6/1/2023 0 Comments Left unreplied![]() Here: a makeshift beach on the outskirts of town overlooking the stream. We can tell because there are no littered beer bottles and cigarette butts lying around. ![]() No one ever comes here no one reads the sun-bleached posters on the walls and electric poles that line the narrow entrance. Later, his skin smells of K, and he inhales it again and again until it doesn’t. K is hard and hot and smells like mint, and when J takes him in his mouth, K grips his head and thrusts deeper. The dark hair on K’s chest is more than he has imagined, and he’s surprised by how little he knows of his body. He unbuttons K’s shirt and runs his hand across his skin, twirling his fingers atop his nipples. He is aroused by K’s nervousness, and he smiles and assures him that it’s alright. He says, I want you, and brings K’s hand between his legs. He reclines the passenger seat and pulls his shorts down to his knees. They don’t say anything for a while, and we are not sure what J will do until he does it. K runs a finger across his thigh in the shape of a heart, and J repeats the pattern on the foggy window. Bare feet against the dashboard, J exposes the smooth thinness of his legs. K is so beautiful he has to remind himself to breathe. It’s in his eyes, the way they linger on K’s body, the slant of his shoulders, the small of his neck. But today, something is different: J wants him, we know this. Several times, we have watched them sit in the dark of K’s father’s car, singing along to songs on radio and sipping beer from paper cups. Fela’s ‘Gentleman’ comes on the radio, and they sing along to it. They are parked a few blocks from J’s house, headlights dimmed. Rain splatters on the windows of K’s father’s station wagon, and the heat from their bodies rises and fogs up the glass. Outside, the weather is clear and bright, and we know he won’t say the words. On the bench, he runs his fingers into K’s, and they remain this way, their bodies rising and kneeling in supplication, fingers locked. The church is dense, and there are muffled baby cries somewhere. K had used it the day his grandmother died, and in the months leading to the funeral, J has become sure he’s ready. ![]() He wants to tell K now that he is ready to use the L-word. But something about being in this church conjures the image of it. It was a year before we met them, maybe two, we don’t know-we weren’t there. We have no memory of the first time they met-we weren’t there-but it was in the school canteen, they’ve said, two boys, out of place in a crowded school. He is sure that K is, too, but isn’t showing it. An aunt at the other end of the church bursts into tears, and J is immediately amused by it. They do not say anything for a while, just listen to the Reverend talk, about how beautiful a life the woman lived, how treasured she was. Something to fan himself with, he tells K. He has brought a book, a light one, in case he gets bored. K sits beside his mother and sister, and J curls up beside him. K’s grandmother is dead, and everyone is present. This is the first time they’ve been to a church in years. He’s beside K as they walk into the church. This may not be the version of the tale you are familiar with, but this is the version we are telling. There is a tale long told, about a boy and a girl, and a love so desperate it snuffs the life out of them. A cold harmattan day, the empty street lined with shriveled trees and dust-patched houses, and we know where we are. Then he does, the same smile from his eyes. K doesn’t smile at first, merely stares at him. He crosses the street and reaches for K, runs a hand through the stubble on his cheek and moves it up to his head. J notices his stained blue trousers and unkempt hair, arches a brow. K turns and sees him, waves him over, calling his name. J is at the entrance to the library, stuffing a book into his backpack. Here is where we meet them: K is across the street, plucking at a dried-up tree. The Gerald Kraak Anthology: African Perspectives on Gender, Social Justice and Sexuality, Vol.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |