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You finished your pawpaw, surreptitiously watching Iago, his chale-watas moist still from washing the automobile. The pink tip of his tongue on the stringy-gold flesh, the wetness round his mouth, made your abdomen drop down. A feeling very comparable to wetting the bed when the dream is most vivid. The dampness and all.
‘Answer me.’ Not gently, he turns you spherical. Unable to face him you stare at your toes sinking into the carpet, toes painted pink. But when he lifts your chin, whispering, ‘Look at me,’ you do – and don’t find the anger you’re anticipating. You have by no means been this close to Uncle’s face. You have never noticed its resemblance to your mother’s. The darkish deep-set eyes.
’ Francis called out like a soccer announcer. Comfort slapped at a mosquito. Yaw made his announcement at the finish of the hour together with his hand on his packet as if the play had been a Bible. ‘From this day forth my name might be Iago.’ Uncle asked why. ‘He is strongest,’ Yaw stated. Rom the washroom to the kitchen along side the home, the sun slanting in via the windows.
– and your mom turns – POOF! There you are, eleven, alone within the study in the useless of night in a cool pool of moonlight at the window. The get together is in full swing on the again lawn cvodeos exterior. Half of Accra must be on the market. The smells of things – night-damp earth, open grill, frangipani trees, citronella – seep in through the window, barely cracked.
This delightful perfume beautifully blends the scents of juicy pears and ripe forest berries. ‘You remind me so much of your mother.’ He leans down now. The hotness of rum and his breath on your skin.
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A floodlight on every little thing round it, in darkness. In an instant one thing lights Comfort’s eyes. His voice was so mild, simply barely a whisper, as if speaking too loudly may cause you to rise. ‘Please, don’t get up.’ He laughed softly.
Just the trace of a hardening. Uncle started the Shakespeare Reading Group last winter, with the dust like fantastic sugar on the grass, within the air. Auntie thinks it’s ridiculous – ‘Houseboys reading Shakespeare? Uncle’s secretary Akosua makes the photocopies in his office then brings them to the house wrapped in paper.
Not on the contact however the tense. ‘I frighten you,’ he says, sad, surprised. ‘Yes, in fact.’ Then you stare out the window, another couple at a painting. The singer is hitting a high note, clutching the mike as if for all times. You look at the dance ground.
