2 Pieces by Nkem Chukwumerije
Learning to forgive
I'd said we should throw a party. An afrobeats-themed one. I'd wanted the shaking and deep undulations of lower backs and soon-to-be-sore calf muscles. Not just mine but everyone's. I'd wanted dancing. You’d thought we should take it down a notch, that the noise would be too high and the people too sweaty. I remember clearly, I looked at you, the silence between us mocking our frigidity. I'd thought you were trying to spite me, to see if I'd say something. Or maybe do something. I continued to look at you, fingers clicking in my head, pulling together the letters that formed your face at the time. Bony and sharp, pointing right at me. I was already writing about you, creating a narrative and forgiving myself for hating you. It was already happening, and still I could feel your density knocking me over every time you came into the room. So, I'd leave the room and sit myself still, like a boulder deeply rooted. Opaque and obscure and with unsound mind. Now flashes of you run across my memory, the last breath on your lips and your life in my hands. I'm still working on forgiveness.
Sticky mind, swollen eyes
What I have seen is true. Let’s replay. We’re leaving the house at 8 o'clock. I run back inside because I forgot my phone. The doorknob is sticky when I shut the door and the air smells a little of mold. My footsteps in the house shout at the bare walls; we hadn't put up any artwork yet. I look around our bedroom and see that a drawer is open. The wheels get caught when I try to shut it. Also sticky. I hear buzzing under the covers and find my phone. My husband tells me to come downstairs, that the others won't wait for much longer.
Shattering glass catches my attention. Where the fuck are you?! Devin booms from across the yard. I watch him. He darts past the window like a bolt of lightning, striking his whole house with intensity. The lights are off around me, so I know he can't see me. He pulls the bed by its legs away from the wall, grunting a deep something. A few dogs mishear and start barking in response. Otherwise, the navy-blue night is calm and I hear only the car running downstairs. Devin drops to the ground and scuttles to the side of the bed. The room is still and I’m still watching. The dangling lamp switch casts an elegant shadow on the side of the room I can see. My phone buzzes again and I jump. I turn to leave and hear a loud shriek. My knees double and I hear my husband shut the car door. He caught me before I hit the floor, he tells me now. He keeps crying crazy, like what you saw must be a dream. But I’m ten words away from another replay. So explain that.
Nkem Chukwumerije (she/they) (IG @naturallyfree123) lives a nomadic lifestyle as a writer and writing teacher, currently in Mexico. She works with writers from around the world through the wellness-through-writing platform she runs (www.wellspringwords.love), and through her writing coaching programs. More of her writing, and work, and features can be found on www.bynkem.co.