Mla Myama

The knife slid through the goat's neck with a wet, effortless sound Maya had heard a thousand times before. Blood splashed onto her bare feet, still warm. She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, smearing sweat and the coppery scent of slaughter into her skin. Her younger brother, Jomo, tugged at the carcass with impatient hands—breakfast wasn’t going to cook itself.

Across the dirt yard, their mother squatted by the fire, grinding spices between two stones. The rhythmic scraping paused as she glanced up. "Not too much fat left on that one," she said, nodding at the goat. Maya didn’t reply. They both knew what that meant—another trip to the market, another hunt.

The tourist buses rolled in by mid-morning, packed with pink-faced foreigners clutching cameras like sacred objects. Maya leaned against the market stall, arms crossed, watching. They moved in herds, these ones, their sandals kicking up dust as they gaped at the handwoven baskets and beaded necklaces like children at a carnival.

Then she saw him. White shirt straining over his belly, sweat patches darkening the fabric under his arms. American, definitely. Rich enough to eat well but soft enough to go down easy. Maya adjusted the strap of her dress, letting the fabric slip just slightly off one shoulder. His gaze lingered a second too long. Perfect.

Jomo caught her eye from where he crouched by the water jugs, already knowing the game. He gave her the slightest nod before slipping into the crowd—they'd need the bigger knives from the back stall. Maya stepped forward, letting her hips sway just enough to catch the man's attention again. "You look thirsty, bwana," she said in that sweet, lilted English tourists loved.

Up close, his skin smelled like sunscreen and something fermented beneath—beer sweat, probably. His fingers were greasy from the samosas he'd been eating, leaving prints on the bottled water she handed him. "How much?" he asked, already pulling out a wad of crumpled bills. Doug, his nametag said. Volunteer coordinator. Maya swallowed the laugh bubbling in her throat.

Behind him, the butcher's tarp flapped in the midday wind, revealing a glimpse of Jomo sharpening the machete by the stump. The American didn't notice. Too busy staring at her collarbone. Maya smiled wider, letting her teeth show. "Come," she said, touching his damp wrist lightly. "I show you better prices in the back." His pulse jumped under her fingers. Hungry and stupid—the best kind.

The narrow path between stalls was shaded by stretched burlap, smelling of dried fish and turmeric. Doug stumbled once, his sandal catching on a root, and Maya caught his elbow, steadying him. His skin was fever-warm. "Careful, bwana," she murmured. The scent of his sweat sharpened—nervous now, but not suspicious. Not yet. Ahead, Jomo's shadow flickered between the hanging gourds, already moving to block the exit.

The clearing behind the market was empty except for the flies buzzing over last week's stains. Doug blinked, his smile faltering as he took in the rusted hooks dangling from the baobab branch. "Uh, where’s the—?" Maya stepped close, pressing the water bottle back into his hands. His throat worked as he swallowed. She could see the exact moment he registered the weight of the machete in Jomo’s grip—his pupils swelling like black ink in milk.

Jomo didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The machete’s edge caught the sunlight as he stepped forward, and Doug’s breath hitched, wet and ragged. Maya exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders. She’d been right—he’d taste like salt and fat. Her mother’s voice echoed from the yard: *Don’t let the liver spoil this time.*

Doug’s hands trembled around the water bottle. "Wait," he choked out, the word thick with spit. Maya tilted her head, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobbed. Tourists always begged. It was almost boring. Jomo circled behind him, boots crushing dried blood into the dirt.

The first swing was clean. The machete bit deep into Doug’s thigh, and he screamed—a high, keening sound that sent birds scattering from the baobab’s branches. Maya caught him before he fell, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of his upper arm. His blood splattered hot across her bare feet, familiar as monsoon rain.

"Shhh," she murmured against his ear as he thrashed. Jomo wiped the blade on his shorts, already reaching for the rope coiled at his belt. Doug’s breath came in whistling sobs, his fingers clawing at her wrists. His wedding ring left a thin scratch on her skin. She licked it away, metallic and sharp.

Jomo looped the rope around Doug’s ankles, pulling tight. The American’s pants were soaked—urine or blood, it didn’t matter. They’d rinse him in the river before butchering. Maya crouched, pressing her palm to Doug’s heaving chest. His heartbeat fluttered like a trapped bird. She hummed, low in her throat, the same tune her mother sang when plucking feathers from a hen.

Behind her, Jomo tested the hook’s weight, his shadow stretching long over Doug’s bloated face. The flies were already gathering. *Wasteful,* Maya thought, plucking one from Doug’s eyelid. She pinched its wings off before dropping it into the dirt. Jomo grinned, teeth white against the dust.

"Quick now," Maya said, standing. The sun climbed higher, baking the clearing into something sticky and bright. Doug whimpered, his mouth moving soundlessly. She wondered if he’d scream again when the hook went in.

Jomo spat into his palms and hefted the machete. Maya stepped back, her toes curling in warm blood. Breakfast wouldn’t cook itself.

Doug’s scream cut off abruptly as the blade found his throat—a wet crunch, like splitting ripe jackfruit. His body jerked, then stilled. Maya caught the severed head by its sweaty hair before it could roll into the dirt. The eyes were still blinking. She held it up to the light, inspecting the slack jaw. Good teeth. Mother would use those.

"Fat," Jomo grunted, wiping gore from his forearms as he knelt to slit Doug’s shirt open. The belly spilled out, pale and glistening like the underbelly of a catfish. Maya pressed two fingers into the yielding flesh, nodding. Enough marbling for three pots of soup, maybe four if they stretched it with yams.

Behind them, the market’s noise continued—laughter, haggling, the rhythmic thump of cassava being pounded. No one glanced toward the clearing. Maya reached into Doug’s gaping abdomen, her hand emerging slick with viscera. She sniffed the liver, then tossed it to Jomo. "Not swollen. No disease."

Jomo caught it one-handed, already reaching for the burlap sack. Flies lifted in a buzzing cloud as they worked, their hands moving in practiced tandem—sinew parting like wet paper, joints popping loose with twists of the wrist. Maya’s knife scraped against ribcage as she freed the heart, still twitching in her palm. She bit into it, hot blood running down her chin. Iron and salt. Better than last week’s German.

When the sack bulged with meat, Jomo dragged Doug’s hollowed torso to the baobab. The hooks shrieked against bone as he hoisted it up by the pelvis. Maya watched the last few drops patter into the dust. Tomorrow, the butcher’s boys would come for the remains—ground into sausage, sold to tourists who’d never ask why it tasted so rich.

"Come," Maya said, licking her fingers clean as she shouldered the sack. Jomo fell in step beside her, his arms streaked red to the elbows. The path back to their hut smelled of woodsmoke and frying onions. Mother would be waiting, her mortar and pestle ready. Maya adjusted the weight on her shoulder, smiling at the thought of Doug’s fat rendering down in the pot. American men were always delicious.