Fiction by Denoo Edinam Yawo

My date was rubbing his penis in slow strokes. We were seated at the back of… ‘restaurant’ isn’t quite fitting for what this place is. A joint, maybe? Yes. A joint. We were seated at the back of his favourite joint—Amenuveve Pork Palace—hidden by the low lights and the absence of people.

I have been in Ho for nearly half a decade and did not know this place existed until he came along. I digress. My date had his penis out. In public. My date was stroking his penis and forcing my hand—fingers pressed against my wrist, fingernails digging in, almost drawing blood. How did I find myself in this predicament?

Ah, yes. I met him a month ago while I was walking under a rainy night sky, looking for food to eat. It was hala week—I had no money, no food, freshly evacuated from my place of stay because my landlord did not know the difference between jokes and boundaries. His hands were always finding a part of my body to hold—my waist, my arms, my face. He laughed when I told him to stop or when I moved away because he stood too close. I did not want to stay and find out how long it could take for politeness to alchemise into permission and new accommodations were either difficult to come by, or difficult to afford. Now, if you are a student and you stay at Dave, you know the town is averse to nightlife. With the rain threatening to fall, it was going to be a Herculean task to get food. He was standing by the only Kebab joint at the junction, sharing jokes with the seller. I passed by without greeting, and was about to step onto the road to cross to the other side when he called me.

“Hello, madam,” which turned into “aunty,” which turned into “hello sister,” before I looked back to acknowledge him. I was irritated (not because of him; a hungry man is an angry woman, after all. Or however the saying goes), and did not bother to hide it.

“I am sorry for disturbing you, please. I want to talk” (why do people say ‘they want to’ when they could just do? You are talking, are you not?).

I stared at him, hoping he would be fast. I decided to leave the hostel without an umbrella, and although it was just drizzling, I was not about to be soaked for his sake. I declined when he extended his umbrella towards me.

“How are you?” he asked, smiling. I urged him to make it quick. Couldn’t he see the weather?

“I have been seeing you around,” he continued. “I thought you were at Dave Top. Did you move to the hostel?”

“How do you know that?”

“You are hard to miss”

Hard to miss. Yeah, right. People are hard to miss when they are visibly spectacular, loud and asking to be seen; not students who are broke, lacking sleep and fighting for their GPAs. When I probed further, it became clear he had successfully mapped out the route from my classes to my old hostel and the current hostel I was perched at (God abeg). This is what happens when you attend a university that has three different campuses embedded right in the heart of town. I made a mental note to find new routes. I know they say “you never know who is watching,” but this was stalking. This counts as a red flag, right?

“I want your number.” I gave it to him because arguing would have required more energy than I had. Getting the number was easy, but getting me to pick up is where the extreme sport begins. He shouted, “I will call you!” and I hissed under my breath.

An unknown number called me that night. I did have a feeling it was him but I picked up just to be sure. The conversation was straight to the point. He liked me. I pulled a response from my bag of dodging tactics, “I already have a boyfriend.” His response was something I had never heard before. Growing up, telling someone you had a boyfriend was enough for them to leave you alone. It wasn’t working anymore. Maybe I should start telling men I’m married with two kids.

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” came his response. “Why don’t you date both of us and choose the best between the two of us? Who knows, I might be the better one.” The question I asked him before blocking him was this: “Would you expect me to do this to you if I were your girlfriend?” his response: “You wouldn’t do that to me. I know you’ll be loyal to me.” (As how? God abeg)

♦

“Just touch me. Please, please, please.” He wrestled with my hand for a minute, convinced that was the only way to get his erect penis to “calm down” was if I just touched him. I should have left then. It is the sensible option after all. But if you live in Ho and you’re familiar with Powerhouse, you know that finding a needle in a haystack is an easier task than getting a Pragya to drive you back to town at 10 pm. It was my fault for agreeing to a date at 9 pm. Who goes on a date at 9 pm? An idiot, that’s who (God abeg).

♦

Two weeks after blocking him, I met him in front of the pharmacy opposite my newly rented apartment. He was about to enter his car when I passed by. He caught me in a good mood, so I turned when he called me. His first words were, “Please unblock me. I want to talk.” I actually laughed, which prompted him to join in with me. He gave me his number again, and against my better judgment, I unblocked him. (As per the idiot that I am) He called that evening, asking to see me in front of the pharmacy at 8pm. It was 9 pm before he actually showed up. He arrived, opened the passenger’s seat, and asked me to hop in—no prior notice, no mention of where he was taking me. I got angry at his audacity and once again blocked him and left him there. How then did I end up in this predicament? Easy. I was stranded at Trafalgar. Every Pragya I stopped did not want to go to Fiave. It was the first day of a three-day church crusade, and being the assistant organiser for the School Chaplaincy Board, I was responsible for the décor—white and orange linen drapes, two rolls of satin ribbons, plastic flowers and a small box of push pins—all stacked up at my house. I had the material for the décor kept in my house. Time was ticking, and there was no end in sight to the number of no’s I was getting. He arrived, like a knight on a ridiculously tall motorbike, and asked me to hop on. I did. Lord knows I shouldn’t have. But I was late, and here he was with an offer. He took me to the church and back on all three days after we agreed on the time.

