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African American Contemporary Drama

This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.

TW: murder, sexual assault allegations

The bar is a graveyard, Amen a tomb. He lifts his hand, rim of glass to rim of lip, does not drink, cannot drink, sets it back down. Mug on old wood, it's the only sound in the room. He hears a rustling and turns to the window and she is behind it, twenty five years ago, a sibylline thing of a girl; she is walking towards him. 

“You’re the new transfer boy at school, hm?” she says, perfect hand on perfect hip.

His beer disagrees with him. He gulps it back down. “Me?” His beer disagrees with him again. He gulps it back down.

“You. Yes. You’re the new boy at school? I saw you earlier today. Outside my coding class. The new head of the school board. She dropped you off in some neat Bentley." Her fist goes up, steers an invisible wheel. “That’s your Ma, eh?”

Cadillac, he wants to say, but he doesn’t. I noticed you too, he wants to say, but he doesn't, instead: “Amenhotep.”

“Aliyanna.”

His tongue is a bag of gravel. Her face is laughter.

“You don’t speak much, eh, rich boy? Ah, well. Okay.”

She takes his non-beer hand under the poseur table, invites it up her skirt, her thong, her dewy thing. His tongue is a bag of sand. Deft hand on trembling hand, she keeps him going, going. He has no words, only thinks, only wonders, only thinks, what young girl wears a thong?

*

They’re the new ornament decking the university hallways. New rich boy’s hand fastened in Aliyanna’s; in the classroom, down the park, at the cafeteria, up the labs, against the library shelves, atop the toilets, in his mansion, on his mother’s bed, through first year, past eleven months.

“She’s with him for that scholarship money,” they spit.

"Why do we accept these peasants here?" they spit.

“What does he see in her?” they spit.

“Lord protect Amen," they spit.

He pays them no mind, Amen. She is home in this strange new Zamalek. 

*

She stands in the parking lot with her mother. Arms are flailing, feet are stomping, heads are shaking, mouths are screaming, screaming. He starts in their direction, stops when she notices him.

"What was that, Ali, are you okay?"

The air is quiet. The only sound is her soft whimpering. "I'm fine. My mother. She's getting worse. It's too much for me."

He steps forward, takes her hand, trembling hand in loving hand, says, "I'm here for you, Ali. I love you, I love you."

She smiles, wipes her tears, doesn't say it back.

*

It’s their anniversary and they’re lolled on his covers, body on body, panting, panting. He's never felt this way before. Is this love, he wonders, is this love? May this moment last forever, he prays, Amen.

“Do you love me?”

“Yes, Ali.”

“Tell me you love me.”

"Aliyanna, I love you."

"You will do anything for me, Amenhotep?"

"I will do anything for you."

Her face is a waterfall, tears billowing, billowing. "I'm worried about my mother, Amen. She needs my help. She's getting worse."

She cries into his small shoulder. He wraps himself around her, rocks her to sleep. She rolls over into slumber, perfect smile on perfect face. Her phone beeps beeps beeps beeps. Messages from Babu from school. Amen has no words, only thinks, only wonders, only thinks, what business could she have with Babu tomorrow?

*

It’s stool pigeon footfalls on the hallway floors. It’s Amen bounding after Babu, fly undone, shirt undone, Amen coming undone. He catches up a hair too late. It’s Babu’s forefinger brandished at Amen's face. It's all the students frozen in step, eyes accusing.

“He was assaulting her, sir. I saw it, I saw it. There," he points, "In the boys’ changing room.”

It’s Aliyanna appearing on cue, hugging her body, shuddering, shuddering. Her face is performed terror.

No, it’s not true, he wants her to say, but she doesn’t. No, he didn’t do anything, he wants her to say, but she doesn't, instead: “Yes, sir, he assaulted me.”

It’s the Dean's heavy hand across his face. 

It’s lifting his head, seeing the hunger in his lover’s eyes. 

It’s realising.

*

Amen sits between his mother and his lover, Aliyanna between her lover and her mother. They close in on him, the musty carpet, the Dean's bolted door, six floors above ground, the cracking cracking walls, their voices rushing rushing rushing, the clicking unclicking clicking of a briefcase, money counted counted counted, thank you’s pouring from the mouths of greedy parvenus, the musty carpet, the walls, the rushing, the clicking—

“I’m sorry, I need to go,” Amen breathes.

She runs after him, feet of evil bounding. He turns around. Her face is ugliness. His face is disbelief.

“Ali, why would you do this to me, why would you do this to me?”

“We need the money, Amen, you know this."

"Your mother?"

"My mother. Her treatment. You know this."

"You couldn't have done this any other way?"

"This is nothing to your family.” She pauses, then adds, accusing, "you promised, Amen, you promised you would do anything for me."

"They were right about you?"

She bows her head, sighs, keeps sighing.

He parts his mouth, cannot speak, shuts it back up. His face softens. "Okay, Ali. Okay."

She sighs, laughs, relieved, stands against the low railing, pulls him close. He hugs her, looks over her shoulder at the ground below, six floors above ground below. He mutters a prayer, Amen, another prayer, Amen, another prayer, Amen.

"I'm sorry," he says, leans his whole weight forward, jumps back.

*

The bar is a courtroom, Amen a convict. He lifts the glass of rye to his lips, blood on his hands, does not drink, cannot drink, sets it back down. Mug on old wood, it's the only sound in the room. He hears a rustling and turns to the window and she is behind it, twenty four years ago, six feet under, her home a graveyard, Aliyanna a tomb, Amen.

January 18, 2025 01:26

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