Best Lesbian Erotica 2014

MY BAGANDAN PRINCESS Dolar Vasani

Every October, I retrieve the photograph from my special box and light a candle in memory of my Bagandan princess. The month marks her birthday and notches up another year since I left Uganda, the country of my birth. As the years go by I wonder how life could have been without the turbulence.

It was forty years ago—1972, a year of note for many reasons. We were only sixteen and our whole future lay ahead of us. Exams were behind us as we lazed by the Silver Springs pool playing endless Scrabble. We danced to Motown, we read Mills & Boon romances and we watched Hindi movies. Our single worry was whether our grades would be good enough for entry into the college of our choice. We fantasized about places with names such as Westminster, Jesus College and Cheltenham Ladies, imagining the room we would share, the uniforms we’d wear and the food we would taste together. We couldn’t visualize a life without each other.

Beatrice was the daughter of a senior government official, but all that mattered was that she was my special friend. I loved being with her. Our acquaintance started in school, where she was the house captain. As a canteen monitor, she made sure I jumped the queue for lunch. These encounters soon developed into longer chats while we waited outside for our drivers. She was everything I wasn’t—strong, popular, oozing with self-confidence. Often referred to as a tomboy, she had an outward dominance that stopped boys in their tracks. When she turned sixteen, she invited a group to see The Graduate at Nita Cinema. Technically, we were underage, but she had ways of sorting out such minor inconveniences. As I sat next to her and the lights dimmed, she gently slipped her warm and soft hands across my body, placing them between my thighs. Having fantasized about her, I enjoyed my attention being diverted from Dustin Hoffman, navigating through his summer of love, to my own pulsating loins. From that day on, Beatrice became my protector and my princess of the Buganda.

Her chivalrous tendencies were reserved for me, and only I knew how soft she really was under her impervious exoskeleton. She introduced me to all kinds of new adventures. My puniness and asthmatic tendencies didn’t discourage her from pushing me to my limits. The Kololo School mountain club was active and, as our trainer, she coaxed us into running round the playing fields and doing endless step-ups to build our leg muscles. How I got up the 4300-meter height of Mount Elgon without my inhaler and no blisters remains a mystery to this day. That expedition was a turning point in my life—my first time away from home, sleeping under the stars and, of course, the place I experienced my first volcanic eruption. It was my own Bollywood movie where the handsome prince steals away his sweetheart into the Himalayas.

We traveled along the Sasa Trail through lush green vegetation and past beautiful waterfalls dropping from the cliffs. Another world greeted us here. We pitched camp and before nightfall were seated around the fire drinking chai, singing and joking about our stiff muscles. My princess was always at hand, draping her red blanket around me, protecting me from the mountain chill. While I was looking forward to spending the night together, it was Bea’s public intentions that caused all and sundry to raise more than just an eyebrow. To my surprise, she announced, “Deepa and I are too tired, so we’re heading off to bed. Good night.” Giggling, we walked hand in hand under a clear and crisp African sky in defiance, without a care in the world.

We snuggled into our tent erected on a thick bed of forest ferns. Our physical contact had been limited to the odd peck on the cheek and holding hands. The tension was highly charged with neither of us saying much, each almost afraid of what the other might think. “Bea, shall I give you a body rub?” I asked nervously. Having timidly undressed, she lay naked on the sleeping bag as I kneaded her silky back, working the lavender oil into every pore. Tentatively, I proceeded to caress her soft bottom, tickling every muscle of her firm and strong legs. Mesmerized by my shiny black princess, I rolled her over and gently licked her breasts, causing her to scream with pleasure. She took my face into her hands, kissing me deeply with her tongue. The waterfalls between our legs were gushing as we explored each other with our fingers.

Our volcanic eruptions continued throughout the rest of the expedition, creating an even stronger bond between us. I had never felt so physically and mentally connected to anyone before. During the day, we hiked through forests where monkeys swung from tree to tree and vibrant birdsong entertained us, while our nights were filled with endless firework explosions in our groins. On the last day of our trek, while soaking in a hot spring, Beatrice told me she loved me and wanted us to travel overseas together for our studies. There was nothing more that I wanted from life.

Our special friendship wasn’t hidden but was never in the open either. Everyone knew Bea was my special rafiki and always took care of me. I never questioned the fact that I was with her. Sometimes the other Indian girls sniggered, calling me a kali lover. I was often invited to her house but I never reciprocated, knowing the sensitivities of race. Although my parents were middle-class and liberal, I had most definitely crossed a line. So I just told them the sleepovers were a group thing with other Indian girls. Bea and I always shared the same bed, and it all seemed very normal to us. Her parents and other family members seemed totally relaxed, too. How much they knew about our friendship was never clear.

In August, our carefree vacation was curtailed abruptly when the president announced to the nation that all Indians had to leave Uganda within ninety days. The weeks leading up to our departure were filled with chaos and disorder. We packed all our belongings into tea chests, and my parents debated endlessly about where we should go. Our movements were curtailed as life became increasingly unsafe and unpredictable. My life was turned upside down and I was confused, fearing a rupture of my cocooned life. Finally, we booked flights out on 12 October: the day Beatrice would turn seventeen.

She and I agreed to meet a few days before my departure at Christos, our favorite place for cakes. Against all advice, I left the house while my parents were busy tying up their affairs at the bank. Clasping my present—a photo of us on Mount Elgon and a letter with an English address—I hurried nervously toward the bakery. Gunshots could be heard in the distance and soldiers were pacing the streets, harassing innocent victims. Biting my nails, I waited for two hours wondering where she was. My pulse rate rose by the minute, sending my body into a frenzy. I had no idea what to do. Finally I couldn’t wait any longer. I was beside myself as I cried all the way home, narrowly escaping the path of tanks. Three days later, my family fled the Pearl of Africa. Bea and I never saw each other again.

Decades later, memories of Beatrice flash back like it was yesterday. My first love was special and is a bittersweet memory that I cherish. All I wanted was another chance to tell my Bagandan princess how much I adored her.