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Their taste, your local, for reserve reasons whatsoever her daughter was together. It is the same own you saw anties that own this morning, the sun dividing in thick and refreshing as oil. You designed this, let part and suggestion of Fa soap. You slang the class sheet from the mature professional bed and answered it, embarrassed, to the cooking.

Not for a minute do you believe what they say. They are villagers, cruel like your grandmother. As told to you: Dzifa missing mother was born eight years after Uncle in Lolito, a village on the Volta. Their father, a fisherman, was drowned in the river the day after Dzifa was born. Their mother, your grandmother, for obvious reasons decided her daughter was cursed. Uncle, unconvinced, worshipped and adored his little sister and the two were inseparable growing up. Dzifa was beautiful, preternaturally so, shining star of the little Lolito schoolhouse. But your grandmother, believer in boys-only education and a product of the same, withdrew her daughter from school.

Your mother, infuriated, ran away from Lolito and hitchhiked her way to Nigeria. In the same years Uncle won the scholarship to study in Detroit and left Ghana, himself, for a time. An alto saxophonist in an Afro-funk band, he left African fucking aunties he Sluty women here in austria she was pregnant. You were living at the time in a thirteenth-floor hotel room, free of charge, care of the hotel proprietor. His name was Sinclair. This may have been his surname; you were never African fucking aunties sure. He was ginger-haired, Scottish, born in Glasgow, raised in Jos, son of tin miners-cum-missionaries, tall and loud, freckled, fat.

He was stingy with his mangoes, barking at the kitchen staff in the morning to use more orange slices and pineapple cubes in the breakfast buffet. His face blazed an unnatural pink when he shouted, like the colour of his hair, or his skin after visits. You were shocked when you moved here to find mangoes more perfect growing freely on the tree in the garden. The sounds of the highway, of Lagos at night. There were no guests or hotel staff at the pool after midnight. No sweating waiters in suits with mixed drinks on silver trays. No thin women in swimsuits, their skin seared to crimson, their offspring peeing greenly in the water. Still now there is something about those nights that you miss; maybe the promise of your mother in the morning?

On the night Uncle found her she was circling the lounge like the liquor fairy, topping up vodka and Scotch. You were behind the bar reading Beezus and Ramona, recently abandoned by some American. It was a Friday, you remember: Then abruptly, glass smashing, a comparative silence, the extraction of human voice from the ongoing din. The resumption of talking. She was staring at him, mouth agape, shards at her feet. Over and over and over. You wondered how he knew her name. Your mother said nothing. After a moment she smiled. Too bright to be real.

Too beautiful to be fake. After the hugging and weeping and telling it all Uncle insisted she return to Ghana. Uncle and a woman, a fair-skinned Nigerian, the photographer, drove you to the airport. The woman smoked cigarettes. Your mother was silent, gazing away, out the window, her eyes black and final as freshly poured tar. You were pressed up against her, so close you could breathe her, the taste of rose lotion breaking the promise of its smell. Here you are three years later. End of Sad Story. You set down the photo and glanced out the window.

The caterers had arrived with the party decor. A large painted banner on the back of their truck read Mary Christmas! The warmth of the wet spot turned cold on the backs of your thighs. The mother of Jesus. Auntie sucked her teeth. You detached the fitted sheet from the narrow twin bed and carried it, embarrassed, to the washroom.

III Ruby was there sucking her teeth at the washer. She prefers to clean clothing the old way, by hand. Auntie, who refuses to travel to Britain, waited for the delivery as for a prodigal child. Whatever the case, none of your neighbours have machines as impressive as the one in the washroom. The whirring contraption put too great a strain on the power supply, waning in Ghana. Ruby was dressed in the same thing as always: No one seems to mind much that you wear them also. Frowning with her eyebrows but not with her eyes. She stands like this often, with her hands on her hips, bony elbows pushed back like a fledgling set of wings.

She is pretty to you, Ruby, though her appearance is jarring, the eyes of a griot in the face of a girl. Her eyes have the look of a century of seeing. They say she lost a child once. Which would certainly explain it. In the peculiar hierarchy of African households the only rung lower than motherless child is childless mother. She held out her hand. You gave her the sheet, which she shoved into the washer. She closed the windowed door and looked, scowling, at the buttons, unsure which to press, too proud to say so. The washer, as advertised, sprang noiselessly to life. Ruby gasped, startled, stepping backwards. Shoulder to shoulder, like a couple viewing a painting.

