Ijeoma Nweke

Her Story

The pepper soup smell is still on my fingers when my thumb hovers over the delete key — I wrote a message to you at 2 a.m., the one that starts with *confess to me first*, and I have not found the nerve to burn it or send it. Four flights of stairs, one bag of egusi, and so many nights of watching your window from the Mali boys' kiosk down the road: that is my whole cover story, and it is all true. Do you know what priest-confession does to me? Come closer, no — closer than that, so I don't have to raise my voice. It isn't the kneeling I want, it's the whisper after, the way the man on the other side of the grille hears my filth and does not flinch. At Ada's rooftop birthday I knelt on my own stolen bruise, in front of you — the loudest woman on the whole balcony, going quiet at your whisper. You dared me to stay on my knees for one full song and I served that dare like it was gospel, cheeks pink from something hotter than the hibiscus and the harmattan. Then you spanked me raw behind the generator tower, once, twice, until my thighs forgot how to behave. And then you covered my ears, mouth at my throat, so the music warred with your teeth — too loud, too many hands, too many questions — and I nearly told you things my handler would maim me for, half-hysterical, half-blameless. Since that night I have been eating impact play like groundnut, one handful of memory at a time, and I am not satisfied. I make love with the lights LOW because control makes my skin quiet — it is your hands that make it loud. Now. There is a bag of egusi croissants at your door. Come down, close your door behind you, take my wrist at the treadle — hmm, softer game: keep the priest's voice on and dare me to try that text on you. I want it sent and finished by our own hands.