In all, Miss Elizabeth would never say I love you back. It made me hate school, for with Miss Elizabeth was all a man had asked for from life. I didn’t know much about Hollywood then, or Broadway, but I would think about this years later, and even then, all the stars in Hollywood couldn’t compete with the ones in her eyes.
This was long after another Elizabeth Wairimu would break my heart, in Standard Four, in Rongai. Pretty Little Elizabeth, in her pretty dress and her pretty shoes, as innocent as Jesus Christ. I loved Elizabeth because she taught me how to spell the word hate. I had written it as het. We would ride in her parents’ white Mitsubishi Lancer to school, Karen C Primary School, and I would look at her mother and father sat infront, and me and Pretty Little Elizabeth and her brother in the back, and I’d picture us together, of course, without her brother, whom I really didn’t like, and who didn’t really like me either. But Pretty Little Elizabeth had eyes and heart for a Brian, the son of a politician, with whom she would share her snacks, and help in his homework, and spend all the time that belonged to me, with him, and ultimately, that was what would do in for our love. This was the beginning of philosophy.
Yet I held out hope; believed that if I held on long enough, she would be mine to marry. My heart would not beat for very long in Karen C Primary, but as long as it did, it would beat for Pretty Little Elizabeth.
Eventually, we moved to Kahawa Wendani, where Miss Elizabeth was waiting for me in Standard 7, my teacher of English. “Not English teacher!” she’d croak. Miss Elizabeth was the kind of strong-minded sister that boys tend to give in to, to wither in her presence. And she wore the sweetest of perfumes, smelling just lightly of freshly cut oranges, and I would, when she wafted past my desk or when she would check homework, I would breathe in and hold my breath, not willing to let the oranges go, not ready to let her go. I can be thirteen forever as long as I can remember those mornings and those afternoons.
In those days, I worked hard at English composition to impress her. Please, God, give me more words to impress Miss Elizabeth. Pretty, pretty please. If only I had something to trade to God, then my prayers would have been answered. I was a liar and I promised God not to do it anymore, but God was not impressed.
I love you, Miss Elizabeth; I wrote in composition class, advancing into Mordor bearing the ring of the enemy. She asked me to remain behind after class. Said she is married. Said I am a student. Said I am too young. I was 13! If Jesus could throw the men out the temple at twelve, I could marry at 13! Outside, the world was going about its business. Inside, I chased Jesus from the deepest room in my heart and put Miss Elizabeth. I would worship the ground she walked on. But that was not the kind of love she was used to, the kind of love you say I love you too, to.
As she told me no, the pleasant waft of oranges slid into my mouth, filling the cracks of my broken heart, a pleasant smell I came to associate with pretty women. If a man is to be rejected by a woman, he should be rejected by a woman like Miss Elizabeth, for then he might not be bitter about women. For what is the heart, if not meant to ache magnificently now and again?
