He stared at her slight silhouette at the balcony as he walked slowly through the room towards her, wondering what was going through her mind. Was she aware of his approach? What did she make of it? He knew he had to do this, he’d been putting it off for weeks now, still that didn’t make it any more pleasant than it ought to be. He thought back now, to the night before their wedding, seated in his room with Miriam his twin “Go for her tomorrow night”, she’d said “no sense in dragging out what would still hurt. Give it when it’s expected it would be much easier to bear”.
Miriam had always been the blunter of the two, and almost always right. But he’d wanted more time, maybe when she’d grown to love him, yet time was not what they – well she – had. Besides, who knew if she’d ever love him or how long it would take? He reached her and slipped his arms around her waist, her midriff cool from leaning on the railing, and pressed a kiss to the base of her neck. “I want you” he said, feeling the breath hitch in her throat. He could’ve ordered her into bed, but he was trying to send a message; this is not merely an obligation, I really want you. She did not respond, didn’t turn to face him either and he felt his own breath hitch at his throat. He must have done it wrong. He should have begged, maybe that’s what she wanted, for him to grovel and plead. And he could do that; anything to ease the guilt. But before he could say please, she was turning, she was taking off her thin slip of a dress, and letting him do the rest. He was a little disappointed; he would have liked to beg. Beg until she agreed, until she said yes, or gave some semblance of approval. But now he was leading her back into the room shrouded in darkness – the lights would make things worse. He was pressing her unto the bed, the cool silky sheets swallowing her narrow frame, his lips trailing all over her body and all the while she did nothing. She did nothing when he took off the rest of her clothes, or when he took off his own. Even when he entered her, when he felt her wince in pain despite his gentleness, she did nothing and said nothing too when he asked if she was in pain. She didn’t move her body, the only things that would indicate the presence of life, were her sweat, breath and heartbeat, at least the last two were unsteady. He knew he shouldn’t expect a warm embrace, but she should’ve fought back, should’ve bitten him, torn at his beard or his hair, clawed at the skin on his arms or his back, anything but this; this cold reception.
When it was all over he drew her closer to him - he needed her nearness – and pretended to fall asleep, for that would be easier than leaving the room or trying to have a conversation. A few minutes later, she was sobbing against him, her tears smeared across his chest and he wanted to console her. Wanted to pull her closer, to stroke her hair and whisper soothing sounds in her ear for he had no words. He wanted to, but he could not – he was supposed to be asleep.
He was making breakfast when she came to stand at the kitchen door the next morning; call it a peace offering, an olive branch or trying to break the ice. But the look on her face told him it was futile, besides there was the fact that he didn’t know what she liked for there had been no one to ask. He ignored the frown on her face and kept slicing the tomatoes for the stew, prolonging the moment. She walked over to the island in front of him, letting it provide the distance for them “Good morning Sir”, she said, her voice rusty, a clear indication of yesterday’s meltdown. Not that he needed any, he was there in person. He was so caught up in her voice that he almost let the words they conveyed slip his notice, almost. “Not sir,” he replied “please call me Michael”. “Michael” she echoed as if tasting the word on her tongue, and he smiled at her. It was a wonder how they’d lived together for two weeks and she didn’t use his name. She knew it of course, but his mother had drilled into her ears on how he was to be addressed. With reverence and respect, the virtues of a true submissive wife, as if she herself had been nothing but that. “Please Michael, let me do it”, her voice soft but surprisingly firm, and he understood the unspoken words beneath them; your mother would not be pleased.
He looked at her then, her tall withering frame looked bent, as if in surrender. A tall glass of water Miriam had called her, as simple but not half as clear. In her eyes were a sadness he could not quite comprehend, for he was sure the anger there was for him, for last night. He resisted the urge to ask though, the fear of being ignored overriding his concern. So instead he dropped the tomatoes letting her take over, and took her place at the other side of the island. She cut her finger once, barely five minutes after she took over, then she cut her self again and he realized that he had to leave, for she was nervous from his presence and the intensity of his stare. So he gave, in his opinion, a lame excuse “I’m going to call Mother” he said, even though the food wasn’t ready, even though Nene was supposed to do it herself but she was busy with the food and he was sure she didn’t need the suffocating presence of either him or his mother. But she let him go, or she’d lose a finger before the meal was done.
His mother liked it when Nene woke her up “Gives me an opportunity to teach her while her brain is still fresh” she’d said when he’d queried her. But he suspected that it was more of an opportunity to spite her in the name of teaching her how to not be a village girl. He took a step into her room, the rebuke he was sure was on her lips died as soon as she acknowledged his presence, pardoning his intrusion of her privacy, but the frown creasing her forehead did not dissolve. “Morning Mommy, breakfast is ready” and he left before she could query him about his duties.
He supposed she got her answer anyway, for there was a little smile on her face as she ate, eyes flitting from Nene to him and back to Nene again. Zeroing in on her stomach as if she could see a child forming in there. He was sure she mistook the tension and awkwardness of their movements for embarrassment. That Nene’s refusal to meet his gaze was because she was shy, that the tightness of his features was due to repressed desire – well partly – and not discomfort. And at that moment, he felt like spiting at her for doing this to him, to them. For forcing them into this tight corner. For hoisting a village girl on him, just so she’d have grand-children because she felt she was getting on in years. How old was sixty-five anyway?
But he was more angry at Nene’s parents than his own. How could they let her go off to marry someone she didn’t know and at so young an age? He knew she had no self-will of her own, last night was proof, and it was their duty to protect her. But then what did they know? How could they when they had seven others and no money? And there his mother sat, looking like she had been served chocolate. She probably felt that waiting had helped. That Nene fell for him, or maybe she lowered her guard, and finally let him in. But Miriam was always right. He should have gone for her that night.
He reached for her again when darkness fell and they were trying fruitlessly to sleep. Again she did not refuse, did not object, did not fight back. And even though he tried to convince himself that it was for the best, that his mother would brand her a witch for not conceiving, he could not deny the fact that he enjoyed it. It would take three months for her to actually move a little, to respond to him, and nine more for it to become consensual. And that was not for lack of trying on his part. For he did try; tried to let her take the lead, to let her have some element of control. Like when he’d flip her over him, or place her hands on the waist band of his jeans, just to see if she’d move. But she’d do nothing. She’d lie on top of him motionless like a statue staring at the headrest over his head. She’d let her hands fall from his trousers, as if they had a will of their own, as if she had no control over them.
He’d find out years later of how she’d truly felt, when she discovered that she liked writing and when she let him read her work. He’d find articles, stories of that first night. Of how betrayed she’d felt by her body for feeling the way it did when he’d kissed her, when he’d taken her. How difficult it had been to keep that mask of composure during his ministrations. How new and frightening it had all been. Her amazement at his gentleness, at the pain of the intrusion, and her refusal to admit it when he’d asked. How he’d held her after it all, why she’d cried because it had all been so wrong, and how she’d dreamed that her first would whisper how much he loved her. He would see titles like Getting over My Rape or Living with Your Rapist and he’d feel sick at heart and in the gut. For he’d know that no matter what he’d do, no matter what would change, he’d always be reduced to that six letter word rapist. Even then he’d still feel the overwhelming urge to defend himself, to say that it was not actually rape, not really. For she did not fight back, did not say no, but she did not say yes either. He’d still know that it was what it was, for she did not give her consent, not really.