CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Iman proved to be invaluable to us, she took us on tours round the island and helped us fetch wood and water. Many a time, I assisted her and we became very close friends. She sang native American songs and her sonorous voice was heart-rending. I didn't even know when I became estranged from my friends and they were not flummoxed neither were they piqued, they called it love. I disagreed.

Love was merely an illusion, an abstract subject. Love was something Shakespeare wrote about in Romeo and Juliet; it was a mere fantasy. Love was surreal, mere figments of one's imagination, love wasn't real, it didn't exist. I refused to call it love.

Iman and I strolled to one of the cliffs on the island on a cool Sunday evening. We sat close to each other and I held her hands, she laughed at my jokes most of the time and she even kissed me once, I felt butterflies in my stomach but that evening, her face was glum and I knew her chest was heavy with thoughts.