Feel Free to Roam

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

What Haunts the Sable Sphere - Part 1

The smell of burning porridge rose to the surface of the air and the eggs rank stench traveled with a heavy odor of black pepper and cumin that now burns intensely on your nostrils. Hunched over the stainless steel range tucked in the far right of the kitchen, she is cooking up your favorite meal; eggs and sausage with a hefty helping of plantain porridge and crushed sweet potatoes. The flushed coral Martha Stewart’s inspired pots give great life to the austere gray tones of the marbled kitchen walls. Water is gushing from the faucet, keeping the sweet potatoes cool until she’s ready for them. And she still hasn’t gotten around to your roasted tomato gravy, made spicy with the red bird peppers from the small vegetable garden you planted together. Shuffling over to the dining table she sits directly in front of you, spreads her thighs wide apart, and sluggishly pulled the torn hemline of her pale blue sundress unto her breathing hips, revealing the thick luster of pubic hair, growing wild from her Bermuda triangle. Her thighs still possess the ripe youthful strength that captured your gaze ten years to the date. It’s your anniversary. You never married her for reasons she still seems to be unaware of, even with all that has unraveled within the last four hours, thirty seven minutes and three and a half seconds.

“Ralph I need you home more often, it’s quite lonely waiting for you,” she whispers gently while placing the bronze mixing bowl between her thighs, and smiles. The darkness of her skin has always revealed the beautiful contours of a West African princess.

“Ralphee are you listening to me.” Her delicate face weighs heavy with eagerness; almost a craze insistence for your response.


Nodding furiously, your face perched for a sudden up roar, if only you could free your wrist from the cold grips of the kerosene drunken ropes wrapped around the curved arms of the ashen chair.
Flailing within the confined embrace and glaring directly at Amma, your attempts to brake free are exhausting. She smiles in contentment, finally you have nowhere to go. Stifled screams are barred by the soiled bloody blue linen wrapped around your throbbing lips. You are all hers. Face swollen ruff and bruised, your eyes crowded with curdled blood as tears shamefully creep down the high arches of your cheeks and settle on callous lips, the taste is cruel and real. The reality being the selfish choices you have made, eventually; propelling your once solemn Amma to the brink of unforeseen madness. Amma brings her hand heavily down on the center of the mixing bowl, crushing the contents. Sweet mashed potatoes and hearty yucca gradually forced together, molding and folding into each other, the determination within her gaze bares hidden longings.
Continuously gyrating her wrist into the bowl grasping the tiny mortar stick, glancing occasionally at your pathetic face with the bitter waters flooding and flowing over your weakened chin. Amma places the bowl on the table with the mortar stick erect in the center, kneeling on the dark wooden floor and arching her back under the table, she stares intently. Around the edges of the solid wooden structure are sculpted imprints of the Sankofa symbol. She recalls how the two of you eagerly placed each imprint together as a mark of your 5th year of commitment to each other. Suddenly, without hesitation she maneuvers from beneath the table, grabs the bowl from above, and shuffles hastily over to the kitchen sink. You can hear her rustling about in the cupboard, dishes moving and clashing with each other, something falls shattering upon impact with the floor. But she continues on, tossing about the cupboard. A few seconds later Amma places a ceramic triangular bowl on the table it’s filled with a fluffy dense mixture. It’s the potatoes from before, your mind is racing, and the throbbing beneath your chest seems tempted to leap out and stain the air with red fear. You’re hoping that she wouldn’t try feeding you, she must have poisoned everything. Back to the kitchen she goes.

Glancing at the full length oak framed mirror from across the dining table, your reflection a strange visual for swollen eyes. Your mind is still searching for reasons of why your woman would strike you with such vengeance. You were still loving her. After all, you picked her up when necessary and sex was given twice a week.

You were loving.

Food was always in the fridge, bills were paid.

You were providing.

In the morning she would find you always by her side. You were protecting.
Amma races back from the kitchen her tattered blue dress covered with dried blood and traces of her heavy labor soiled the gentle fabric. Placing the remaining dishes on the ironed linen, it is a picturesque site. She’s determined to unlock your soul. Taking a silver dinner knife from the setting, she darts under the table, looking again at the Sankofa markings and then turning directly at your naked pelvis. Amma grabs your dick and engulfs the limp stem with her mouth, clutching your testicles in her left hand, she begins to gnaw at your betraying flesh. You scream in delirious pain but your sounds are muffled. You can feel your flesh separating, blood seeping from the fresh wound. Again with feline precision Amma springs forth and tactically disappears. This time retrieving a sharp butcher’s knife and without hesitation but with no less pain your testicles have forcibly abandoned your body. It’s concealed within her fist, Amma places her hands over the lengthy vase in the center of the table, releasing her folded fingers and freeing the contents . The water within the crystal cylindrical structure turns a pale bitter red and they both sink to the bottom.

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