Beautiful Ones Do Not Exist

Beautiful ones do not Exist-a love story by LJ

Mary - that was her name. That is what I remember anyway. I was just a naïve lad when my grandfather told me the story of Mary. Having lived for almost nine decades, he had seen and heard a lot, and his life had been most eventful. He had a good share of good times and bad times; fortunes and misfortunes; love and hate.

I had just turned eighteen, and as far as I was concerned, I was not a boy anymore. I was a man! I was going to be free from the hateful yoke that my parents imposed on me!
I had also managed to fall in love with a gorgeous sixteen year old. Her name was Nancy and she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Her smile was simply breath-taking. Each time I saw her or imagined I saw her; each time she stared at me or imagined she stared at me, I would become a bunch of quivering nerves and pounding heart. My walk would become unsteady. So, many a times I had tripped and fallen when crossing the path in front of her home.
Yes, Nancy was the love of my life. But she did not know it yet. I had never approached her, nor greeted her. I only knew her from a distance. I often wondered if she even knew that I existed. Yet, she was our next door neighbour.
So many times I had tried to greet her or even at least get her to notice me. But to no avail. I usually gave up even before I took my first step. But that was soon to change. One day, I would tell her how I really felt about her. And then we would live happily ever after.
At this point, I introduce my grandfather. As I said earlier, he was a pretty old man with vast amounts of experience on literally anything. But grandfather was a peevish little man as well. Don’t really know, but he seemed to have something against the whole world. He was always snapping at anything and everyone. For this very reason, everyone kept clear of him; everyone that is except me. I knew he had a lot of precious gems beneath that shiny bald head of his (and perhaps he really did have a precious stone or two under his skull. Some people theorise that bald old men develop something of the sort of pearls just above their brains because of living for a long time. Don’t know how true that is, but it certainly explains the reason for their dwindling numbers!) I wanted to make good use of that precious knowledge before he left for Dead Man’s Land.
I and only I knew how to confront grandfather. He usually sat alone under the shade of the mango tree on a certain ‘special’ stool. He perceived himself some kind of chief. He often told me that he came from a line of chiefs and was supposed to be a chief but his brother betrayed him and became chief instead. Don’t know if there is any truth in that story, but what I do know is that he was hardly related to the chief he claimed was his brother. Father just brushed aside the story saying it was just old men’s madness.
Since grandfather perceived himself a chief, I discovered that if I approached him in the same manner that chiefs are approached—a lot of praise (or flattery as the case usually is) and rolling on the ground about seven times, he would beckon me to approach with his walking stick (which I am sure he imagined was a scepter). Having been given permission to approach him thus, I would immediately rush to kiss his feet, after which he would utter a blessing, rather inaudibly, and place his hand on my head. Then I would sit at his feet very respectfully, listening attentively and asking questions occasionally. You may probably think me insane, but hey, good things don’t come cheap!
I still remember that day Grandfather told me about Mary. It was a Saturday morning and having got tired of watching sad soap operas, I decided to spend some time with Grandfather. As usual, he was seated under the mango tree. He was sipping at some home-made beer that my laborious mom had brewed under his strict surveillance. After performing the usual ritual of flattery, rolling on the ground and kissing his feet, I sat down to listen to him. My decorum always pacified him and for that reason, he loved me most and never hesitated to teach me life’s big lessons or the ‘facts of life as he called them. He was less peevish towards me too.  
“Keep quiet and listen,” he commanded, though I had not said anything. He bent down and poured some beer into an extra cup that he had craftily whisked from the kitchen and hid under his jacket while my mom was not looking. He placed the cup near me.
“Take it,” he said.
“No,” I declined, remembering that my mother was very particular about me taking alcohol.
“Come on, take,” he hit me with his staff. “A little drink won’t kill you. And besides, you’re a man now!”
I smiled slightly. Being called a man was too irresistible a compliment. I consented and took discreet sips as infrequently as I possibly could. That, I must confess, was the only time I took beer. Otherwise, I never took alcohol—never.
