The Touch of a Man; Fiction by Ghanaian Writer Adwoa Amankwah

A box of biscuits sits on your father’s favourite center table beside the sofa. You take out a biscuit and it bites your tongue as you chew. The peculiar taste triggers the image of a vertically challenged man who gave it to you. The man who lives behind the wall that separated your house from his. The man whose voice would travel across the wall early in the morning, into your kitchen to draw out a smile from your little brother’s face. Your mother would affectionately welcome him into your home with a hot plate of the day’s supper on your father’s favourite center table. He would be seated on the sofa, his laughter loud enough to summon the rest of the family into his bosom.

Your brother adored him and would dance around him whenever they met. They would run around the living room, Tom and his Jerry. When he finds the opportunity, he would poke, push or pull your brother as payback in their cat and mouse game. Your mother would respond to the complaints from your brother and execute a playful warning. In his defence, he would explain that a boy should not become so frail and fat. Your brother would occasionally ask you if he was too fat or too tall for his age. You would tell him that whoever says that to him is only jealous and envies him. He would nod and smile and you would hug him tightly and wish that your love for him overshadows the world’s view of him.

On other days of his visits when he met your sister who had come home from school, he would squeeze her in an embrace. Your sister would try to wriggle out of his embrace whilst telling him to stop touching her. You would explain to him with an apologetic smile that your sister doesn’t feel comfortable with such close human contact. In the kitchen where you would be preparing the day’s supper, your sister would offer to assist you. She would reveal after a hearty conversation that this man would sometimes extend his hand from her shoulders to her lower back whenever he hugged her.

You had hoped that it was only you whom he did that to. You had feared that your sister would complain to your mother and so you would ask her if she had told your mother yet. She would answer that you were the only one she felt comfortable telling. You would nod and thank her for telling you. You would not tell her that you understood how she felt. You would not tell her about the day he had squeezed you in an embrace where your breasts felt like they would explode against him. You would force yourself to believe that he was unaware of the things he did. You would assure your sister that everything was going to be fine.

This man’s brother had also followed in his footsteps to become the family friend. He had a conventional look, one that came with a bible under his arm and a laptop bag hanging on his left shoulder. You had taken a special kind of liking to him. He would sometimes explain certain biblical concepts that you misunderstood, supporting them with his real-life experiences. You developed a warmness around him and came to accept the budding friendship that was slowly brewing between your sister and him. He would always pass by after work and check in on your family where he was also warmly welcomed by your mother.

The other day, he passed by from work, lamenting about some pains he had sustained from sitting for hours. Your mother suggested that your sister help him with a back rub. You raised your head to look at your mother’s face, hoping to detect a hint of jest but you saw none. Your sister complied. You stand up, mutter some words and walk to your room. You had hoped the distance would be enough to drown the sound of his groans but they were inescapable. The last time you found his head on your sister’s lap on the sofa, you did not make any scene. You asked your sister if she was alright. She shrugged.  You feared that you would conclude wrongly if you poked further. The happiness you saw on your sister’s face discouraged you from speaking about the unusual gifts he would give her.

Sometimes, this man and his brother would visit your home at the same time. As a form of shared banter between them, they would pass comments about your sister’s body and yours. Comments about how you’ve grown and gained weight in places they’d like to see on their women. They would give subtle warnings disguised as advice, cautioning you about the boys in school. You would listen attentively and smile defensively. Your sister would recoil from their inappropriate touches and you would only stare.

Your sister confided in you about a conversation she had had with him. You did not know what to make of it at first, although it had not come to you as a surprise. She had gone to his house to get something for your mother. She entered his room where she found him and his other brother who was not in the family friend group. This other brother met you in school some time ago. This man and his other brother were on an evangelical mission to win souls for the church they had just started. Your sister explained that after she entered the room she was left alone with him. She sat on the only sofa available in the room where he was seated. She went on to describe the way he inched closer to her with every word that left his mouth. You did not interrupt her story with yours like you usually did. You had remembered something; something about the last time you were left alone in the room with a man.

