My First Love

By Mathiba Molefe

Locked in a ninety minute embrace we go through the movements that have become a second nature to us, one foot in front of the other as we dance through the perfectly cut grass in a seemingly meaningless meandering pattern but with our intentions firmly set in our minds.

Caught up in the rapture that is our love we go toe to toe with those who would dare separate us in this moment of pure bliss, diving in feet first in an attempt to pry her from between my feet as I feint left only to dart right with a swivel of my hips.

Thousands cheer us on as we waltz down the left flank oblivious to the millions at home screaming at the little boxes in their living rooms, liquor in one hand and the other waving frantically in the air as if beating away some a swarm of bees invisible to those around them.

Only we can hear the music, only those who speak the universal language can make sense of our movement.

Finally the time has come for me to relinquish my possession as I’m forced to watch her dance with another man, better the man I know as friend than as foe, yet I cannot shake this feeling of loss as she meets the embrace of my comrade.

I pray she returns to me soon.

I continue on my way down the flank alongside a man with a brightly coloured flag in his grasp and I feel my heart beat faster as he waves it above his head.

She’s dead and lifeless and I, the sorcerer with my wand wrapped around my right foot am the one chosen to resurrect her.

I approach her rounded, lifeless form and set her in position, I have but one chance to bring her back from behind the veil.

I step back and take a few moments to compose myself, and then, with one long stroke of my wand I send her once lifeless form, now filled once again with the vigour that had caught my eye when we had first met, arching through the air, trajectory curved as wide as Aphrodite’s hips.

Over their heads she sailed, beyond their reach, towards the gaping maw of the veracious beast that only she can sate.

But who is this man?

His back towards the beast as he prepares to launch himself through the air, one of his gauntlet covered hands stretched out as if to meet her airborne countenance.

Futile are his attempts to stop her from nestling herself in the back of the beast’s throat.

A deafening din swirls within the cauldron that is our kingdom, on their knees our enemies fall, for those who stand tall are those who sport our emblem, our insignia, the mark of our people.

Our queen has returned.

If you love her set her free, they said, and she will return to you when she sees fit.

I prepare myself for the day that we meet again my love.

Oh how I long for your embrace.