CHAPTER FIVE: WHERE SHADOWS BURN
1357 Words
The morning broke like cracked glass shards of light splintering through the curtainless window of Kwame’s room in Ashaiman. It wasn’t the sun that woke him. It was Kofi coughing again dry, raspy, persistent like a warning from the gods
Kwame sat up, the mat cold beneath him, his body still aching from yesterday’s hustle.
He looked around at his sleeping siblings.
Ma Abena had fallen asleep at the foot of her prayer mat, her Bible still opens on Psalm 46. “God is our refuge,” the page whispered.
But the house didn’t feel like a refuge. It felt like a battlefield with no end in sight.
Esi had wet herself in the night again. Kojo was kicking in his sleep.
Kofi lay on the edge of the bed, coughing into a rag that had turned a worrying shade of red.
“God,” he whispered. Not a prayer. A plea.
He checked his wallet. GH¢10.
Bread or cough syrup?
His stomach grumbled in protest, but his eyes drifted to Kofi. The boy’s chest rose and fell in uneven rhythms
“God, make it enough,” Kwame muttered. He dressed quickly, slipping out before anyone else stirred.
The cold kissed his skin like unpaid debts, and the morning breeze carried the scent of smoke, sewage, and fried akara from the junction.
Somewhere else, a preacher screamed through a megaphone. But here, in the space between need and duty, Kwame was silent.
Survival had a taste. Bittersweet and burnt
The campus was alive, but Kwame wasn’t. He sat at the back of the lecture hall, eyes dark hollows. The air was thick with the murmurs of half-slept students and cheap perfume.
There was a scent in the air of rain, change, or danger. Kwame couldn’t tell.
Ama was late to class, and his chest tightened with a familiar worry. He sat at the back, glancing now and then toward the door.
Then heels.
Click. Click. Click.
Kwame didn’t look up at first. But the room did. The sound echoed like power wearing stilettos.
That’s when she entered, sorry She walked in. Not entered. Walked in.
The heels came first black stilettos that tapped against the tiled floor like a countdown.
Then her scent was a subtle blend of vanilla and danger. And then... her presence.
She wore a wine-red fitted dress that wrapped her curves like molten silk.
A woman carved from sin and silk.
Her skin was a deep caramel, smooth and radiant under the fluorescent lights.
Her hair cascaded down her back in soft, luxurious curls, and her eyes were dark, lined, and Her dress hugged every curve like a second skin deep burgundy, slit at the thighs, neckline daringly low with the kind of softness that made you want to touch just to prove it was real.
She wasn’t just beautiful. She was well-packed.
The kind of woman who knew the power of her walk, her smile, her silence.
“Good morning,” she said, eyes sweeping the room like a queen surveying her kingdom.
“I am Ms. Serwaa. I’ll be your new Development Economics lecturer,” she said, voice like velvet dragging across skin.
Kwame sat up.
The boys in the room shifted in their seats. Some whistled under their breath. But Kwame... he didn’t move.
After class, as students swarmed her with questions they didn’t care about, Kwame tried to slip out. He failed
“Mr...?” Her voice curled around his name like smoke. Her lips were a shade of red that made thoughts blur.
He froze.
“Kwame,” he said, turning slowly.
“Ah, the quiet one,” she said, stepping closer. She was close, too close.
Her perfume made the air feel heavy. She circled him slowly, like a lioness appraising something wild but wounded.
She was shorter than he imagined but held herself like royalty. “You sat like you were thinking too hard. Or hiding too much.”
Kwame shifted. “I just prefer listening.”
She tilted her head. “Smart one.”
Kwame swallowed. “Thanks... Madam.”
She smirked. “I prefer Serwaa. Call me that next time.” Kwame placed the glass down, untouched. “I should go.
She smiled again. This time, with teeth. “I’ll let you. For now,”
He walked away, pulse unsteady, guilt already rising in his throat.
Ama waited beneath the neem tree later that afternoon, her smile soft as ever. She was wearing her usual navy skirt and old flats shoes that spoke of broken journeys.
Her eyes lit up when she saw him
“I missed you in the chapel,” she said
“I had to get medicine for Kofi,” he replied.
She reached into her bag and pulled out bread wrapped in a serviette. “I brought you this. You haven’t eaten, have you?”
Kwame’s throat tightened. Not just at the bread but at her.
He took it and nodded. “Thank you.
They sat in silence. Her hand brushed his accidentally. She blushed. He didn’t pull away, but his mind...
Serwaa.
The way her dress clung. The way she looked at him like a meal.
He felt dirty for thinking about it.
Guilty?, but intrigued
That night, the house was a furnace.
Kwame couldn’t sleep.
His body lay next to Kofi, but his soul was elsewhere.
He stared at the ceiling, watching shadows move, no lights, no fan, mosquitoes buzzed in swarms like curses.
Ma Abena was crying in her sleep again. Esi whimpered about broken pencils, Kofi coughed through dreams.
Kwame stepped out into the night.
He walked. Nowhere, just walked. Past bars filled with laughter he didn’t own.
Past lovers pressed against walls with hands exploring what hearts couldn’t hold.
Past church posters peeling from concrete like forgotten faith.
His phone buzzed.
Serwaa: “Couldn’t sleep. You?”
He typed, erased, typed again,
He paused, then typed: “No.”
Serwaa: “Come to my office. I’m still around.”
He hesitated. Then his fingers moved without permission.
“I’m on my way.”
The Economics block was dark except for one window lit by a warm orange glow.
He knocked.
“Come in.”
Her office smelled of jasmine and wine. Books lined the walls, but her eyes were on him.
“You’re restless,” she said.
“You called me.”
“You could’ve said no.”
He didn’t answer.
She stepped closer. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?”
“Trouble?” he half-joked
“No. A man pretending to be okay. But your eyes tell on you.”
She touched his chest with fingers hot even through his shirt. “You’ve got storm energy, Kwame. And I want to help you.”
She gave him a flash drive. Notes, she said. But she’d placed it in his palm like a secret. He stepped back. His jaw clenched.
Serwaa reached for her glass. Took a sip. Her lips were red, wet, and parted slightly.
“Relax. I don’t want to ruin you. I just want to taste the parts of you you’re afraid to show.”
Silence burned.
Then she whispered, “But not tonight. Go home. Let me haunt your dreams first.”
He did, but he didn’t sleep.
Ama’s voice echoed like prayers between the noise in his head.
Serwaa’s laugh lingered like sin on his skin
The next morning, Ama sat at the library steps, a book in her lap She looked up. Saw the change in his eyes
“You okay?
“Didn’t sleep well.”
“Nightmares?”
“Sort of.”
Kwame sat beside her, hands trembling.
Ama reached for his hand gently. “We can pray. Or sit in silence.”
He almost cried.
But didn’t.
Because behind her kindness now stood a shadow with red lips and wide eyes, waiting. And for the first time, Kwame wasn’t sure who he was praying to or for.
His phone buzzed.
Efua: If you need help, you know where to find me. Just don’t wait too long. This body doesn’t beg”
- Writer
