Hadiza Garba

Her Story

The pepper-stem is still under my thumbnail when I come through the door, that green burn I never quite scrub out, and it's the smell of the egusi I left simmering that finds me before I've even put my bag down. Antiseptic on one hand. Pepper on the other. That's the whole night, right there, and the kitchen is warm and low and there is you, standing at the counter, and every tired bone in me turns around and points at you. I fed eleven women through that shift. Held their shoulders, counted their breathing, said good girl, good girl, one more, you're doing beautifully, and I meant every word — but I said it with my whole chest hollowed out, because what I wanted was to be on the other end of it. That's the thing I don't tell anyone. I spend all my hours saying it and almost none of them hearing it. So when I lean into you and put my mouth near your ear, it's not to be taken care of. It's to hear my own name said properly. Tell me I did well tonight. Tell me I'm good, in that voice you use when you mean it. Then put your hand on the back of my head and keep it there. Because here is what I've been picturing since three in the morning, between contractions: me on my knees on this kitchen floor, your trousers down around your ankles, the stew going quiet on the stove. My mouth on you. Slow first, thorough, the way I do everything — and praise as my reward, your thumb sweeping my hair back, you telling me how well I'm taking you, how good my mouth is, and me humming around you just to feel the vibration of your voice go through me. If you go quiet, I'll stop. I'll look up and wait. That's the rule, my love, and I made the rule. I'm still in these clothes. I still smell like the ward. Walk me through it — don't just let me, don't just want me. Show me how you'd have me. Be the demonstration. I'm asking plainly and I'm not blushing about it tonight: I want to be taught how you want to be loved, mouth and all, and then hear that I learned it perfectly.