Monday, October 4, 2010

A Card Game (or "Aisha Khan & the Jinneh Who Devoured Women")


Sa turn la

Change tu


Hol bu hong-ha

Her heart exploding, a splash of red. Ice, all about her, slippery, yet somehow warm as fire. Say the word, Momodou Kabaa, and I am yours. Has she not said this a thousand times, in her actions alone? Yet Momodou Kabaa says nothing, continues to play these games, refuses to acknowledge his feelings. Is he really that slow?

Ice strong?

Very strong?

Still strong?

Didn't think so. And take two for cheating.

He picks up the four cards sheepishly, looking at her from under his eyelids. What shall I do with you, Aisha Khan? I wish only to save you, yet you still insist on hurling yourself straight at me, and at the death which awaits you in my hands. You do not know me, Aisha Khan. And he sighs.

Jump. Jump. Back to Me. Change to.


Tanki Pitah….

He sighs, she can see him sigh. What kind of man are you, Momodou Kabaa? Why do you carry such a heavy weight, why are you so unconfident? What kind of man are you, Momodou Kabaa, that you lack fit so, that you are so spineless? I am beginning to be impatient.

Play-al! ah!

Anh suma turn la?

Daydayt! Nga banya play rek!

She is impatient, and he knows why. And he is saddened. She doubts his manhood, probably, by now, he who is a stallion, a being of steel. He remembers the last one, how she screamed when he saw him as he truly was. He had changed, he had drunk of the waters of the zam-zam , and changed his name and his form, and spoken the shahaadah and renounced his evil ways. Yet always they made it so tempting to go back, to re-explore one's baser side, to follow shaytaan once more…

Take two. Foral nyaar!


Back to me. Last card.

Ice strong.

Dormi haraam!

Perhaps she was being too subtle. Perhaps she was going about this the wrong way. Many ways to capture a man, after all. She shifted a little where she sat, a loosening of position. Then she - surreptitiously as possible - opened another two buttons of her blouse and, removing her head tie, let her hair fall gently about her shoulders, wiggling her neck for exaggerated effect. Now let's see, she thought, what happens when I really turn the charm on.

Suma turn la darling?


Kon play-al. Y bull ma bomb deh baby.

Ah the fool, the fool! Momodou Kabaa thinks. Her voice - how can he withstand it, when it is like that, a soft breeze gently flowing just above the waters of the Nile, when he had visited long ago... He remembers this from the last girl - he remembers the climax of feeling, the orgasm of emotion. He starts forward, as if startled.

Lu hew baby?

Nothing. Maybe… dara. Play-al.

Day-dayt sa turn la honey. Acha play-al ma holl.

And she uncrosses her legs one way - a flash of thigh - and crosses them another. And she chews her gum slowly, invitingly… And then, when he has held himself in so hard he knows the tiniest of probes will make him explode, she winks at him. His rising and his scream, and his rush toward her, and her horrified woya-yooye are all one. And he is shouting


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