Patchily tarred roads, too narrow, too many, a maze with dark corners and blind spots even in the brightness of day; Bob Marley’s “One Love” and billows of nicotine, enough for everyone; Apostle Postle’s top-of-the-lungs declarations for prosperity and Amens from dry mouths; dogs with ribs; gutters with wide uncovered mouths, putrid and green-black, holding razzled husbands from the night before and big girls who did not listen to their mothers; they are buried in a stagnant slime and the food sellers pour in their rice water while looking the other way; she listened to her mother; loud; disharmonic honks and bustling, now a background track; stubby shrubs with rusted leaves and flowers with pale centers leeching into their wild red edges; this girl who liked to sniff them and pretend they smelled like butter and spice as she often read in the children’s book she owned; they are not exempt from the miasma that announces arrival in this city; her cornrows were prickly tight in the front, red and noduled in the back; she was a lark; a pink thrifted miniskirt whose smell, her mother said, was of America; they all smelled like America and it hardly came off; on a mission by her mother to buy ogiri for fifty naira and potash for twenty; that was what it should have cost; not seventy, not seventy-five, not a sensual stroke from a tar-stained hand on the bum she had never noticed before then; men with ribs and drunken slur break you in here; their baritone chatter swirls into thick air, a precursor to her turgid nipples; along the road she should not be on, the one they paid for; she listened to her mother; the next errand, it was those breasts; wear a longer skirt, to your knees; she only made them more curious; the pounding in her chest when she had to go out again; it was nothing special; she was nothing special; she is the umpteenth; the man in her father’s house; it came, his turn; the lock on the bedroom door does not work; it still doesn’t; women are temptations; they must be careful around men; if she tells, she was not careful enough; wear a longer skirt, to below your knees; no trousers, they are indecent; he was enjoying this chase; her snoring toddler siblings would not protect her from the dry cracked hands dancing on her body at midnight; her juices unlocked; in the following days she waited for him; she wanted him; that feeling; shame, desire, desire, hate, shame, desire; she never stops to sniff the flowers again; wear a longer skirt to your ankles; she is now a woman, a thing in a long enough skirt.
Inspired by Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl”
Karen Njelita
Karen Njelita is a short story writer and a medical student. Her stories explore medical superstition, social nuances and repression in the lives of women. Much of her inspiration comes from the experiences of women, the shortcomings she perceives in her field of study, the faces of strangers and snippets of her journey. On occasion, she writes poetry and non-fiction. She enjoys fiction from brilliant writers like Chigozie Obioma, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and poetry from Maya Angelou. When she is not brewing another story, she runs, tries new styles and products on her natural hair and studies for endless medical school examinations. Her favourite thing to do is to try again and better. Connect with her on X @KarenNjeli32012.
