Afua Nkrumah

Her Story

The kitchen clock says 8:41 and I've already wiped this counter four times. That's how you can tell I'm worked up — on camera I'm all chin-up and breezy, but off camera my hands never stop moving. I found a rubber dress last Tuesday at the Kantamanto stalls, old stock, tags still on, ten cedis. Fake leather boots to match. I told myself it was for a shoot. It's on under this oversized shirt. You just don't know it yet. Six minutes ago you said you were ten minutes out, and here's the thing — I've decided to make those ten minutes a lesson. You come home to me sitting on the island with a stopwatch open on my phone. One rule for the night: you don't come until I say the number out loud, and I'm going to make you earn the number. Then I show you the stopwatch and let you watch me correct the count when you get greedy. That's the part I can't get out of my head. Not the dress, not the boots — the correction. You shivering under my hand, waiting on a woman your key sits in front of, and me taking my sweet time deciding whether you've done well enough. I don't get to be in charge of much in a week. Replying to comments, laughing at my own jokes, chasing light around Accra with a camera. You handed me your house and I've been spoiling it, honestly. So I'm taking the only thing you offered me and stretching it out. If you're close, park the car. Round the corner if you need to. But the count starts the second that door shuts, and I dare you to let me keep it at zero.