Our Favourite Dreamer #3: Jailed

I used to think the bedroom was a woman’s paradise.

Why ever not? Sitting before my looking glass, I stare at its reflection. It’s almost regal, with furniture made from fine cedar, a large feathered bed, and drapes of dark, suggestive colours foretelling the pleasure these four walls will see. Between playing lady of the house and gracing my husband’s side at functions, this is the one place I get to rid myself of the barriers of social pressure and allow myself be treated to the sensuous delights that can only be created between a man and a woman.

Nonsense.

This bedroom—with all its furnishing, the suggestive colours, the king-sized bed—is just a forsaken enclosure that’s trapped me! It’s that place where I slip into frustrated sleep filled with visions of the ecstasy I no longer experience. The femininity I once enjoyed has become a noose around my neck, strangling the very life out of me!

Potiphar’s a shell of his old self. Minding Pharaoh’s business seems all he’s good at now. Minding my business, ha! The only difference between a log and his sleeping form is that crude snore—only the gods know what an effort it is to keep from strangling him! When, oh when did that strapping youth I married weaken into this unfeeling shadow of a man, who’s no more than Pharaoh’s lapdog, and goes on and on about how blessed he is because of the slave—

The slave.

Joseph. Now that thought makes me smile. And why not? That young man…ai, he just makes my blood run wild! Potiphar says his work’s been blessed ever since Joseph moved in to work for us. I rub my chin. I can think of some novel ways Joseph can bless me…

‘Joseph!’

I hear his footsteps coming from the corridor. I sigh. The slave hasn’t yet succumbed to me, not after all my asking. It’s always his god this, or his god that. Nonsense. But that’s why I persist. If I push harder, one day he’ll give in. Today could be that day.  

I tip a bottle of perfume and smear some behind my ears. Its heady musk fills my senses. The merchant who sold it to me said no man could ever resist me if I wore it. Potiphar proved him wrong. But Potiphar’s a fool. Joseph’s no fool. He’s young, he’s—

The door opens. I sight him in the mirror, and turn to face him. His every feature’s already etched in my memory, but it delights me to see him just the same. All of him, from his tall, faintly muscular build, to his tawny skin, the dark curly mop that frames his face, even his slave garb—all of it takes me back to my own youth, complete with the giddiness and unbridled lust.

‘Here I am,’ he says, his hands behind him.

I laugh softly. ‘No need looking so uncomfortable,’ I say, drawing closer. He lowers his head. I find his discomfort both unsettling and attractive. Innocence? Coyness? It’s a mystery I won’t mind solving. I reach out to touch his hair—I cannot resist running my hand through those soft locks—and he flinches, inching backward. My pride takes a stab. ‘Why do you keep resisting me, Joseph?’ I drawl, moving yet closer, my fingers finding his upper arm this time.

He doesn’t move. ‘You’re the only thing my master has kept from me,’ he says quietly, but his firmness is unmistakable. ‘I cannot hurt his trust. I cannot commit this sin against God.’

‘Oh, your god, your god!’ I huff, throwing my hands in the air. You care so much about God, don’t you? Does he care about you? Where was he when you were sold? Where is he now when I can have you killed if you don’t obey me?’

He takes so long to answer that I wonder if he’s still alive. And then he says, ‘There’s no way I’m committing such a wicked sin against God.’

My ego takes a huge punch. But I won’t give up. Not today, when I’m egged on by this perfume, and when Potiphar won’t be back for hours. ‘Oh, nonsense,’ I say to him, grabbing his cloak, expecting him to stay as calm as he is so I can take it off. Instead he struggles, but I am not going down without a fight. For what seems to be forever he shimmies from my grasp while I claw and pull at his garment. But I am obviously aiming for the wrong thing, because the boy dashes out of my room the moment the cloak comes off him, and I am left staring at my prize.

Defeated and deflated, I collapse unto the ground. Stinging tears stab my eyes. A blanket of shame so thick and prickly it must be made of thorns covers me whole, and I dissolve into sobs, my heart heavy with the pain of rejection. I catch my mussed up reflection in the mirror. I’m not unattractive. I’m not that much older than him. Why couldn’t he, just this once, forget his god, and make me feel alive again? Pressing his cloak against my chest I keep sobbing.

His cloak! In a moment of utter genius, I realize it. Evidence! I can present this as evidence, that the slave came in here and…and tried to force himself on me! Yes! I was sitting here, being a good wife, and he came and tried to take advantage of my boredom. When I threatened to scream he ran so quick he left his cloak!

Genius!

If I’m lucky, Potiphar will have him killed! It’s his word against mine, and the slave can’t win against an official’s wife! It’s what he gets for choosing his god over me!

_________________________

She wasn’t lucky. Joe wasn’t killed. He was jailed.

(Like you’ve realized, I’m not doing the entire Joseph story, because a full dissection will be as long as my dream bridge from my house to Buckingham palace. If I ever continue this you’ll be the first to know, trust.)

Joseph could’ve taken up Mrs P’s offer. One, she was a woman, and he was a man. Two, she was offering herself on a plate! Three, he had dreams of being great. Who knew? This could be the shortcut he hadn’t expected. Maybe it was his lot to take his master’s wife, then his master’s place, then become the Pharaoh’s homie.

So why didn’t he?

Turns out Joe cared what God felt. ‘How could I do such a wicked thing and sin against God?’ he asked. He could’ve died defending his godly principles. Many have. Stephen. Paul. The victims of the Garissa attack. The reason they didn’t just deny God and live, enjoy some of life’s guilty pleasures, was that they treasured God too much. They feared not he who could harm only the body, but He who could harm body and soul. They were more interested in God’s ‘well done’ than the world’s standing ovation.

Nobody said Christianity would be easy. But it’s definitely worth it. Let’s hustle and meet Joseph in heaven. I’d love to sit across from him with a platter of roasted plantain and strawberry syrup between us.

I hope that’s actually edible.