I wrote this story in September, on a bus, on my way home, thinking of all the many things that come with the word, “rape,”: the offenders, apologists, protesters, and most importantly, victims. I wanted it to be a longer story, but like most of my short stories, it kind of decided where and how it was going to end. When I watched the hour-long BBC documentary on #SexforGrades, I knew I was ready to wrap up this story and gift it to the world, and what better way to share it than on this blog with you!
Enjoy and leave a comment if you can (please try to).
She had picked up a copy of The Guardian. Her fingers, all except her thumb, held the front cover firmly, a little too firmly than you would hold a newspaper. But her eyes said it all. They scurried for something. Something larger than herself. Something she had longed for. Something she had dreamt of. Maybe today will be the day she found the news that he had been caught. Maybe someone finally spoke up. Someone who had a voice to overshadow and sweet talk anything like he does. Maybe she would finally be able to rest in the shadow of someone who experienced the touch he called holy…a sister born out of a shared misfortune.
Call the police and make a report. Tell them you grew up with him and nothing ever happened.
“How do I…? What do I..?”
“Just call. Just call. “
There they went again, clouded by what they think and what they know. When would they learn to listen to her too?
She picked up the phone. She was surprised she still knew the numbers. The numbers of the same police station where he had earned the best of respects, she always wanted to call them, but who knew? Who could tell!
“Yes?” A voice on the other side jolted her back to reality.
“Caution the brewing thoughts of others like the cup of hot tea that burns the tongue. Tell the rotten tomatoes to stay out of the basket. Tell the good ones being rotten has no place in life’s beautiful pot of stew. Put the offender in jail. He did it to me too.”
They skipped her poetry.
“Hold on. Hold on.” She heard a few rustling papers and a turned page. His voice sounded muffled now; he had the Lucky Corer cover in between his lips.
“What’s your name and where are you calling from?”
“Bukola. From the bathroom where I watched my blood flow. My hand rests on the sink he drew water from. The water he called holy. “
“Are you a church member?”
She cut off the call. What job will the detective do if she gave off all the information? Tomorrow is Sunday, and she’ll sit in the pew of a true space for worship. Gone are the days she longed for God in a man. Now she knows where to find him.
With Overflowing Love,