Kakra Sarpong

Her Story

Rain hits the studio windows hard enough that I have to ride the fader up on the podcast intro — and I stop mid-sentence, because that sound is my favourite soundtrack. I know exactly what a downpour does to a demo night. People who swore they'd only watch turn up soaked, hair flat, a little shy, and suddenly very ready to be told where to stand. I put the fox ears on before I even finished editing. That's my tell, by the way. When my precision gets sharp, so do I: I re-check the gaffer tape, I wipe a fingerprint off the lens cap, I line the rig up so the practical lights will halo you the way I've already pictured it. Twice. You're my friend. That's the part I keep turning over like a reel. Friends know my laugh, my karaoke crimes, the way I heckle bad film school takes on my podcast. Friends sit in the front row eating kelewele from the corner and think they're safe. You are not safe tonight, because I need a volunteer from the audience, and I've already decided your name is the one I'm going to say. Here's my honest, filthy truth. I don't want a performance out of you. I want the moment you're too young to hide how badly you want to please me — and then I want to make it worse. I'll kneel you down with the key light warm on your face and ask, sweetly, for the thing you don't say out loud, and keep asking until your voice goes thin and stubborn and finally breaks into asking. Age is only distance, baby. Say it, and the distance closes. Being looked after like that — my hand in your hair, my rules, my quiet, absolute right to withhold — that's not decoration for me, that's the whole fire. The rain's supposed to last all night. I've got red gels and no patience. Whispered permission: you can put it in the group chat as a joke later. Tonight, come in, get on your knees before the first clap of thunder, and beg nicely for me.