“Oh, but Armani, you are my favourite one.” He gloated, looking at me in a way that ignited something deep within me. “I roll the dice, and every result is in my favour….”
“Roll again.” I teased, “You might not be as lucky this time around.”
“Unlikely. So tell me, what’s the one thing that nobody knows about you?”
I sighed, taking a seat on a bench between a grove of trees and statues. "I'm not who my parents think I am ."
He burst out laughing. For the first time since I'd met River Kennedy, he was laughing– nevertheless, like my secret was a joke to him.
"What the hell?" I spat, folding my arms.
"That's not what you really wanted to tell me." He dismissed, lifting an eyebrow condescendingly.
"You really think you know me, River, but the secret is that I have none," I told him, and he stopped laughing.
"Is that so?"
“Yes, it is. I have been an open book all my life, hell– I mean, you even said so yourself that my every emotion is written on my face for everyone to see. I am an open book because before Paris, I had not lived yet. My life has only just begun.” I explained to him in the hopes that It’d make sense.
"Why?” he asked in confusion,
“Because I have had my eye on the prize, I have been far too focused to be…distracted.”
“Am I distracting you?” He asked, trying his very best to appear doe-eyed and innocent, and when I was immediately gobsmacked, he let out a soft laugh.
"Right." he concluded "A deal's a deal."
At that moment, there was an element of vulnerability in his voice, and I could tell it made him uncomfortable to be open with people like that. Open with me like that. But, on that day, River Kennedy allowed me a glimpse at the one thing that he'd never let anyone see…himself.
The fall leaves crackled beneath my boots as Fabian, Merilla and I headed to our first class of the day, English. Which was taken incredibly seriously because it wasn't a lot of people's first language here in France. It hurt me that English was my first language and not Swahili. Mama always scolded me about how I never made an effort to properly learn my mother tongue. And I always felt a cloud of shame looming over me every time we visited Nairobi, I felt like a foreigner on my own soil and like everyone was secretly judging me for not being Kenyan enough.
Then once I moved to the United States, it was almost the complete opposite. I wasn't American enough. I was often mistaken for being African-American to which I had to politely correct to just…African. When I was younger, I had quite a heavy Kenyan accent which my primary school teachers did a good job of white-washing till I was ‘articulate’ enough for them. I made an effort to do as much research as I could about my country, be it by watching old films in Swahili, memorizing the map of Kenya, learning how to cook traditional foods in the kitchen with my mother or simply just looking in the mirror and acknowledging who I am and where I came from. Every time I visited home, I made sure to appreciate the little things as much as possible. Whether it was watching Auntie Zahra make her delicious sakuma wiki or having my grandmother tell me traditional stories beside the fire. It was becoming increasingly difficult to deny that my heart yearned for my home every day, but I knew that greater things awaited me in Paris.
"Hey Armani, are you okay?" Fabian asked, placing a hand on my shoulder, "You kinda zoned out there."
"Oh, I'm fine, don't worry about me," I replied with a crooked smile, feeling slightly flustered,
"Did you do the English homework madame assigned?" Merilla asked, pulling out a wide-rimmed pink folder from her backpack,
"Of course, I never miss assignments," I assured her, and she rolled her eyes playfully,
"Of course, you wouldn't. You're... like perfect." Fabian smiled, and I chuckled,
“Perfect?” I snorted, thinking I’d heard him wrong,
“Yeah, you know, flawless, ideal, immaculate— free from any visible flaws.” He mused in a humorous Fabian kind of way.
“You’re ridiculous, Fabes.” I laughed, swatting his shoulder, “Did you swallow an Oxford dictionary?”
“I’m simply just stating the obvious.” He told me,
"I can assure you I'm the furthest thing in all of Paris from perfection," I concluded, but he silently shook his head, his brown eyes glinting in the sunlight bleeding through the open window.
We arrived in class and took our seats. Fabian immediately started chatting with the perky blonde girl I believe was called Mariè or something of the sort. My eyes glanced across the classroom for River, and when they didn’t find him, a little sense of disappointment tugged at my heartstrings. Just then, in place of him, Keomi and Geneviève walked in, giggling and laughing about something. They took the seats directly in front and behind me.
"We're going out tonight in the city. Wear your sexiest dress," Keomi informed me, and I was taken aback,
“Yeah, the kind of dress that would make society question your morals.” Geneviève added marveling,
