Truth be told

Truth Be Told

by Malaika Kusumi

Truth be told, I wanted the gentle blue of the serene Mediterranean Sea.

But here I was, sitting in Essaouira, gazing out at the wild Atlantic — blame Netflix!

No, blame me — the aspiring writer who spends hours on end watching what other people have written. I am fascinated by the twists and turns of Korean movies. The psychological thrillers, crime dramas… can you say Parasite? Hwrang, the historical epic dramas that combine history, charm, and slow-paced sexual tension — fantastic!

The romantic melodramas, where it always seems to rain water, cherry blossoms, or sudden snow flurries… the female character always trips and never falls. He is always there, just in time, catching her with one arm while, lips almost touching, eyes devouring one another — sigh, I just cannot get enough of that stuff.

I want to learn how to juggle three different stories into one smooth story where it all makes sense. I am not just binging — I am learning. At least that is what I tell myself.

Ah… and the holding of hands, the hugs, the pats of consolation on the back — oh, I digress. No, it is not a digression. It is a very intentional sidestep away from the things at hand.

Truth be told (my husband hates when I say that all the time, but truth be told… it expresses it so well). Anyway. So you see, instead of writing or eating, I am watching — watching it all with joy and wonder, under the guise of what it takes to write a damn good story.

Oh, and The Story of the Pearl Girl, Chinese… No, no. Let me stay on track.

Truth — no, not going to say it.

The real issue here is not writer’s block, or a complete lack of talent, which is also a truth I do not want to be told.

I immerse myself in a Netflix stupor or a Rakuten binge when I’m going deep into Asian — to save me from sleep. “Sleep,” and I say this with quotation marks, is not my friend.

You might have noticed that I love all movie genres, except horror. I hate horror. Sci-fi movies are the closest I get to any horror. I get enough of that when I “sleep.”

Yes, I always say that with quotation marks in my tone. Because I do not sleep. I fall out of consciousness against my will into some dark, horrendous existence that causes me indescribable pain, fear, hope, and hopelessness. These nightmares are nightly — every single, damn night.

So Netflix it is!

But yesterday, after seeing Lonely Planet — a story about writers in a retreat in Morocco — I felt like that is what I need. Go to the sea!

At first, I envisioned the calming blue of the Mediterranean Sea. But being as capricious as life — and I am — I opted for the wild Atlantic Ocean. Oh say, can I sea!

So after making it through another sleepless night, at breakfast I break out with:

I saw a movie about a writer’s retreat in Morocco.

“There, there — that’s where I want to go!” I yelled out suddenly at breakfast.

My husband almost choked on his coffee.

“What? Where?”

“Essaouira.”

“Esso… what?” he replied, trying not to be annoyed as he wiped the coffee that did not make it safely into his mouth where it belonged.

“Essaouira, in Morocco.”

“You want to see the Atlantic? But—”

I did not give him time to finish the sentence. I do that way too often, but he doesn’t hold it against me.

Buddy — yes, I call him Buddy — and he is not a dog, though he has been teased countless times about my words of endearment. Buddy is our secret love language.

He is my Bud, my pal, but he also introduced me to Budweiser, and I was not the wiser for it — nor he, when he discovered the marijuana bud. When he got high, he’d go into his Bud thing — he would create as many sentences and imagery around the word bud as humanly possible.

Buddy also was our secret word for wild, passionate, and fun — yes, fun — sex. So when I called him Buddy… well, I never knew what I would get. And that, my friend, has kept the marriage alive, loving, and lovely.

Oh, and when he wanted me to respect his boundaries — because as easygoing as he is, boundaries were a thing with him (his parents had none) — he would just say, “Hey, bud out.”

So there he sat, coffee-drenched — me too, laughing as he spit it in my face as well. But this did not stop me from carrying on, as he knew it wouldn’t. So he did what he always does and says, “By all means…”

Which, in our language, meant: Fool, you interrupted me again — rude, but hey, you need this. I can give it to you. Carry on.

And I do. And I did.

I know that he was tired — no, exhausted — because of my sweaty nightmares, having to shake me out of my terror.

Wipe the sweat and tears away.

Hold me and say, “Babe, babe, it’s just a dream. You’re safe.”

What terrorized both of us were the languages that poured out.

At first, he thought it was just gibberish. He had the bright idea of recording it, only to discover in horror that I was actually yelling for water.

Vietnamese Nuke!

Cambodian Took!

Lao Nahm!

German Wasser!

The combination of languages was enough to scare the dickens out of anyone.

Some nights, I said all four as if it were a chant:

Nuke, Took, Nahm, Wasser! Nuke, Took, Nahm, Wasser!

Other nights, it was just one — barely audible — I would whisper:

Wasser… wasser.

I never believed in it. Not for one minute.

It all sounded too uwee-uwee, esoteric, mystical, strange.

Growing up in the church, we had it all figured out:

You lived.

You prayed.

If you were diligent, then you were saved and went to heaven — and that was the end of the story.

Yes, there are those who like to elaborate, dancing with deceased loved ones on fluffy white clouds to music provided by golden harps and angels. Others imagine frolicking with their favorite heroes or heroines from history.

For me, it all just drew a blank.

Zilch.

Nothing.

Nada.

Dying was more like, Now you see it. Now you don’t.

Death was the period that put an end to all thoughts and conversation.

Period.

“Honey.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you cold?”

“No, why?”

“You are shivering.”

Wrapping the warm blanket around me with an extra hug and a pat, he went to turn off the news.

The television blared:

“Thousands of refugees from Syria, Eritrea, and Sudan drowned in the Mediterranean. Distress signals ignored. Borders closed.”

The shivering turned into violent convulsions.

I witnessed my own drowning — outside of Cuba, while fleeing the Nazis, in Indochina, only forty years ago.

Have I reincarnated so fast?

It was real.

I was there.

It was me crying out for rescue.

Can reincarnation be real — so fast?

My husband called the ambulance.

He didn’t know what to do, so he brought me a glass of water and said,

with all the love he could muster up:

Here… water, drink.