What Storm, What Thunder by Myriam J.A. Chancy

Author:Myriam J.A. Chancy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harper Perennial
Published: 2021-08-02T00:00:00+00:00

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The night it happened, something worse for me even than Douz, that would mark and change me even further, forever, I had forgotten about Junior grabbing me on the winding path of the camp, a few weeks after we’d gotten there, after the earth had swayed, destroyed Tatie’s house and swallowed her up in it. I had forgotten about how he had shown up in the club and taunted me aggressively, his eyes full of fire. I had forgotten what he’d said about Sonia and the likes of her, meaning that one day, I would have to give in to someone like him, that I didn’t have a choice, would have no choice. It was spring already; some months had passed, and we were getting used to our new life in the camp, Sonia, Mama, and me.

We usually went in twos to the latrines at night, but nothing had happened for a while and the latrine ditch was not far from us. I walked alone toward the ditch, finding it in the dark by its stench. When I was done and walking back, someone, a man, grabbed me in the dark, lifted me off the ground and carried me away. There were many hands. One over my mouth and another around my waist. Two holding my feet and two more holding my hands. I fought against them yet marveled at how one man could be an octopus. But there were three of them. They stuffed a dirty cloth into my mouth so no one could hear me scream. Two held me down while the third tore off my underthings. They were stronger than I could be. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. In the soaps, even when a man does something like put a substance in your drink, there is love and there is fire. Here, there was only fire, a burning as they tore through me and discharged themselves of something more burning than fire. Kadejak. My mind reeled. Rape. It was happening to me. I could not do anything, my hands held back above my head, my legs held apart. When the first one trembled into me, writhing and moaning, he whispered in my ear: “Thought you could get away? I can do whatever I want with you. We own this camp. Bitch.” He spat out the last word with emphasis, as if he’d practiced. The voice was Junior’s. He stank of sweat and urine and something else I would later come to identify as the seaweed-like scent of semen. They stank of feces, as if they’d all three been hiding in the latrines, waiting for whoever came that way; that night, it happened to be me.

Junior stopped talking and did to me what he’d been wanting to do since the night at the club. He was brutal in the delivery of his desire, as if he wished me to know down to my marrow the depth of his humiliation at being refused. The

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