After ensuring that I was in subjection in all respects, he smiled.
“Women are impala’s droppings,” he began with a thoughtful expression on his face which had so many wrinkles that I imagined he had deliberately added some of them.
“What do you mean?” I asked, shocked at such an insult. I was certainly glad no one of the feminine gender was actually around.
“You are naïve,” he said with a chuckle. “It simply means that women are very plentiful, like impala’s droppings.”
“But that is very degrading.”
He ignored my statement and gulped down a mouthful of beer. He rinsed his mouth with it before swallowing it.
“When I was a young man like you,” he continued, “I fell in love with a very beautiful young lady by the name of Mary,”
I sniggered. I could hardly imagine grandpa in love.
“Stop laughing and listen. This is a very serious issue,” he said in annoyance, hitting me with his staff again. I obeyed, though without little effort.
“Mary was the most beautiful girl in the whole village. She was well respected too. She was well behaved and performed her duties at home very well.”
It was sounding like poetry already. I smiled broadly, trying very hard not to laugh.
“Naturally, I fell in love with her. But I was not the only one. Several young men my age were enamoured with her. A number of them had approached her, asking for her hand in marriage, but she’d turned down all of them.
“So I decided to try my luck. You know, I was something of extraordinarily handsome myself,” he smiled broadly and conceitedly, the dimples on his face sank in so deeply that they looked like lacerations on the sides of his mouth.
“I was well-known too in the village. I was exceedingly hard-working and my field of maize was the largest and realized the largest harvest. I assumed that with such a good reputation, Mary would have no grounds for rejecting me.”
Grandpa surely had an inflated ego. I smirked.
“So one day, I followed her to the river where we fetched water. Strangely that day, she went all alone. I followed her cautiously and even helped her to draw the water. I tried to be as friendly as possible, so that she could read my intentions. You see, taking her by surprise would have made her scream or otherwise resist even though she wanted to.
“For us those days, proposing was quite simple. If you really loved a girl and wanted to marry her, all you had to do was pick her up and carry her to your home.”
“But Grandpa,” I could not help protesting, “isn’t that forcing? Supposed she didn’t want?”
“Actually, there was an agreed way of doing it. You had to make your move in full view of the public. If she so much as resisted even a little bit, or screamed, it was a sign that you had been rejected. You can imagine the embarrassment that a lot of young men had gone through, trying to pick her up! If she offered no resistance at all, and allowed you to carry her all the way to the door step of your home, it was a sign that she had accepted you.
“This activity marked the engagement itself. In short, she indisputably became yours. However, she had to go back to her parent’s home and stay there for a year, during which there would be talks between the two families involved; negotiations and payments would take place. At the end of the year, you would be officially married.
“So that is what I did. I told her that it was unsafe for a beautiful young lady to walk all alone in the bush and offered to escort her. Of course, the river was not so far, and if she ever got in trouble, all she had to do was scream and literally the entire village would come to her rescue.
“As soon as we approached the village, I immediately picked her up and carried her towards my home. To my shock, she did not resist; not even a bit! She just lay limp in my arms, smiling enchantingly back at me. Everyone cheered as I carried her to my house. I was the happiest man that day.”
“But Grandfather,” I began worriedly, “suppose the woman was too heavy and you could not manage to lift her?”
I certainly think my concerns were valid.
“Then you are not a man. Men are supposed to lift anything.” He licked his lips, “I remember there was a small, weak and frail man we nicknamed Little Johnny. He never got married, not because he wanted to, but because he could not manage to lift a single girl in the entire village!”
He laughed loudly. I frowned at him.
“That is certainly unfair,” I muttered under my breath, remembering that I was nothing of strapping myself.
“Once at the house,” he continued, his laughter gradually culminating into a serious expression, “we had the chance to talk.
“‘I can’t believe you have accepted me,’ I told her.
“‘I can’t believe you have chosen me too,’ she said, looking even more enchanting.
“‘Why have you not rejected me?’
