By: Yetinayet

To anyone looking at me, I am the picture of cool and calm; but he catches my eye, and he knows the truth, yihé léba, for who better than he who puts the fever in my blood to measure its intensity? As is so common with the Ethiopian crowd, the men are all congregated on one side of the room, the women on the other. But looks are free to cross the divide, and do. Before I knew him, I saw absolutely no value to this type of separation of the sexes, but now, even if I still see its limitations, I have found one wonderful advantage. There is something profoundly delicious about knowing that, somewhere on the other side of the room, a man knows exactly what forbidden thoughts are racing through your head.

In the middle of a hysterically funny joke being told by one of my friends, my hand goes to wipe the tears that inevitably come when I'm laughing that hard; this time, my eyes capture his. You see, he knows what else elicits my tears, and for a second it is as though we're alone in the room. I hold him for a long moment then release him back to his friends. Isey, yetabatu; anticipation really is the most exquisite foreplay.

And so the evening goes on, good food, great conversation, and the inevitable important tips about what to buy where, who does the best hair in town, who's cheating on/with whom, etc.; and our game of aynuka continues. Finally, it's time to go home; as usual, we offer rides to whoever needs one, and end up dropping an acquaintance of his off at her house before heading home.

Back when we first started going out, time alone in the car was always fraught with the heart-tripping anxiety of "What happens next?", when I would have to decide how much of the excitement I was feeling could safely be communicated to this man at my side; when he would have to determine how far he can raise the level of intimacy in the car without spooking the woman he was aching to take home. I loved that feeling of suspense, but I love this even more…this knowing what is to come, and the sheer clamor of heightened senses, passion barely contained.

We are quiet tonight; there are times when we choose to fill this time with conversation -- sometimes racy and intimate, other times deliberately mundane as if we are both unaware of what is being said between the lines. But tonight words seem unnecessary. Halfway home, he lifts my hand to his mouth, kissing the center of my palm, then letting me feel his teeth bite on the fleshy pad below my thumb before returning the hand to its rightful place on his leg. By tomorrow, the half-moon marks of my nails will probably have disappeared from his thigh, but his heated glance tells me that he won't forget quite so quickly.

He opens the door to the apartment, and helps me with my coat before taking his own off. Leaving my purse on the chair nearest the door, I walk to the fridge, and give him a glass of water as I pour juice for myself, the simple gesture almost as intimate as what is sure to come next. We turn the lights off in the living room and kitchen as we head toward the bedroom.

He gives me a few minutes in the bathroom before coming in, and my eyes close at the warmth of his breath at the back of my neck. Mouth and teeth again on my skin, this time at the base of my neck where it meets my shoulder; ahhh, the heat is definitely on. His hands wander around to the front of my body, pausing along the way to remind me of other places he has previously plotted and trekked, and there is nothing more exciting than having my eyes witness the path of his fingers in the mirror even as I feel their audacious trail…hmm. But his efforts do not go unrewarded, especially once I turn around to remind him of my favorite places on him. He claims I have a particular laugh that reeks of triumph when I know I have him exactly where I want him. I don't doubt it, since I love the heady sense of power I have when I'm with him, knowing it is as freely given as the power he has over me.

We always laugh the morning after such nights, never really able to remember who took what off when, and rarely able to find all of our clothing in one place or at one time. Tonight would be no different; but then, yerasu guday. Of course, there was that one time a visitor found a lacy bra hanging from his dining room chandelier, when he had to mumble some feeble excuse -- we laughed for days at his description of the incredulous look on Imama TiliQwa's face. Needless to say, I was very glad I wasn't there that day.

