The story behind the painting
My Friend GP sent this painting by Anthony Azekwoh, he had seen on X because he wanted me to write a story from it. I clearly told him I’m not a writer, but I like a little bit of challenge and my mind was spiraling with the different things the painting was portraying. So I decided to give it a shot. After about 49mins to an hour with a little help from AI . This was birthed. Let me know what you think
The pearls pinched at her collarbone. She adjusted the gele and let her fingers fall to the red smudge on her shoulder.
A few days earlier, when the tailor finally delivered the blouse, her sister had twirled in front of the mirror, unable to contain her excitement. “It’s beautiful—I can’t wait to wear it,” she had said, before kissing the fabric in a burst of joy. The lipstick print had appeared sharp against the cream, and she had panicked, dabbing at it with her fingers. But she had only laughed and reassured her, “Don’t worry, we’ll dry-clean it later.”
Later never came.
The hall outside throbbed with drums and cheer, the wedding pressing forward as though nothing had changed. She sat alone, gripping the fabric where the mark still lingered, as though holding on to her sister’s touch.
She kept the scarf draped over her lap. It hid the way the dark fabric blended with the shadows behind her, and it hid the way her hand trembled when she touched the stain. The kiss was a bright, human thing against the cream. Now it felt like a bruise.
Guests walked by, smiling, offering soft congratulations. They saw a woman in pearls and a gele and assumed the rest. They did not see the way she kept lowering her eyes from the crowd. They did not hear how her breath shortened when someone called the bride’s name.
She remembered the morning in pieces—her sister’s excitement, the joke about dry cleaning, the small, careless kiss. The memory sat under her palm like a secret.
She had rehearsed a dozen faces for the room. Joy. Composure. A quiet grace. She had practiced saying the lines people expected. She had learned how to make grief look like something tidy.
The music rose. A hundred bright voices leaned forward like an ocean wave. Plates were cleared. The moment was near.
It was not fine.
The bride was gone, food poisoning and she sat here in her place. With her sisters murder unsolved.
The families had agreed: the marriage must go on. Too much depended on it.
She traced the lipstick with a fingertip, as if reading the last sentence of a letter no one wanted mailed. The stain did not fade. She smoothed the fabric and stood.
She stepped toward the light, carrying a kiss that would never be returned.
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