Рот Уайт - 400 Days of Oppression

In the kitchen, I made my own salad and ate quickly, making sure I was done before Angela was, so I could clear her dishes. She glared at me as I whisked in and out of the room. Occasionally, she treated me to more of her insights into my relationship with Kenyatta.

“You must enjoy being used like a piece of trash. I’m telling you, Kenyatta’s going to wipe his ass with you and toss you aside. He ain’t never marrying you, girl. You’d be better off sticking with them white boys. You know niggas ain’t shit. The only reason a guy like Kenyatta is interested in you is because he can do whatever he wants to you and you’ll put up with it. He knows he can’t treat no sister like this.”

It took great effort to hold my tongue. Obviously, the fact that if he was using me then he was using her too, had not yet occurred to her. He had brought her into this house to help prepare her successor, to spend every day with the woman he was fucking, the woman he was fucking even while Angela was right there in the house. It had to hurt. I could see her pain every time she tried to convince me to leave, every time she tried to break me, even while she was punishing me or using me for sex. The fact that Kenyatta had chosen another woman, a white woman, was an open sore on Angela’s heart.

I was in the kitchen, cooking dinner, when Kenyatta came home. Immediately, I could tell that something was wrong. He smiled at me as he rushed past me, pulled a beer from the refrigerator, then took it with him to the bedroom. I wanted so bad to ask him what was troubling him. Normally, I would have, but I didn’t dare with Angela there.

There was a baked chicken in the oven and mashed potatoes and corn on the cob on the stove. I worried for a moment that it would go to waste. Regardless of my worries, I continued preparing the meal. I set the dining room table, folded the napkins and laid out the silverware and plates. I stopped short of lighting a candle. There was no way I was going to prepare a romantic dinner for my man and his ex-wife.

It felt weird to think of Kenyatta as “my man,” but I felt more connected to him since the experiment began than I had at any other time in our relationship. I wasn’t sure what that meant for our relationship. For weeks now, he had been my Master. It was already getting hard to remember when I wasn’t his property, when I wasn’t a slave. I wondered how successful we would be at resuming our normal roles when the time came. If the time came.

Kenyatta came back downstairs wearing a robe and black and white checkered pajama pants. He sat down at the table and stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with both Angela and I. He barely seemed to notice we were in the same room. Angela sat down at the table across from Kenyatta, but didn’t attempt to speak to him. She fidgeted nervously in her chair, rearranging the silverware and trying to catch Kenyatta’s eye. Whatever he was thinking, Angela didn’t know any more about it than I did, and it was clear that she couldn’t handle being in the dark.

He finished his meal, and I quickly cleared the table. When he looked at me, there was a sadness in his eyes that ratcheted up my anxiety to nerve-rattling levels. Was he about to tell me this was all a big mistake? That the experiment was over and he was going back to Angela? I wanted to ask him what he was thinking so badly it was killing me.

He turned to Angela with that baleful expression and told her to go upstairs.

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“So you can fuck this slave in our house?”

“MY house and I’ll do whatever the hell I want in my house. You’re a guest here. Now go upstairs!”

Chastened, and clearly frightened of him, Angela left the room, casting one last hateful glance my way that promised retribution. I had never seen Kenyatta so forceful with her before, had never imagined that she would have stood for such a thing. I guess I believed the stereotype about black women not taking shit from anyone. Seeing Kenyatta dismiss her so bluntly was revelatory. I knew Angela would make me suffer for it, but I was far more worried about whatever was plaguing Kenyatta’s thoughts.

“Come here, Kitten.”

It felt like ages had passed since he’d called me kitten. Not since the night of the slave auction. My heart melted at the words, but somehow, hearing such endearing words come from his mouth deepened my fear. Why was he being so nice to me unless he were trying to soften a blow? I only hoped the blow would be physical.

“Yes, Master?”

Kenyatta smiled.

“Be my kitten tonight.”

I knew what he meant. I stripped quickly, tossing my clothes aside and dropping down on all fours. I purred as I rubbed my face against his pant leg and curled up at his feet. He patted his thigh and I climbed up into his lap, nuzzling my face in his neck as I continued to purr. I lightly clawed his back through his shirt. Kenyatta ran his hand from the top of my head to the small of my back, petting me as he held me in his lap. His eyes remained fixed on some distant thought, gazing across the room at the bare wall.

He held me like that for nearly an hour, before patting me on my head and sending me back into the kitchen to finish cleaning. I crawled in on my hands and knees, knowing how much it usually turned him on to see me crawl naked across the floor. His eyes followed me and I could see the lust in them, but it was almost obscured by the anxiety still clouding his expression. Something was definitely wrong with him. He was still watching me as I began washing the dishes. I was still unclothed, and usually watching me do chores naked would have been irresistible to him, but not tonight. When I turned back to look at him, after placing the last dish in the dishwasher, he had already left the room. Still confused and deeply concerned, I gathered my clothes and walked back out to my shack.

I was awakened by the morning sun beaming through the wooden slats of my shed. A sparkling white and yellow brilliance invaded my eyelids and my dreams, wrenching me from fantasies of domestic bliss back into my little backyard hell.

I had barely slept and felt exhausted. The previous night’s anxiety weighed on me. I could not stop thinking about Kenyatta, wondering what awful news was troubling him that would soon be troubling me. After quickly hosing myself off, I threw on my old rags and rushed into the kitchen to get breakfast ready.

Above me, I could hear Kenyatta and Angela arguing, but I couldn’t hear well enough to get what they were arguing about. I heard my name several times followed by exclamations like “Fuck that bitch!” and “Who cares where she goes!” That last one scared me most of all. Who cares where she goes? Where was I going? Was Kenyatta sending me away? Because of that bitch?

The argument ended, and I heard the shower turn on. I also heard the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. I wiped an unexpected tear from my eyes and tried to stop the trembling in my lips as I flipped pancakes and fried bacon. Angela sat down at the table with a smug expression on her face. At first I assumed it meant she had won the argument, then I noticed the pain in the creases of her smile, the jealous gleam in her eye, and I knew that, whatever she had wanted Kenyatta to do to me, she hadn’t gotten her way. There was so much naked hate in her expression that I couldn’t stand to look at her and kept my eyes averted.

Kenyatta came down next wearing a dark blue, pinstriped suit with a light blue shirt and a red tie. He looked like a politician. It almost made me laugh. Still, he looked damn good.

He kissed me on the cheek and playfully swatted my ass before sitting down at the table across from Angela. She was livid. I got the clear impression that she wanted to murder me in front of him, right there in the kitchen. I handed her a cup of coffee and braced for her to throw it in my face. A warning glare from Kenyatta was the only thing that saved me from a horrible scalding. But Kenyatta was leaving in a few minutes and once Angela and I were alone, I knew I was fucked.