Excerpt from Back Home Abroad and Other Stories by Pede Hollist

In the subdued illumination of a hotel room in downtown Atlanta, fifty-year- old Nambi from Sierra Leone suspected the younger white man with disheveled blonde hair had an unusual fixation with her feet. He carefully twisted her left leg and traced his fingers along the brown-black scar on her calf, a remnant from when her family fled the chaos of Sierra Leone’s Civil War.

Nambi recalled how the explosion had thrown her to the ground. Ahead, she had caught sight of her sister’s thin ankles, her mother’s swollen legs, and the white canvas shoes of her father engulfed in the smoke. As she began to crawl towards them, another flash and the deafening blast sent pieces of limbs, bones, and debris cascading around her. That traumatic scene marked the end of her memories with her family.

A woman who had witnessed the tragedy hoisted Nambi to safety. For the next ten days, as they trekked to Kenema, she treated Nambi’s injuries. "They need air to heal," remarked some of the arriving stragglers. The woman applied ointments to the deep wound on Nambi’s leg but left it uncovered. "No," others argued, "wounds should be protected from infection." The woman bandaged it, but it became infected. Bacteria invaded the tissues, ultimately resulting in the concave scar that almost consumed her left calf. Years later, when the self-conscious teener lamented the imperfection on her young body, the woman who had rescued her chastised, "Do you want to exchange positions with them?"

"No!" Nambi had no desire for her family’s unfortunate fate.

Surprisingly, she felt fortunate as the man continued to knead her scar as if attempting to bring back her lost flesh, and as their bodies intertwined, she experienced a stirring pleasure. But an hour later, as the man’s pale form lay sleeping next to her, she felt isolated and unfulfilled within the chill of the hotel room.

How had she ended up entangled with this stranger? Anxieties surged in her, prompting her to bolt to the window. She opened the curtains slightly to let the vibrant Atlanta night illuminate the space. The view and the flow of red- taillights on the I-285 revived her spirits, inciting a strong desire to leap down the stairs, hop into a car, and embrace the journey ahead.

Yet, she found herself in this morally ambiguous situation with a man whose surname she did not even know.

Was this encounter reckless retaliation against her husband, Big Man, for his unfaithfulness? Was it the much-talked-about liberation that others in her neighborhood had recommended? Would this act alter the dynamics of her marriage? She was uncertain.

Just as Nambi settled back under the heavy duvet for a clearer reflection of her position, the man’s phone began to ring with a cheerful tune.

"Waka-waka baby, oh yeah. corner-corner baby, oh yeah. chuku-chuku baby, oh yeah. sawa-sawa sawale. sawa-sawa sawale. Ashawo!"

A frown creased her brows as the catchy ringtone from a song about a Lagos sex worker repeated until the man awoke, reached across her form, and picked up the phone from the nightstand.

"Hello," he muttered into the receiver. "Yes, this is he." His hand slipped beneath the bedcovers, searching for and massaging Nambi’s scar. "Oh, no," he suddenly jumped from the bed and dashed into the bathroom. Nambi could only hear muffled sounds of his distressed voice from within.

As she awaited his return, her thoughts wandered to the woman who had fostered her. That woman had leveraged the rescue to justify every aspect of Nambi’s life: the hard floor she slept on, her second-hand clothes, the few chicken gizzards she consumed, and the older man presented as her suitor just three months before her university entrance exams. He was thirty years her senior. When she protested, the woman insisted, "Do you want to trade expertise with them? Accept him now. He will transform your life."

Nambi acquiesced to marrying Big Man, enticed by the generous bride price that any reasonable single parent could not reject. He was a Christian, well- connected to health officials, and a key supplier for legitimate and illegitimate medical supplies to both government hospitals and fictitious clinics on paper. More significantly, as she argued, he aspired to a political career and needed a young, submissive spouse to enhance his image.

"Take good care of him. Treat him like your master, and blessings of children and joy will follow you," the woman had whispered just before Nambi was whisked away to her honeymoon in an S-Class Mercedes. That fleeting endorsement, the only bit of reassurance she received from her, eased the restless bride’s nerves. It became the balm she relied on to mitigate the discomfort of his bulk on their wedding night.

"Ouch." She convulsed.

"Hush. Embrace it now," she forced herself to stifle the pain. His desires became her own, along with his companions and lifestyle; she became an extension of him.