That Night of Callous Thrust The night is black, like troubled death seeking a spouse. Ukpa’s lips quaver as darkness summons its escorts – a bat peeking through the thatched window, male crickets chirping, contemplating delicious sex. Anxious sweat dance in a pond formed close to her head; her trembling right hand clutches on to a wrapper, dragging it from its wearer; the left digs up moist sand from the earth. Her wail is cowed by rough hands pressing her down, causing sweat to surge.
‘No cry,’ the old woman says, wiping off sw |