So where were we? ahhh, awo lijé, … back in the bedroom now, and anticipation finally gives over to raw passion. No more teasing touches, no room for light play … it is heat, and sweat, and an undeniable, hungry burn. Time stands still. Words never uttered in the light of day -- naughty, saucy, raunchy, forbidden, certainly unprintable -- add the spice that pushes me over the line between control and heady sensation, and he is not far behind. My voyeur of a brain records only the little things, as though they best catalog what is really happening. And maybe they do: the rasp of a day-old beard against the inside of my elbow, and at my ear; the feel of his fingers in my hair, holding me close and closer again; the perfect fit of my hand in that indent where his thigh meets his hip (Tena'yisTiliN); the feel of his very short nails as they score a path up and down my shivery back; arms cradling my arching back, limbs cradling him; the catching breath in my throat caught also by his mouth (ihhh); the taste of him, the whispered words; the words mouthed against skin.

He says my hands speak volumes, in private even more so than in public. And maybe, just maybe, they do. Tonight, they mark my territory (yihim yené; ya'm yené); bring continued disarray to a head normally kept well groomed; guide and misguide deliberately to prolong the journey; revel in his particular combination of muscle and sinew and hair …and everything in between. My hands accept no boundaries: they soothe and taunt and command …they plead and please…they claim shamelessly. If my hands were any stronger, the headboard would be reduced to splinters; if their nails were any sharper, the sheets would be torn to shreds. In the end my loving hands hold him close, just as he held me moments before, both of us taking the courage to let the vulnerable emotions show.

At last, our racing hearts quieten, and he grins proudly as he wipes my tears. As I fall asleep, my last sensation is of his hand at the small of my back, where it belongs, and of his forearm braced over my head as he watches over me.

~ “ ~

To anyone looking at me, I am the picture of cool and calm; but he catches my eye, and he knows the truth -- who better than he? The scene is an evening at some friends' house where he and I seem destined to meet at least once a year. As is so common with the abesha crowd, the men are all congregated on one side of the room, the women on the other. But looks are free to cross the divide, and do. And there is something profoundly unsettling about knowing that, somewhere on the other side of the room, a man knows exactly what unsettling thoughts are racing through your head.

In the middle of a hysterically funny joke being told by one of my friends, my hand wipes the tears that inevitably come when I'm laughing that hard. I can feel him watching me do this, having watched me do it before. You see, he knows what else elicits my tears. I look away before he has the satisfaction of finding in my eyes what I cannot ever let him see.

And so the evening goes on, good food, great conversation, and the inevitable important tips about what to buy where, who does the best hair in town, who's been seen with whom, etc. It seems insufferably long, and I cannot wait for the moment I can politely excuse myself and go home.

You see, this all reminds me of that other evening. It, too, had started like this, and as it wound down, he had walked across the room offering rides to whomever needed one, pointedly referring his offer to me. I had seen him several times before at such gatherings -- his cousin was, after all, a friend of mine, so I gratefully accepted. I had felt his look throughout the evening and had sensed his interest in me, but figured I would hold off on making a judgment until I knew him a bit better. Maybe this ride would give me that chance.

I remember the rest as if it were yesterday.

So we're in his car, talking about mundane things as we try to use everyday conversation to find out what we really want to know about each other. At some point, he insists on stopping at his place to give me the latest Ethiopiques CD he is raving about ("Mooch, igre-mengedachin new"). That alarm in every woman's head goes off in the distance, but I can't find a graceful way of saying that I'm uncomfortable going into his apartment. Now, he keeps reaching for my hand, and the alarms clang again: once, I pretend to look for something in my purse and avoid his reach; the second time, I quietly return his hand to his own side of the car before retreating to mine. By the third time, I feel confident that I've communicated my own wishes sufficiently without making a big scene.

He opens the door to the apartment, and helps me with my coat before taking his own off -- he will not hear of my initial request to wait for him in the car while he brings back the CD ("Bezih be'bird?"). Rather than searching right away for the CD, though, he goes into the kitchen and returns with two whiskeys, this in spite of my continued no-thank-you's. I accept the glass but leave it on the table, untouched, as I perch on the very edge of his leather sofa. He finally finds the CD by the stereo, but then insists that I hear the first track. Shushing my protests, he pulls me back down to the sofa near him, his arm across the back behind me, his eyes everywhere.

