my closet. It was in moments like these when I cursed my stylistic extravagance. Despite owning numerous similar items, I would happily purchase anything I thought might look good. At least the search gave me time to dry off and the cologne to set as I tried not to worry about how late I was.

Church had run later than anticipated, so I felt justified in absolving myself of the gnawing guilt. We were hosting guest preachers from Zambia, but I had underestimated how long-winded their sermons could be. On the one hand, I admired their passionate proclamations, and the congregation seemed to, too. Their poetic prose shook the very ground upon which the church stood. Simultaneously, pangs of bitterness assaulted me. What man of God visits someone’s church and upstages them so flagrantly?

I wanted to motion to the giant clock that faced the altar and take an Irish exit. But that would’ve been unbecoming of the Head Pastor of Redemption Ministries. Instead, I pled with the Holy Spirit to lend me some gentleness and self-control while doing my part to keep an ear open for the instances when Bishop Mutinta randomly began or ended a parable with “Pastor Wekesa,” requiring my nod or “Amen.”

That battle was thankfully in the past now. I finally zeroed in on a blue pair that complemented my gray-striped t-shirt. I jumped into the pants and slinked on my lucky leather belt. Dashing as I had looked in my Sunday best, it didn’t fit this occasion. Besides, the day-long singing and dancing and shouting and preaching had taken their toll on the burgundy three-piece I had donned in the morning. Maggy could worry about the laundry later.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m not one to obsess over how my reflection portrays me, but good God was that one handsome somebody meeting my gaze. Even at 42, I still had a youthful visage and physique that had helped me get and get away with a lot in life, including this trip. The Lord is a jealous God, so I’ve always been careful not to idolize my devilishly good looks.

Trying to disguise my movements, I slyly opened the door to my quarters and locked the noisy monstrosity behind me. I had given the secretary the evening off but couldn’t find the gardener or cleaner to relay the message. Luck–and the Almighty, of course–needed to be on my side so I could slip away undetected. I got a first-hand orientation on how loud the wooden floor was and how many doors and windows stood between my church habitation and the parking lot.

After what felt like an hour and a half of a Mission Impossible screening, my Range was within its key’s range, and I beeped it open. It’s as dark, large, and imposing as I am, but I could’ve either left in that or the Hummer, simplifying my decision. I had asked my driver to take Sky and Maggy home in the more conspicuous SUV while I remained behind to attend to some urgent ministerial affairs.

Only the watchman remained on my hit list of present church staff, but he understood that discretion was the name of the game. Shemeji had been in my employ for 15 years. I had given him a home, an education, a job, and a reason to live. Inadvertently, my Good Samaritan act had won me a loyal ally who wouldn’t cave to Maggy’s interrogations. I saluted the sprightly soldier as I cruised out of the church grounds, wondering why God would orchestrate my getaway so cleanly if pursuing Lola was wrong.

Lola: The thorn in my side that stung most alluringly. I met her at an internet café, which should’ve probably been alarming because who uses those anymore? Well, except when I wanted to obscure my browsing history from authorities and nosy relatives. But there her forehead was, towering unapologetically over the metallic divider that sought to separate us.

Given the nature of my visits to these cafés, I wasn’t looking to talk to anyone that rainy March morning. But when Lola teetered toward the exit, obviously needing to leave but wary of the downpour, I offered her my umbrella as long as she promised to return it to the café the following day, which she did.

I liked people who keep their word, particularly pretty, clean-limbed women who keep their word. So, I asked the attendant if the lady was a regular, and she replied in the affirmative.

“You just missed her. She usually comes in some weekday mornings before work, printing documents and stuff.”

“Don’t they have printers at her workplace? What’s contained in the documents? What line of work is she in?” I inquired, concurrently intrigued and anxious.

“Easy, cowboy. Questions are bad for business.”

There were various reasons to sprint in the opposite direction of this mysterious stranger. Then again, she had seemed so kind, charming, and down to earth. If the way she fervently relayed her thank-yous didn’t reel me in, the note I discovered taped to the inside of my umbrella sure did.

“I was in a rush to class Monday, and I totally abandoned my manners: Hope you didn’t have to wait long for the rain to subside? Let’s bury the hatchet 😊 0723274266, Lola.”

Thus began months of our sentimental “ministerial” affair. She knew only what I wanted her to know, a status she was happy to mirror. I transformed into the widowed pastor whose church was under construction, so she couldn’t visit just yet. She revealed that she was a medical enthusiast beginning her higher education. The documents that sent her to the café were pirated med journals, while I frequented the dingy joint to prepare sermons when my inconsistent but cheap ISP suffered a downtime.

We decided that fate had brought us together as we had a suspiciously long list of similarities, but our interactions remained platonic.

“I imagine you get lots of intrusive questions about remarrying to fill the void your wife left,” she pried one afternoon as we lounged on an amusement park bench.

Maggy wasn’t dead, much as I wished she was, yet I still disliked talking about her. I’d built castles in the air for so long that sometimes I just wanted to dismantle them, and who better to oversee the demolition than my closest friend in years? Still, honesty would spell the end of whatever this was, so I strapped on my builder’s vest and toolbelt.

“They understand enough to know those aren’t my immediate intentions,” I concocted. “If someone comes along who could be my life partner and role model to Skylar, I would obviously welcome her into our lives with open arms. I’m just not actively looking for her right now.”

That second part was a half-truth. Lola was everything I’d wanted in a partner and mother for Sky. However, my church’s aversion to divorce rendered me powerless to realize my most fervent desires.

As if reading my mind, she offered, “I wasn’t actively looking for a tall, dark, and handsome stranger to rescue my hair from the tangled mess it would’ve been had I been rained on, either.”

Oh, the naïveté of this chicklet. Obviously, she wasn’t privy to the real reason for my hesitancy, but didn’t she mind that I was twice her age? Didn’t I?

I took a swig of soda, avoiding her piercing gaze. This was as good a time as any to yank off the Band-Aid.

“You remind me of a girl that I once knew. You even have her eyes, persistence, and cleverness, attributes I felt were wasted on her. Some matters in life you have to live to grasp fully. You’re not where I need you to be, Lola. And for that, we must stop seeing each other.”

I didn’t wait for her OK. I sprung off the bench and turned on my heel, eager to get away from the bombshell I’d dropped. But Lola wasn’t letting that or me fly.

“Take me where you need me to be. I can’t bear to lose you.”

Her sudden submissiveness sucker-punched me right in the kisser. If she could adopt a renewed disposition to stay with me, I could certainly also drop the façade. So, a couple of days after Delilah weakened my resolve, I drove out of the Redemption Ministries premises and into the embrace of my enigmatic pottery project.