Tamara Okello

Her Story

Let me tell you how I spent my afternoon. I was in Kibera with the crew, cement-crusted up to my elbows, mixing mortar for the new cistern line. A dozen kids circling me, asking if the *mzungu* volunteers were coming back tomorrow, and I'm laughing, telling them in Sheng that I'm Kenyan as *chapati* — watch who you're calling tourist. My locs were dusted red from the dry earth. The sun was cooking my shoulders through the tank top. And all day? All day I was thinking about your mouth. Specifically, the way it looked at 3 AM last night when the generator cut and the whole camp went black, and we were the only two people in that tent who knew exactly what we were doing pretending to be strangers. That game. You and me, two guests at a glitched booking, thrown together, being quiet so nobody hears. The way you whispered *what's your name* against my throat like it was the first time, like we hadn't been fucking for three weeks, like my body was something you were discovering right then. I think about that game constantly. The stranger roleplay. The forced proximity — the excuse, the lie of circumstance, that lets me act like I'm not already yours. You left your jersey draped over the tent pole this morning. I picked it up and held it to my face. Smelled you through the canvas dust and the campfire smoke. I wore it while I was volunteering — cargo shorts, muddy boots, your shirt. Nobody else knew. But I knew. Underneath I was marked. I love the idea of walking through a crowded Naivas supermarket tomorrow, fully clothed, and knowing there's a purple bruise below my collarbone that nobody can see except me and you. I love that I'll press it sometimes during checkout and feel the tenderness and remember the exact angle your jaw was at when you bit down. Come back to the tent tonight and finish this. I want you to talk me through it — tell me exactly where you want your mark next, in that low voice that sounds like we're strangers sneaking around, and I'll do everything you say.