Turkana African Soul.
Black was the feminine darkness that caressed me every night. She could be voluptuous, velvet, and soft; that’s when I could smell her jasmine pepper-sweet body. But she could also be black ice, cold and sharp and unsympathetic to my whimpers and muffled groans on those close nights that choked me. She carried this distrustful sting of ambivalence even when she was running her long fingers of sweat through my tangled hair. I could have feared and hated her – but I didn’t: I loved her, and always would. She was my black spirit of sensual addiction. Her nightcaps were of sequins embroidered on rich velvets of dark plum, burnt caramel, and indigo. Colours dependent on the time of night, dust in the air, fires on the horizon, phases of the moon, lurking storm clouds – or simply the midnight closeness.
She was a Mephistopheles who kept strange company: arguing parents, barking dogs, the ghosts of distant hyenas, unknown owl calls, or the unsettling shriek of a bush baby in distress. Her smell then, was a fetid waft from a swamp – or was it that our septic tank was blocked? I used to ponder as to why our septic tank always belched at night, and never during the day.
Allan Taylor, author Luanshya musings