The exercise book in front of you was the only thing separating your hands from his. Your eyes followed your fingers as they traced the faint red line in the book. You did not want to meet the eyes of the man seated across from you. He was waiting for an answer to the question he had asked you. You paused because you thought you had not heard him correctly. He wanted to know if it was alright to kiss you. He repeated the question whilst he looked directly into your eyes. You felt something sink inside you. You thought it was romantic, the way he asked for consent, so you said yes. You waited for him to lean towards you but he didn’t. He stood up and walked to your seat, smiling. Such a gentleman, you thought. He held your hand and gestured for you to stand up. You did. Your lips met as your tongues gently greeted each other. Your mind started racing, so you pulled away. He held your chin and asked you to open your eyes.

 He asked if something was wrong. You shook your head, a little eager to continue the roller coaster you were on. His mouth was not the only part of his body you felt move; his left hand travelled from your lower back to your butt and gently squeezed them. You let out a soft moan mixed with an inaudible no. You did not pull away this time. His hand continued to travel and explore wherever it could, you allowed it to. This was the first time you had been touched delicately in this way. It was as if you came inside a box labelled, ‘Fragile. Handle with care’. You did not realize when you had taken a seat and you wondered how he came to kneel in front of you. Your dress was almost over your head when your mind finally registered what was about to happen. You did not hesitate to pull away. You shook your head and pulled down your dress. He smiled and apologized.

He sighed deeply. He wanted to know if you liked him. You said you didn’t know. He told you he really liked the nude pictures you had been sending him. You smiled shyly. He asked if he could see them for real this time. He teased your breasts through your clothes until his tongue reached your bare skin. You could smell a hint of mint as your hand ruffled through the waves in his hair whilst the other lingered on his back. Without warning, you felt three fingers pushed inside you. You moaned or was it a groan? You do not accurately remember how you left his room that day. What was still ingrained in your memory was the sharp pain that bolted through you as he continued to push them in and out of you. You remember telling him to stop. You remember him telling you to stop pretending.

You pretended to be shocked after hearing the words tumble out of your sister’s mouth. When she refused to sit on his lap and give him the lap dance he jokingly requested, you laughed with a bit of relief. She asked, angrily, why you were laughing as she narrated the ordeal she went through. You did not tell her the reason behind your laugh. You did not tell her that it could have been worse. You never told her the dream you had about her. The one where she was screaming for help because a man had locked her down with his weight. You were struggling to get him off her but you could not. You had never felt as helpless as you had been in that nightmare. Instead, you lied. You told her that you were laughing because you were proud of her. You told her that she could be a good storyteller one day if she would just read the novels your father had been buying for her. She chortled and you felt some relief. It meant that for now, everything would be fine.

Your father would be coming home today. It had been a month since you saw him. It had been a while since you saw your mother this happy. The day before your father’s arrival, she danced to Kidi’s Mon Bebe whilst your little brother cheered her on. You appeared out of the kitchen to witness the excitement on both of their faces. You asked what was going on. Your mother kept swaying to the music. Your little brother shouted, unable to contain his excitement, that your father was coming home. The smile that had stretched wide on your lips immediately contracted. You went back into the kitchen to continue cooking. When your sister got back from her errand, you told her the news. She dropped the shopping bag on the counter and left quietly.

The night of your father’s arrival was a restless one. You were all seated in the living room across from each other, barely awake at half past 10 when you heard a car honking. Your mother, who had been scrolling through TikTok, tapped your shoulders. She was already standing, you followed her outside to meet your father. The heavy silence that lingered between your parents was broken by your little brother’s entrance. You walked past them to retrieve your father’s luggage. The driver had already taken it out. When you attempted to take the luggage from him, he offered to take it inside. You thought you had imagined it, the way his hand lingered on top of yours.

When he was settled, your mother served him his favourite meal on his favourite center table. You escorted your siblings to their room. Not long after, you returned to a scene you could not find the words for. An image that would be forever engraved in your memory. Your father was standing a few inches away from your mother, panting. You followed his gaze to see your mother seated on the floor with her legs stretched. She had bowed her head, maybe, to hide the tears that were streaming down her face. You did not realize it at first, you still needed your glasses to see clearly even across from that distance. Your mother kept wiping something off her dress. You got closer. You could see her scrubbing off garden eggs stew just a little below her chest. There were pieces of boiled plantain lying beside her. You wanted to run to her but the scar behind your ear reminded you of the last time you tried to run.