He was wearing white underpants and a matching undershirt, stained yellow in the underarms with sweat.
On his feet he wore flip flops. He held a belt in his hand,
the brown leather one he'd bought for his nikka with the girl, and was wrapping the perforated end around his fist.
“It's your doing. I know it is,” he snarled, advancing on her.
Mariam slid out of her bed and began backpedaling. Her arms instinctively crossed over her chest, where he often struck her first.
“What are you talking about?” she stammered. “Her denying me. You're teaching her to.”
Over the years, Mariam had learned to harden herself against his scorn and reproach, his ridiculing and reprimanding.
But this fear she had no control over. All these years and still she shivered with fright when he was like this,
sneering, tightening the belt around his fist, the creaking of the leather, the glint in his bloodshot eyes.
It was the fear of the goat, released in the tiger's cage, when the tiger first looks up from its paws, begins to growl.
Now the girl was in the room, her eyes wide, her face contorted. “I should have known that you'd corrupt her,” Rasheed spat at Mariam.
He swung the belt, testing it against his own thigh. The buckle jingled loudly.
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