I can actually hear the pulse pounding at my temples while I try to think of how to extricate myself from this situation. The clock chimes 1:00 o'clock. I feel his breath near my face before his lips descend…I turn away in time, and he kisses my cheek instead. Indé! His hands are in my hair now, insistently stopping me from jumping to my feet as they hold my head in place; this time, I cannot move out of the way when his mouth opens over mine. I try to pry his face off of me -- no luck. I push at his shoulder, first with one hand then with both, realizing too late that by removing my hold on the sofa seat, I have made it easy for him to maneuver me onto my back.

By now my arms are trapped between us, and I start to beg him to let me go, with my words when his mouth releases mine, and with my eyes when I can no longer speak. My anger burns red hot, and for a brief moment when he eases off of me and my arms are free, I take my one chance to dig my nails into his face. My anger fizzles in the face of terror when he backhands me, hard, and pulls my hands over my head as I almost black out. Almost from a distance I hear the rip as my dress tears from my neck to my waist, and my bra is pushed up, a noose around my neck. Incoherent words are coming from my mouth now, and my hands are frantic within his grasp; I can almost get them free. But free, to what end? My mind freezes when his other hand holds my lacy panties up victoriously before tossing them over his head. My breath stops, my heart stops. Time stops. And feeling begins.

The feeling of limbs jerked apart, helpless, useless; of unwilling skin ripping open; of teeth at my breasts gnawing away where my heart would have been if it were beating; of nails digging into my skin, marking me; of his words, indescribably crude, smashing into my ears in an echo of the pounding inside my body; of breath coming back only sporadically as his forearm remains strong against my mouth, forcing my face to turn aside. My eyes slowly focus on the mirror across the room, the one that shows my eyes, immobile. My hands, immobile. I hear the whimpers as if from a great distance. And I feel his shudders inside, outside -- everywhere.

His bark of a laugh as he finishes reeks of triumph -- of power taken, unfettered, unchecked. I wait only for him to remove himself from me before rising, slowly. The clock reads 1:15; a lifetime has passed. He watches me with eyes half-lidded, sprawled on the couch, as I pull down my bra, pull together the seams of the dress, pull up the thigh-highs that had somehow come unraveled. Pull together my soul lying in tatters at my feet even as I look around -- where are my panties? I cannot leave them here. Panic, and a frantic scrambling across the floor … oh God, where are they? Where? Then my memory clears a path in the haze, and he finds me there when he peers over the back of the sofa, soundlessly crying at the little rip in the lace on one side. He flops back on the sofa with an impatient "Oof" as my shaking fingers try to fix what cannot be fixed.

When I come out of the bathroom, he is already asleep. For an instant, I think of what I could do -- tell my brothers? They might beat him up, even kill him, but then again they might not: first, the questions would come -- what were you doing in his car, at his apartment, in the first place? Did he have a gun, a knife at least, to threaten you with? I couldn't stand to see the accusations or doubts in their eyes; couldn't bear it if they decided to do nothing. Tell the police? Even if I were able to prove what happened, I would forever be tarnished in the eyes of the abesha community -- used goods, fit only for more of the same. Someone would make up a clever name for me, cruel and eternal, and it would follow me everywhere. One rape is enough, thank you.

I stand there, remembering to be thankful for the little things. At least he hadn't had his friends there to witness the event, or to participate, although I imagine quite a few of them will be privy to the wendata that has just occurred. I am thankful that he looks like he's done with me; kalweTalet, I might have to worry about him following me around with visions of a repeat. I am thankful that I am not in some village in the rural areas, where tomorrow morning I would have been handed back to this animal as his wife, to do with as he wished, as he has just done, for life. One rape is enough, thank you.

I retrieve my coat and close the door soundlessly, cloaked in my helplessness and shame. In a week, the marks made by my slashing nails will probably have disappeared from his skin, but he has already stopped feeling them.

So now, years later, as I turn away, as his eyes look for what I can never let him see, all I feel is the lasting memory of his forearm against my mouth, and I recall the tear in the lace I could never fix.

~ " ~

medfer. n. inf. Amharic. (i) to dare, to show courage, to be brave; (ii) to violate; to dishonor; to rape.

     All rights reserved.