Ghostwriting a Witch to tie the knot before Climax: A Violent Soap-Opera (II)

a gutting happens on stage. the witch, summoned 

                     from a dough — still belly ovoid with curse. 


yet, no canine pewed over it. Pa translates 

blood to mean ‘αίμα(aima), mouthwashing the verb 

       into a clean sport. This has been his love language:

tonguing Greek words — in the way I too have 


to lose a tooth in the utterance. the next


            ghostwrites the witch as a maddened apparition, 

driving nail into plywood to achieve sex.

all my lifetime, I am haunted by the footage of a ruffian — 

                       who prances across a courtyard to strike the 

German Shepherds by foot. They meal over him, 

        giving the audience a run for their legs.

say, you find harm to outpace. thank the fitness of foot. 

                          thank the femur & calcium that fills it with 

tonight’s horse race.

thank the sudden show off & accident of breath.

the witch ties the knot. her brooch flirting the 


              with goofer-dust unspooling from dress — as 

men chase the wild conffeti. It’s a rare sight having 

colored ribbons 

rain down our feet. shredded pieces,  

                  that ain’t the remains of a ruffian.

on the runway, 

I loved the witch to flowering. her groom lost his life 

in a cult clash, & I do not man up to break the news. instead, 

            I palm her a dagger — brightened on each neon lamp 

flaming this podium. instead, I teethe on her 

gown till 

winter wears me out. I come from a longline of bestsellers. 

             killing the villain role runs in the family. 


          I verb a hand, the filming grinds to a halt:

dagger-bright, with the protagonist — dead before climax.

I trail the blood down to the make-up artist,

& my witchcraft 

                             of a aunt denies me. I test the 


the hot sting of my voice, unfurling — in a way you 

         could mistake the chattering for chant.

the flatulence for flattened bodies. ricochet for rehab.

                          we make the news this way: swording 

                            our loins into perfection, playing dead on 

                            one knee — her lids, kicked open.

there’s a technical know-how 

                 to strip a witch in repose. her gum, coraled in 

                 glass—as our lips knead into each other for pleasure.

our groins: Siamese deity, sprouting a love protest — consummate 

for ritual. I claw her open,

                          freeze her womb: dream, cold in there as a fetus. 

                          we patch a purpose, as she grieved into me polished 

in blood. we held our guts to marriage. here, look how you 

ripen a curse. how inordinate — our demands.

[Nnadi Samuel (he/him/his) is a black African writer & graduate of English & literature from the University of Benin. Author of ‘Nature knows a little about Slave Trade’ selected by Tate.N.Oquendo (Sundress Publication, 2023). His works have been previously published/forthcoming in FIYAH, Fantasy Magazine, Uncanny Magazine, Strange Horizons, Timber Ghost Press, Haven Spec Magazine, Utopian Science Fiction, Penumbric Speculative Poetry & Fiction Magazine, SilverBlade Magazine, Liquid Imagination & elsewhere. A 3x Best of the Net, and 7x Pushcart Nominee. He tweets @Samuelsamba10.] 

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