They could say whatever they wanted. They could say that he was a gay man, like that was any kind of insult, that he had torrid affairs with other men who wanted to showcase their love but couldn't. They could say that he was trying so hard to be white that all he would date were white girls, from Brooke to Madonna, even though they were naught but his closest dearest friends. Or they could just say he was a recluse, unable to love anyone in such a way, in a world where sex had no place.

They would never know about the Girl.

No. 

The Woman.

The Muse.

They would never know how he approached her, in 1981, fresh-faced and curious, because he couldn't stop staring at her cocoa skin, her long black twists, her full lips, hips, legs, raven eyes. How he had stuttered in his introduction, how she had smiled so serenely at him he wondered if he was gazing into the eyes of a wise old monk instead of a young woman in a white dress.

They would never know how she had given him her number, how he had called and not stopped calling, how they became friends, and how she was the one friend he wished was anything more than a friend.

They would never know how fine she was with secrecy, how little he actually knew about her in those early years. She was just a private as he was, if not more; but together, they had their own history, made more memorable when, in 1985, he opened his heart, and his legs, to her.

They would never know how easy it was for him to unbutton his shirt in front of her without any makeup, because with her he wasn't ugly, he was imperfect perfection. She told him so, and that's how he knew. It seems such a childish answer now, but it was true then and it was always be true. To see her licorice hand trace the outline of his blotched skin somehow made the wounds they left in his soul healed. To kiss her sweet mouth meant that his own was not as withered as he once believed. To press his body to hers enhanced his own, even though none of her beautiful blackness melted onto his skin. she left an imprint wherever she touched him, stared at him, spoke to him. 

And if she wanted to, she could have him give it up. Everything, from the money to the fame to the power. She could have him come away with her, back to Liberia, and live in a hut selling cattle to get by, meting children without parents in the streets, taking them home, calling him or her a Jackson.

Because it kept tearing him apart to rise from the bed, stare down at her, this Earth Angel, fast asleep, kiss her softly, and leave for the plane, knowing he couldn't be there to kiss her awake. He'd leave her notes when he had to go early, so she'd know nothing else was true of him but his love for her.

Thank you for illuminating my whole being. You continue to surprise me with both fantasy and wonder. I’m so sorry for not being here when you wake up. I love you. From the bottom of my heart and soul, from France to Italy, I love you.

I will call you when I have landed.

People would never know that.

They would never know that every ballad, every romantic word, phrase, syllable, was for her. He could try as he might to come up with another face, another name to emit emotions for a song, but it was her lips, skin, eyes, soul that brought his hand to the notepad.

She came and she changed his world, and no one would ever know it. 

They would never know that the lighter he became, the firmer she pressed herself into him, leaving no space for self-doubt or loathing. As if she was trying to seep all the love she had into his body if she could just hold him tight enough, kiss him hard enough.

She was the woman of his world. The Lady in his life, his PYT, his Someone in the dark, his secret in the closet, that one who would be there, that other part of him, that pretty baby with the high heels on, that Liberian Girl….

In no other words, his muse. His woman. His Queen.

But also his end. 

BUt that part they would never know either. How he had slipped and fell into some other girl's arms, in 1990, how she had caught them, how she had refused to listen. The bedsheets at his hotel rooms suddenly cold and rough, the rooms themselves empty and unforgiving, the scent lacking of her, the scent of The Woman. The battle with himself, wondering how drunk off power he had become to let himself take up another offer when the greatest deal of his life was in the palm of his hand. The desperate need for escape. The hand reaching for the bottles; one holding vodka, the other holding pills. The lyrics haphazardly written into every inch of furniture he could find, where no one could watch his feelings. 

I dream f you a night, you whisper in my ear, I wait for you in darkness, yet still you won't appear….

I still can feel you with me, even though you're far above, I love you so completely, you are my only love…

And soon…

On that Summer night

When I gave you that ring…

Kissing me in the dark

Both our hearts racing as one

When we first met

It was love at first sight…

Us holding hands

I fell so deep in your eyes…

Do you remember?

