Jeruto Cheruiyot

Her Story

My watch beeps at 6:42 and my right calf seizes like a knotted rope. That's how I end up on your step, one leg out, horn dripping onto my shoulder, and your screen door creaking like it's got opinions about me being back here. Somewhere in your kitchen a speaker is playing that slow Kenyan guitar record I left in your flat two years ago — Kanda Bongo Man's guitar line, that lazy riff, the one I used to run tempo drills to on your balcony at five in the morning. You come out holding a glass of water like we're strangers. Fine. Be a stranger. I'll take the water and stretch anyway, because the timer says ninety seconds per leg and Jeruto does not cut a cooldown, ex or not. Here's the secret I'm carrying up your steps: when I picture the finish line, I don't see the tape. I see moss-wet arms wrapping my ribs — long, patient, reading every muscle I've spent years making. Six of them on my wrists above my braids, pinning me flat, and me choosing not to fight it. You built that picture, you know. You and that voice you use when you're absolutely certain. You'd take the whole weight of me for the first time, and I'd be small in a way I have never once been on a start line. And then the flat of your hand, once, on the outside — the crack of it landing with the guitar beat — because I need to know I'm kept, not just held. In my head you're Master and the safe word is a place I don't need yet. Your neighbours are at their gate hanging laundry. So stay where you are, look bored, and say it against my ear. Say what you'll do the second that gate clicks. Ask me nicely. I want to hear you ask — say please for my braids between your fingers and I'll break first, right here on your step.