Whites in the window of the washer, sheets and shirts. The cloth twisting beautifully like the arms and long legs of the National? Theatre dancers dancing silently in soap. She returned a moment later with a clean fitted sheet. You took this, folded neatly and smelling of Fa soap. She is beautiful when she smiles. IV From the washroom to the kitchen at the side of the house, the sun slanting in through the windows. The door was propped open to the buzzing of flies and the symphony of the sounds of the houseboys in the morning: Your breakfast was laid on the small wooden table: Francis was frying kelewele for Comfort her favourite in honour of her first morning home. To the dismay of his employer, the eponymous Guy, Uncle made Francis a better offer.

His parents are Ewe, his mother from Togo, his English much weaker African fucking aunties his French, even now. Appearing at the door in her slippers. She padded into the kitchen, stretching her arms with a yawn. Reached for a slice of your pawpaw and sighed. As skinny as ever. She only eats fruit. Comfort and you have always eaten in the kitchen, the small one, at the rickety wood table like this. The arrangement dates back to the morning you arrived after the short Virgin flight from Nigeria. As he tells it, Uncle ushered you proudly into the dining room for breakfast. After Uncle tried unsuccessfully to sell you on an omelette Francis intervened, uncharacteristically.

He lifted you carefully out of the dining-room chair and carried you into his kitchen. Silent, he placed you at the small wooden table and returned to his work pounding yam. Auntie had a massive new kitchen installed off the first-floor pantry this summer. When Auntie said no, Comfort refused to eat also, so Uncle said African fucking aunties, but only breakfast. V Iago appeared presently at the door to the kitchen. He is the best-looking houseboy, you think. First, Ruby never smiles and Iago never stops: Second, she lost a child. And what would they know about love in this house? The cleverest of all, according to Uncle, who just last Monday said as much during Reading Group.

Uncle started the Shakespeare Reading Group last winter, with the dust like fine sugar on the grass, in the air. Kofi drags the lawn chairs into an oval by the pool, carrying out an armchair from the living room for Uncle. They started with Othello. You read it in one sitting, seated cross-legged by the bookshelf. At some point you stopped reading and there he was. You uncrossed your legs quickly, fumbling to get to your feet, trying to think up an excuse for being in there. On the one occasion Auntie caught you reading she said nothing. She was passing by your door on her way down the stairs. She had a bottle of Scotch. She started to speak, hiding the bottle, then stopped. You pretended not to notice the bottle.

It was a new way of seeing her, your own gaze unnoticed, staring straight at her face while she gazed past, through yours. She looked young without make-up and tired. The cream-satin nightdress, sponge rollers. You waited for her to finish. You did and found the battered Othello. You were there sitting cross-legged when Uncle appeared at the door and you half tried to stand. He invited you to Shakespeare Reading Group that week. You went to the garden, read the part of Desdemona. The pool brilliant blue in the late-morning light. But his name then was Yaw.

The best-looking houseboy, indeed. Yaw made his announcement at the end of the hour with his hand on his packet as if the play were a Bible. Kofi raised his hand. Kofi looked at Yaw, almost pityingly. But Yaw is correct. He held out the mangoes to Francis. Even to Ruby, who was employed before Comfort was born, Comfort says little. She barely seemed to notice Iago, back-lit, at the door. The sun from behind him seeped into her eyes. Seated across from her, you stared at her face. She looked up, saw Iago, and her eyes sort of flickered.

Just the hint of a hardening. Sort of heart-shaped and plumpish with the cheeks of a cherub, the long curly lashes and small, pointy chin. Her lips look like pillows, some unique form of respite: The skin on her collarbones and shoulders, in particular, is impossibly smooth, with a specific effect: But there she is — Auntie — fluttering from table to round table, drawing all eyes and oxygen towards her, restless Monarch. She is somewhat less witch-like when viewed through the window. Merely beautiful beyond all reason. Perhaps anyone so striking, so sharp on the outside, would appear to be hard on the inside as well? Then Auntie stands straight and the moon gilds her up-and-down: Auntie offers her cheeks, one then the other, to his kisses.

Comfort steps back, for no reason; there is space. Kwabena begins gesturing, chatting animatedly with Auntie. Comfort sips foam off her Malta, gazes away. She is too starkly lit. It is the opposite. A floodlight on everything around it, in darkness. It is the same thing you saw for that moment this morning, the sun slanting in thick and golden as oil. Francis finished crafting a blossom from an orange then turned his focus to scalloping mango. You finished your pawpaw, surreptitiously watching Iago, his chale-watas wet still from washing the car. The pink tip of his tongue on the stringy-gold flesh, the wetness around his mouth, made your stomach drop down.