They would never know that a favorite jam on the 90's was actually a broken-hearted ode to the only one he could ever love, can ever love, will ever love.

That woman. That muse.

They would never know how much he tried to fill the void left by her departure. He tried so hard to love his wife, his second wife, his millionth girlfriend. The only ones he didn't need to try to love were his children. Everything else around him turned ugly, including himself.

She would sing to him in her native tongue the beauty of his being, as she put it. And he would listen, first with skeptics, then with interest, finally with devotion, believing every word to be true. And then he slipped and fell into some other girl's arms and the words lose their meaning, their weight. Looking in the mirror only reminded him of what he lost, and how it wasn't worth anything to lose it.

They would never know.

The letters he would write for years and never send, except the one where he asked her, "Why did you take away your love?" It would be clear to her how affected he was by their split in the letter that held pain and hope in jumbled words and poetic chaos. In the years since their end, he had worn away, into frayed fabric, and he no longer cared anymore. She never replied, and he knew she wouldn't, but the point was to TRY. Because he had never tried so hard for what he wanted, and after her he had stopped, but he shouldn't have, he should have fought for her, and he was years late, but it was all he could do.

And they would never know.

It was early March, 2009, that they saw each other again, when he had decided to take his kids to Liberia, because don't ask questions, just pack your bags, you'll like it there. He had passed the neighborhood that she had told him of before, where the sun turned red at the horizon. The kids were at the hotel, being watched over, and he just wanted some time to himself, in the village she had spoken so highly of, that they had only ever visited once, and where was that hill near the forest? The one where they had made love so tenderly under the watchful eye of stars and grass blades?

Here it was. And she was sitting there.

They would never know how all the air left his chest at the sight of her, how his heart lept into his throat when she turned around and saw him. Fine wrinkles around her eyes, mouth, bruises for circle, so tired was she, nearly bones for arms and legs, nothing like the luscious, the full, the healthy they had once been….And oh, so beautiful was she. Still, so beautiful.

A tear escaped his eye while streams escaped hers. He saw it all; her struggling in America, coming back here, trying to survive in a world that was marked by what they had, as clearly she was as struck by their end as he was.

And thank GOD no one would ever know how two broken, withered people, skin and bone, circles and wrinkles, beauty all the same, made love just one more time in that forest where no one saw them, his lips still sweet as they once were, her mouth still whispering the words he had immortalized ages ago in a song that was only meant for her. His tears and her tears, their voices, "Why did you leave me?" "Why did you hurt me?" "I never stopped loving you," "I miss you," falling and overlapping each other like waves, the waves of pain and love, oh the time they had wasted, the love that was wasted, the loss a bitter taste in their mouths.

Discussion over the past would seem like the next step, but there was no such step. What had happened happened. They simply cried together, fused together, then let go. Got dressed. Walked slowly out the forest with fingers intertwined. 

They would never know the last words he said to her; after given her a paper with his address:

"I'll come running."

Her heavy lidded eyes burning into his, recognizing the line from a song she knew was sung in her name, his eyes cast downward, not looking as she took the paper, silence falling between them.

But at least it seemed they could try.

What the world would never know is that they couldn't try, because the escapism that had given him comfort once before had finally taken their toll.

They would never know, the press, his fans, his friends, his family, his children--none of them would know why on Earth an unknown chocolate woman with heavy lidded eyes stood in front of the abandoned Neverand, not moving, not talking, use waiting for the gates to open, as if they could. 

And they wouldn't care that she had died of starvation a month later.

But in the end, in retrospect, that was the best secret kept, the best unknown that could ever be. Love would nevr have survived in anyone else had known. And whatever was written or said, he could always count on the unknown truth, that he loved a woman from Liberia, then and now, and she loved him too.

They would never know about this love. This woman. This muse.

And for all they would never know, this world of greed and gossip, the best thing that they would NEVER, EVER know is that somewhere far away, neither above nor below, just far away, he is bathing under a waterfall, marveling at the rush of cool water against his healed skin, while a beautiful young chocolate woman runs her fingers through her twists next to him, whispering the words only  he can hear:

"Naku penda pia, naku teka pia, Mpenziwe."