A Killing in the Sun by Dilman Dila

Author:Dilman Dila [Dila, Dilman]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: a killing in the sun, dilman dila, speculative fiction, science fiction, magic realism, short stories, horror, 2013 commonwealth short story prize shortlist, folklore
ISBN: 9780987019875
Publisher: Black Letter Media
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

A Wife and a Slave

Kopet sat on the papyrus bed, watching his wife sleep. He had not touched her in five years. The last time he tried to kiss her, she had reported him to the abasura and they had jailed him for three days of hard labor. He ogled at her breasts. They rose and fell with her breathing. She snored lightly, oblivious to the noise of the waking Pyramid, to the crowing of electronic roosters, the flapping of ornithopter wings, the blaring of angry horns. The sun flowed in through cracks in the window, making her face glow with a love she could no longer give, filling the room with the warmth that she had failed to provide.

The wine had made him oversleep. He wanted to take a bath and rush to work, but he could not bathe himself. His wife had to do it. He tugged at the goatskin blanket to awake her. It slid off her body. She did not stir.

“Akello,” he said.

She did not respond. He grabbed her shoulder, and shook her. Still, she did not awake. Her skin was so smooth it felt like shea nut butter. She once had a light color, a golden brown like fried chicken, but she had used Kalo lotion to darken it into the fashionable, pure black of coffee. It gave her a glossy texture, a perfect look, like the surreal models in the magazines. His fingers ran over her skin, causing desire to rush through his veins like the rapids of the Nile. But he quickly withdrew his hands to stifle the temptation he felt rising in him. He did not want another three days of hard labor.

He crept off the bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. He locked the door, masturbated, and then took a quick shower. He walked back to the bedroom a short while later, towelling his body, she was awake. Panic showed on her face. She fell on her knees.

“My husband,” she cried. “Please forgive me. I overslept. Why didn’t you awake me?”

He hated that she no longer called him by name, that she knelt whenever they talked. He hated that she was no longer his lover. He wanted to tell her that he had enjoyed bathing on his own, but such a statement could send him to jail.

“You needed a rest,” he said, forcing a smile. “But you can still dress me.”

He sat on a three-legged stool. She hurried to a giant reed basket to choose his clothing. He eyed her with a mixture of hatred and longing. She was naked. Her ebony hue glowed in the warm beam of sunrise. Her lips were thick and inviting, her nipples fat and juicy. Though she had four children, she still had the voluptuous curves of a teenager. The sight tortured him. He could ogle, but not touch.

He glared at the mural opposite him. It covered every inch of the wall. He blamed it for destroying his marriage. He often wanted to rip it off, but that would send him to the firing squad.

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