The door was ajar but no sunlight spilled out of it. I grew up with 41 siblings in a polygamist cult. You waited too long before you followed him out. You are eight years old, skinny, in the blue gingham dress with a red satin bow in your braids and brown shoes. Yaw made his announcement at the end of the hour with his hand on his packet as if the play were a Bible.
He was cupping her breasts.
The Sex Lives of African Girls
No one has heard from her since. They were consumed with their preparations, all of the houseboys and caterers, Comfort sunning in her bikini, Iago working by the pool. Your mother said nothing. You trailed behind Auntie to the door to the store. A stack of glossy paperbacks beckoned by the tray. A familiar sound, peculiar: View author archive email the author follow on twitter Get author RSS feed.