“‘I have always admired you. You are a very hardworking man. I have always been watching you from a distance, hoping that you will sweep me off my feet and carry me in your strong powerful arms… and today, you did.’
“So from that day, I knew that Mary was mine. I always walked with my head held high. Everyone watched me with envy. It seemed I was the luckiest man alive. The negotiations between my family and hers went smoothly. However, just a month before we could wed, something very nasty happened,” he paused and put on a mournful look. I almost shed tears at this juncture. I had never seen Grandfather look so sad before. He kept quiet for a while, and I almost feared that he would not continue the story.
“What happened?” I asked with a lump in my throat.
“She died,” he said. I almost swore I saw the glimmer of tears in the sides of his eyes.
“How did that happened?” I asked, staring at him in shock.
“It turned out that Mary was a very bad girl. She got pregnant by another man. It was an abomination for a bride-to-be to get pregnant before she got married. She was usually banished from the village. The only thing that could save her was if her husband to be claimed responsibility. But this hardly happened because the two were never allowed to see each other till the day of marriage.”
He sighed heavily before continuing.
“Mary used to sneak out at night and sleep with a certain young man from the nearby village. Upon discovering that she was pregnant, she tried to abort secretly, but she died in the process.”
“I am so sorry grandpa,” I said in utter sadness. Without even realizing it, I found myself taking a long sip at the beer.
“The lesson my son is that if a person is bad, no amount of beauty can conceal the badness. No matter how much she tries, sooner or later, the badness will show up, and usually in a hideous fashion. So never allow any beauty fool you my son. And remember always: beautiful ones, both on the inside and outside, do not exist.”
“How do you mean?” I asked in bewilderment.
But he dismissed me with a hand and I knew I had to leave. I left him seated in a really despondent posture, leaning against his staff with a forlorn look. I really felt sorry for him.
Later that day, I decided to go for a walk. With my hands in my pockets, I walked with a stoop. My legs suddenly felt heavy and I just had to drag them. I miserably kicked at a stone. I did not feel so grown up now.
Suddenly I heard someone call my name from behind. I turned round sharply and almost suffered a heart attack by what I saw. I could hardly believe my eyes. It was Nancy. She signaled for me to stop and ran up to me. She shook my hand enthusiastically. Her hand was terribly soft. I winced and withdraw my hand quickly for fear that I would perhaps, unwittingly, injure her.
“You’re Luis, right?” she asked, apparently thrilled.
“Er, yes,” I said, my voice hardly coming out from surprise.
“I have heard so much about you,” she said, smiling broadly.
She looked terribly beautiful. Her teeth were an ivory white colour. A lock of her long, dark hair hung over her forehead, covering slightly part of her right eye. When she smiled, perfect little dimples appeared on the sides of her mouth. Her complexion was a smooth dark brown. She was slightly shorter than I and slender—quite slender, especially at the belly. But her hips were large—quite large. There was an aura of splendor about her, as if she was a queen in her own right.
“I was wondering,” she continued after a moment of awkward silence, “can we be like friends?”
I stared at her goggle-eyed. Was this not what I had always dreamed of? Was this not what I had always wanted? How I wished I could tell her how I really felt about her. But then I remembered Grandfather’s story and his sobering words:
“Beautiful ones, both on the inside and outside do not exist.”
“Er,” I began in a trembling voice, “I do not… feel the same way.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, staring at me in the eyes. Her gaze seemed to bore into me, as if she was reading my mind. For a while I got lost in that gaze, mesmerised by her enchanting beauty.
“Sorry,” I said, feeling the hot tears welling behind my eyelids, “I don’t know you and I wish not to.”
With a great deal of effort, I did the seemingly impossible: I turned and walked away. After walking about a hundred metres, I looked back. She was still standing where I left her, terribly shaken. She looked awfully sad, and ironically, awfully beautiful.
To this day, that image of the girl I first loved engulfed by extreme sadness still haunts me, but more so the words:
“Beautiful ones, both on the inside and outside, do not exist.”

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