In the arse end of Africa. In her southern cities’ slums. The brothels there. A Rumour. In the working rooms, the dark corners, late. A story is sometimes whispered there. They speak of the dark maid, as aged as is the world. “Love and war...” they say, shrugging their shoulders as if she is naught but fable, though they know better. That waif-whore, as deceitful as she isn’t beautiful, leads the lost astray. Pick a sunny day and walk those red sandy streets, and come night, you would sleep as easily as you do now. She doesn’t do day. Speak with the girls, the whores hardened by a hard land, roughed over by harder hands still. This story should not be told. And they will not tell it. Not to you.
Story Index 
