He came like a thief in the night.
So sudden I was caught off guard. So sleek I was hopelessly trapped, without knowing I've walked into a floral cage.
He had always treated me kindly, with the utmost respect and manners that befit a lady of high station. Doors were held open for me, paths cleared with a hint of a bow that accompanied that British "After you". He was never authoritative as a master. In fact, he never did establish that he was one.
Never explicitly, that is.
There were shadows of it, his superiority. The very subtle, almost invisible, condescension when he spoke of his education and his home. They became more apparent the nearer he came, the closer we were.
"My colonial mistress."
I think I secretly loved it. Being under him, subjected to his command, eager to learn his ways, fervently emulating the crisp British accent. He said that I was intelligent and that it was good that I understood his "banter". I still remember his likes and dislikes, the topics that he love and the areas that he warned about. I think I must quite liked that period.
The period of being with him.
When it was time to finally depart he gazed briefly in silence towards England and said as he turned back to me, "I have a feeling I might remember you." There was no official handing over of power, no fanfare or shouts to celebrate independence after he left.
Is it really over though, if you remember every detail of the past? That the colonial history should continue to haunt and shape what you are right now.
"Maybe 2 years, or 4 years later, I may be back again... or you should really come to London."