Amanda Aboajewah Kingsley: Accessory
Meet Amanda Aboajewah Kingsley - a shortlisted writer of the Bad Form x Bad Love short story competition. Amanda wrote the short story Accessory, inspired by the following line from Bad Love:
“He was the colour of dark mahogany these days, strong and weathered but more beautiful for it, from weekend trips to sunnier climes throughout Europe."
Amanda Aboajewah Kingsley
Q&A with Amanda…
Why do you write?
I write to feel less ashamed about things I should never have felt shame for in the first place; to satisfy my curiosities; sometimes to persuade and advocate; and always for fun.
What's your secret talent that not a lot of people know about you?
A secret talent that not a lot of people know about me is that I'm a dancer.
If you could be one character who is considered a 'bad lover'/ relationship villain from books, TV or film, who would you be and why?
If I could be one character who is considered a 'bad lover' I'd be Ayoola from My Sister The Serial Killer. It's not that I want to murder shallow men... but I'd like to borrow some of her unmitigated realism.
Read Amanda’s shortlisted story below.
Accessory
He was the colour of dark mahogany these days, strong and weathered but more beautiful for it, from trips to sunnier climes throughout Europe. Without me. His apology message invited me to a dinner he apparently had not reserved. Awe and envy fought over me as I watched him wrangle us a table in the restaurant, while those ahead of us had been swiftly turned away. I hated his natural distinction. The easy elegant manner in which he made inconvenient requests. Bitterly, I descended into the dim-lit seating area behind him. In the reflection of the mirror above the stairway, I glimpsed his bald head, shiny and black in the low light, like a small oil spill. I paused to look at myself. My eyes were drawn first to my nipples gently pushing through the layers of my chiffon blouse, then the crease in my skirt where I tucked it between my thighs on the train. I succeeded in flattening it out a bit with my hand. I noticed that I am darker, weathered too, darker even than him, but not more beautiful for it.
The capitulator is reading him the specials as if it is understood that women attached to men do not own money or stomachs. I wanted to inform her that behind his professional authority and worldly charm, he is a weakling who wipes his stinking ass with his principles to slip between the legs of underage girls. I would tell her that on his trips, he likes to keep the children in filthy flats where you can hear the ragged claws of rats scuttle across the floors over muffled whimpers. I would not tell her I am his wife, because she would ask me why I stayed with him. Instead I tell her the salmon sounds good.
When she takes our menus, he reaches for my hand across the table. Thank you for coming, Adjoa. I let him graze a finger and then quickly busy my hands with the crease in my skirt. Feeling slighted, he curtly reminds me I am free to go; he is not holding a gun to my head. I should take the out - leave him and turn him in to the police. Instead, I reflexively reach back for his hand and carry on. The reality of freedom grounded me, and the extent of my self-loathing easily accommodates the guilt of my complicity. I know tonight I will let him move inside me, concealing the weapon with my body. And in the end, when they arrest him, and I finally “break my silence”, I will have deleted his apologies, telling them that I was terribly naïve and I did not know.
