YOU ARE AT A TROPICAL BEACH at sunset, facing the ocean, holding hands with your sweetheart. It’s Valentine’s Day. All this is a cliché, you are aware, but an agreeable one.
Other couples from your resort are in similar postcard poses, toes curling in the white sand, sarongs rippling in the breeze, faces aglow in the setting light. Yet none, you judge with a rush of pride, are quite so desirable as you two.
Your boyfriend drops to one knee. This wasn’t entirely unexpected, but an electric flutter of surprise courses through you, nonetheless. You now have the attention of other couples, some appreciating the spectacle, some envious, a few perhaps resentful that you’ve usurped their sunset tryst.
You welcome their gazes, even the catty ones. This is your moment in the spotlight. Right now, it’s your time to be princess.
Your beau retrieves a long, slender box of engraved wood from his back pocket. The frothy ocean laps at your feet, a gull cries in the distance. Your pulse quickens as he slowly lifts the lid.
With a liturgical deliberation, he extends the open box toward you and gazes into your eyes. “Will you marry me?”
You look down. Your mouth parts as if to speak, but no words come. Inside the box rests a diamond ring artfully situated on a finger.
You are, understandably, at a loss for words. You expected a ring, yes, but not also a finger. Your beloved, perceptive soul that he is, recognizes that your immobility isn’t out of fear of commitment. He smiles, setting the box down, and delicately lifts out the ring finger.
“Here,” he says, tenderly depositing the large finger into your small palm.
The finger is ebony, almost ink black, of African origin. It starkly contrasts against your pale skin—most becomingly so, it should be said. Adorning the finger is an elegant rose gold band boasting a sparkling two-carat diamond that refracts the setting sunrays in gold, red and orange. At the base of the finger, where the joint once connected to the metacarpal bone, is a plug of polished ivory. Your fiancée, if it’s not too presumptive to now call him that, has spared no expenses.
You swallow to moisten your dry mouth. This biological response suggests you are rushing to premature judgment. Never judge a ring by its finger. You’d be wise to first hear him out.
“The finger is a certificate of authenticity,” he explains. “Lab-grown diamonds have become so sophisticated that they’re now indistinguishable from natural ones. This proves you possess the real thing. This is the finger that found the diamond.”
You at last recover your ability to speak. “What about the miner?” you manage. “I thought blood diamonds were a thing of the past…”
“This is no blood diamond!” he exclaims, smiling. “This diamond is ethically sourced.”
Your swain directs your apprehensive gaze to a red stamp on the underside of the ring box. The imprint verifies that the finger was sustainably sourced, and its donor given generous severance pay.
“But the finger was cut off…”
With patient paternalism, your betrothed smiles and shakes his head. “You’re looking at this all backward. The miner bequeathed his finger. He received 50 percent of its sale price. Half!” He snorts at the sum. “If it were lab grown, he’d get nothing. Believe me, he made out very well. You know how much African miners usually make? Pennies. The diamond trade was pure exploitation. This sets him up for life. This finger is his living wage.”
He pauses to let the magnitude of the investment sink in.
“I’ll show you the paperwork later,” he continues. “His name is Ibrahim. He’s from Sierra Leone and has two daughters. I selected him from the catalogue. His story is incredibly moving. His wife died of malaria last year, poor thing. He was thrilled to be selected. Next year he’ll send us a signed photo with his daughters in their new home.”
Let’s hope that your blank expression is due to a paralysis of emotion. How many marriage proposals boast such an inspiring origin story? Your engagement will sustain an entire family.
You look away. “It doesn’t feel right,” you murmur.
“If you had to choose between donating a finger or malnourishing your children, which would you take?” He smiles, squeezing your arm. “That was just rhetorical, baby. Look, this is a new initiative to bring equity to the diamond trade. And by the way, the plug is from antique ivory. No elephants harmed.”
You’ve done well for yourself, young lady. Your philanthropic suitor is, to use a fishing analogy associated with romance, quite the catch.
The young man tilts his head and strokes the manicured finger. “Beautiful, isn’t it? They’re like snowflakes. No two are identical.”
His contemplative tone turns pragmatic: “It’s taxidermically treated. I could have sized the ring to you, but keeping the ring together with its father finger honors the miner. I knew that’d be important to you. You deserve something unique.”
Well? Have you nothing to say? At least nod.
You nod. From a tiny compartment in the ring box, he removes a delicate golden chain. He gingerly threads the chain end through an aperture in the antique ivory plug.
The young man has stalwartly remained on one knee this entire time. Due to your stiff body language, the nearby couples, shameless rubberneckers that they are, are hoping for a marriage proposal fail. Your groom-to-be rises to his feet to attach your necklace. Go on then, bow your head.
You lower your head, and he clasps the necklace at your nape. “Let me see you,” he says, raising your chin desirously with his forefinger.
You slowly raise your gaze to meet his, your dark lashes rising to reveal shimmering eyes. Stepping back, he takes in the sight of you—the black ring finger hanging from your ashen neck, the diamond glittering in the dying sun. “Stunning,” he murmurs. “Just stunning.”
Again, he drops to one knee. “So, will you marry me?”
With your left hand, you tentatively touch the finger that hangs around your neck. It’s cold and stiff.
A poor African widower gave his finger for this. Don’t let him down.
Your hand closes around the finger. “Yes,” you whisper, your knuckles white with your tightening grip. “Yes.”
Yes it is fun. But I also found it painful, as I squirmed and wondered where it would go. Something a good story could always use…
What a Valentine offering.
The grotesque juxtaposed with such perverted generosity is so truly bizarre that I’m fighting myself over saying I enjoyed this by virtue of my sheer horror of it. Though ‘Enjoy’ isn’t the right word. The mutilation of a human being is likely an ancient fascination but that it is a black man’s sacrifice worn as a trophy by a white woman (presumably) is heinous.
That it means to horrify is nothing new on the other hand - and recalls some truly great short stories I’ve read. Back to O’Henry, Zola, Flanery O’Conner. More recently Joe Hill.
I can easily see this in an anthology. Impressive.