Amina soaps up her breasts, her thighs and her derriere.
Amina squats and washes her honey pot; it doesn’t produce much honey these days.
Amina washes the suds from her hair and skin. She has used the expensive rose-scented bath oil that Fiifi gave to her on her birthday. He likes it.
Amina dries herself off. Amina moves sluggishly, trudges on to THE room. Amina slathers something coconutty onto her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, her feet…
Now; Amina must wait…
Fiifi loves his wife, but she will not conceive. He needs his male child, little Bella is not enough; a man-child will marry her and his name will be lost.
But Amina will not get pregnant.
Fiifi shoves his man-stick into her honey pot and thrusts and wiggles and thrusts. Amina cannot feel the movement. She cannot feel the blood slithering down her chunky thighs. Now, she’s dead down there.
Amina used to scream, but no one came. Amina used to fight, but Fiifi would only shove and thrust; shove and thrust harder. He didn’t care that her honey pot no longer secreted honey. He was oblivious to the thick, red blotches of viscous blood-honey that replaced the honey.
Amina soaps up her breasts, her thighs and her derriere; Amina squats and washes her honey pot, which only produces blood-honey these days.
Amina washes the shame and pain from her skin and Fiifi’s sticky spittle from her mane.
Then she trudges on to THE room to lay by his side, praying that tonight, at 2.00am, she is already with male child; or at least some baby, who will be the Saviour to end a Madonna’s mortal misery.