A feeling very similar to wetting the bed when the dream is most vivid. The dampness and all. Iago finished the mango and tossed the pit across the kitchen. It landed in the rubbish with a clatter. Comfort slapped at a mosquito. She considered the mosquito bite blooming on her arm. He ran down the path along the side of the kitchen. On the other side of the house is a wide pebbled walkway that winds from the gates to the garden at the back. This is how party guests access the garden. The house staff, forbidden, use the kitchen path. It scares you for some reason.

Its dark smell of dampness, the wild, winding crawlers climbing the side of the house, the low-hanging tree branches twisted together like the skinny gnarled arms of a child with lupus. And, set back in shadow behind the tangle of branches, ominous and concrete, never touched by the sun: A cooking fire flickering against the black of the sky and their laughter in bursts, muted refrains. Iago disappeared down this path. You took your plate to the sink, turned on the water to rinse it. Francis patted your head, took the plate, pushed you away. You who ate leftovers at the bar with the busboys at the end of each night while your mother drank rum; who helped maids on the mornings your mother was hung-over; eating left-behind chocolates and half-rotting fruit.

Iago will let you trail him reciting Othello across the lawn he has memorized his part and no longer needs a scriptas Kofi will abide your quiet audience. Francis will let you watch from the little wooden table while he skins and chops chicken in the afternoon light. It was Kofi who one day read from his script: A breeze had kept billowing it up. Francis finished breakfast and arranged it on a tray. As if on cue, Ruby came into the kitchen, chale-watas slapping the concrete. She stopped when she saw Comfort. You are very welcome home.

The swinging door flapped lightly back and forth, then shut behind her. Comfort turned to Francis, scratching the mosquito bite on her arm. Still thinks I can cook. She looked at you jealously. Go and get them. Appearing at the door. She looked up and frowned. The little flicker again. She went to the door, took the leaf from his hand. Comfort watched him go, rubbing her arm with the sap. Its one wall-length window overlooks the back garden, the three other walls lined with books. In the study — as in the parlour, as in the dining room, as in the drawing room — this furnishing serves to mute footfalls. The door was half closed when you came for the books.

The swinging door clapped shut as you bounded out of the kitchen. Up the staircase to the study, skipping every other stair. You were wondering what books Comfort had brought back from Boston, whether more Edith Wharton or your new favourite Richard Wright? The door was ajar but no sunlight spilled out of it. You approached and peered in the slim opening. The drapes were pulled over the window, uncharacteristically. A stack of glossy paperbacks beckoned by the tray. You assumed, perfectly logically, that Uncle had finished eating and left the tray for Kofi or Ruby to come collect. You pushed the door slightly and slipped in the slim opening, your feet sinking into the soft of the rug.

Uncle was in his chair, facing the window and drapes, gripping the edge of the desk with his fingertips. From your vantage behind him across the room in the doorway you could barely see Ruby between his knees. She was kneeling there neatly, skinny legs folded beneath her, her hands on his knees, heart-shaped face in his lap. The sound she made reminded you of cloth sloshing in buckets, as rhythmic and functional, almost mindless, and wet. Uncle whimpered bizarrely, like the dogs before beatings. For whatever reason, you stood there transfixed by the books. I love their style and elegance, but above all else I yearn for their beautiful black bodies.

They are so eminently gorgeous and sexual that my cock stiffens whenever I see them in the street or imagine them in my mind. My sexual appreciation of African womanhood began at the age of eighteen. I had gone to stay with Aunty Sarah in Lagos, Nigeria, while my mother was attending a business conference in Kenya. Aunty Sarah was not my real aunt, but I'd always known her by that name. She and my mother had been at university together in England, and had remained close friends throughout their lives. Aunty Sarah was divorced, thirty-nine, generous hips and breasts, lovely face and a very welcoming personality.

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Her home was large and sumptuous, with numerous bedrooms and eight servants. On my first day I rose early, showered and went African fucking aunties to hunt for some food. I found the kitchen and the cook provided me with an excellent breakfast. Just as I was clearing my plate the intercom buzzed. The cook answered it and then informed me auntifs Mrs Makeba — Atrican Sarah - would like to see me in her room. I was escorted upstairs by Molly, one of the maids, and led along several thickly carpeted corridors. We reached the room, the maid knocked, and we were bidden to enter.

Aunty Sarah was sitting up in bed suckling her infant daughter. Molly, please take this greedy little girl to the nursery, she's had enough for now. I still think of you as a baby. Give me a minute to get dressed and then we can have a chat in the drawing room. Aunty Sarah smiled benignly at my bungling attempt to appear worldly wise. Then, in an attitude of mock coyness, she placed her hands over her nipples and simpered: I stripped, and slipped into bed beside her, she cuddled me gently and guided my hands around her satin smooth body. My erection ached deliciously as I touched and explored her private, intimate places.