BEFORE I DIE, I PRAY TO BE BORN | ✓

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THURSDAY
13 DECEMBER, 1990
ISAIAH

               Dorian watches me comb leave-in conditioner through my wet afro. I took my braids out weeks ago but since I've been going to Muma's as little as possible, I haven't had the chance to ask Auntie Tamila to redo them and my hair is left free. I think he prefers it like this. It makes my hair routine last longer than a simple washing and oiling of the scalp between braids and he is given the privilege of following every step.

He sits on the bed in his boxers. His housecoat, which he's taken to wearing between shower and sleep since December proved too cold even for him, lays over his legs like a blanket.

'I might let my hair grow out a little.'

'Yeah?' I cast him a smile and my heart flutters when he doesn't pretend that he wasn't looking. 'I think that's a good idea.'

'I'm not sure it'll suit me though.' He palms his own short afro up and down. 'Not like you.'

My body realises something's wrong before my brain does. Dorian's silence harrows goosebumps on my arms and I rake my fingers through the last section of wet curls only once before abandoning the task.

'My parents won't like it.' He starts to jab Chopin's first piano concerto into his thighs only to cut himself off. His fingers remain clawed; if he didn't file them so short, his nails would pierce skin. 'But who cares? I certainly don't.'

'You ever consider becoming an actor? Cause that there were Oscar-worthy. I am totally convinced.'

Dorian doesn't even look at me. The candle holder between my lungs is empty; its needle pokes my heart when I breathe.

Holding my towel around my waist, I move to the bed.

'It's just confidence, cuz. I love my hair so it suits me.' I place my hand on the duvet beside him. I'd place it on his knee but he doesn't always like being touched when he's anxious and this communicates the intended comfort just as well. 'You'll learn to love your hair too.'

Dorian crumbles into sobs.

'They'll kill me. My parents, they're going to kill me.'

The change is so abrupt it takes a moment for me to manage to do anything but stare. I shift closer, keeping my hands wrung in my lap. 'They–'

'They will.'

Dorian grabs his head and pulls it down, forcing his spine to curl more than it should. The position shoves out his shoulder blades until they threaten to rupture his skin. Sobs quickly accelerate his breathing; I doubt he's getting in any oxygen.

'I've spoiled their honour. You don't understand, Shay — honour is everything.'

I want to argue that I, if anyone, understand: I'm a trophy of spoiled honour and it was no consolation prize. I'm so low I'm not even worth killing. But that won't comfort him.

'Listen, cuz, you're eighteen in eight months. We'll be off to Oxford in autumn. Everyting gonna be criss.' I bend low to catch his eyes. 'If they wanna kill you, they'll have to get through me first.' It's such a ridiculous thing to say, it pauses his tears, which is all the encouragement I need to continue. 'Your parents ain't gon kill you. You're gonna be murdered by a toaster on Y2K.'

His expression is torn between smiling and grimacing. 'It's not real.'

'I know it's not real.' It takes conscious effort to keep relief from disrupting my poker face but I manage to keep my mission of distracting him incognito. 'But if it is, you rich people are gonna die first. My house ain't even got no internet or telly or nuttin.'