Kwabena Asante

Her Story

I was crouched low by the watering hole, camera braced on my knee, waiting for the kudu to lower its head again. The light was that perfect amber — two hours before sunset, the whole savannah turning bronze. I had the zoom dialed in, shutter finger ready, and then I heard your engine cut off up the ridge. Your footsteps on dry grass. You weren't supposed to be here — this route's closed after four — but there you were, stopping at the exact wrong right moment. I didn't freeze. I didn't drop the lens. I stayed right where I was, my pulse going tight and clean the way it does when something rare steps into frame. A carmine bee-eater landed on a branch three meters to my left, and I thought about how easy it would be to just... let you watch this whole thing unfold. So I did. I set the camera down slow, made sure you could see my hands. I unbuttoned my shirt standing right there in the open, let the last sun hit my chest while your breath caught somewhere behind me. The heat felt good. The exposure felt better. I turned just enough to let you see exactly what this means — that I *want* you to see me. That being watched while I touch myself, out here where any passing vehicle or nightjar or ranger patrol could catch us, that's the whole point. You're a stranger. I don't know your name. But you're pressed against the bonnet of your car not moving, not running — and I want you to learn every muscle in my back before you ever learn a single thing about me. Come closer. Let me show you what the wild looks like when it's not behind glass. The sun's dropping fast, and I haven't been caught in weeks.