I was touched by his generosity and decided to unblock him. “He might not be bad after all,” I told myself. He asked me out on a date, and I said yes. We had scheduled the time for 7 pm, but rescheduled to 9 pm after something came up on his end.

He arrived at 9 pm on the dot with his bike, and we were off to what he said was his favourite place.

“They make the best pork in Ho.” Being a pork lover, I was instantly hooked. This was how we arrived at the Pork Palace, seated in the dark, while most clients were seated outside enjoying the live band and pork show.

The conversation started with what he did (a mechanic), to what he loved doing for fun (joy rides around town), to what I was studying (Pharmacy). After the beer had loosened his tongue, he burped: “I told my wife about you”.

I choked on my drink. He was unfazed. He went into a monologue about how he fantasised about having sex with me, the various positions he would put me in, and how just by looking at my behind, he was convinced I was a woman with a high sex drive just like himself, but I was stuck on the thought that this man was a married man. I was on a date with a married man. (God abeg)

“You are married?” I asked when I found my tongue. He looked angry.

“Why are you behaving like that? What if I didn’t tell you?” I kept looking behind to see if anyone was coming to pour a bucket of acid on me. Is this how my life ends? Being on a date with a man I didn’t know was married?

“Besides, she knows I’m here. I told her about you.” (As how? God abeg, make nothing do me). This man is insane. He’s mad. Is he hearing himself?

“And what did she say?” I asked out of curiosity.

“She agreed to my coming here. I respect my wife. But the problem is she can’t keep up with me. Especially after having the child.” If I didn’t die by acid, I would definitely die by choking. I was coughing out the water I just gulped down.

“You are a father?!” I ask after finding my voice.

He happily takes his phone to show me pictures of his baby girl. “We share the same birthday. January 13th.” This idiot left his wife, who had just given birth, to find someone to sleep with. I had half the mind to slap him. “When did you get married?”

They married a year ago, his wife gave birth early this year, and he was here trying to make me a second wife. He got into another monologue about how he was a man and needed constant sex to be happy. And how, when he saw me on campus, he knew I was the one.

I was furious, thinking about ways to leave the joint in one piece when he held my hand forcefully, and that’s when I realised this man had his entire penis out and was stroking it. The waiter chose that moment to bring my order, and this man moved the table covering with his spare hand to hide it. After the waiter left, he went into the tussle of getting my hand to touch him. When he realised from how firmly I kept my arm rigid between us that I would not budge, he let me go. I asked to be taken home.

“Why? I wanted to take you to my place.” God forbid. I picked up my order of pork and chips and waited for him outside.

During the ride home, he tried to move my hands from his waist to his crotch. Once he stopped, I run out of the car. I crossed the road, past the pharmacy, through the two houses, and did not stop until I reached my door.

My hand fumbles for the key inside my bag. When I finally grab it and turn to unlock the door, my hand just…hovers. The key never meets the lock. My door is resting at an odd angle, its weight carried awkwardly by one strained hinge. The wood around the handle is splintered. My heart skips, then it begins to pound. I take a breath and step back. I look around. Out of the three houses next to mine, two have lights glowing, with all three doors intact. Nothing else looks disturbed. I swallow and look again, half-expecting my door to correct itself. I reach out and push gently, my heartbeat growing so loud it fills my ears.

I am greeted with the absence of my brown L-shaped couch. The place it occupied is now a hollow
rectangle on the floor, outlined with dust. Panic begins to fold in my stomach. For a few minutes—seconds? —I am rooted to the spot. Goosebumps race the length of my arms. My eyes move without my body following. The fridge is missing. The television, along with its stand, is missing. I’m still standing there, turning slowly, trying to take inventory of what’s left, when a new thought cuts through the panic. Where is Joanita? When I hear footsteps behind me, a part of me is relieved, thinking it is her. She must have stepped out, she must have—

“Jo, are you—” my voice breaks. The person before me is the last person on earth I want to set my eyes upon.

“What are you doing here?” His eyes move past me, scanning the apartment. “Oh,” he says lightly. “What happened?” He steps into the room, and I take an involuntary step back. My loafers caught something on the floor.

God abeg now. This can’t be happening to me.

What now? Why did this idiot follow me home? What have I brought onto myself? Did he follow me in hopes of finishing what he started at the restaurant? Where was my roommate anyway? Why was everything falling apart, and why did I have a pervert to witness it all? Should I scream? Is this the part where I knee him in the groin and shout for help?

God abeg.

Bio
Denoo Edinam Yawo is a Ghanaian poet/writer whose work delves into themes such as body, the politics of language, spirituality and faith at the intersection of living. She is a 2025 Black Atlantic Residency Fellow, an alumna of the 2025 CAINE Online Editing Program, and the 2025 Johannesburg Institute of Advanced Studies (JIAS) Creative Writing Workshop for Emerging Writers. She is the winner of the New Voices Poetry (2025), the 2024 Second Runner Up and the 2025 First Runner Up of the Adinkra Poetry Prize. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming in Rowayat, Kalahari Review, Akpata, Akowdee, Hummingbird, and elsewhere.