the rape’s sanctuary

January 25, 2026. Njombe.
Cameroon. the sleeping guitars

have tattooed the sounds of their
destruction inside the silence of

my body. and the torturers of the
motel have started the process. the

rape meeting. salt. spicy. black. red.
they have started the requiem of my

sanctuary. visages. like light familiar
antagonists. like a mask of Njombe.

it is the blossom of the threats. it is
the final birth of their anger. it is the

final birth of their warning. and sleep
has produced the right mixture with

the toxic angels & rebels. with the
the mixture of their torture. and my

body is wounded with the call of the
rape. with their torture. with their loud

harassment. my voiceless morning.
my poetry is filled with their torture.

inside the red sanctuary of my dream.
two years. two years. rape: their torture.

the dialect of threats

January 23, 2026. Mbanga.
Cameroon. it is a network

of acidity. a network of shadows
knocking on the walls of my thin

vibrations. the network fills the
entrance. the exit. the beginning.

the end. it behaves like water. it
circles my footprints. it imprints

their tortures. shadows. toxic
angels and rebels on the streets.

on the windows of my walks. inside
the noise of the market. synonyms

of the rapist’s perfume. twin. from
my red bedroom. from my motel

bedroom. twin. from my home’s pain.
from Mbanga’s pain. twin. from the

shadows’ habits. from the suffering. like
the bottom of one ocean’s cries. like some

sharp knives singing around the stores of
my trip. Mbanga. Douala. here. Cameroon.

the rapist’s scent

January 23, 2026.
Mbanga. Cameroon.
Boris is the rapist
who uses the scent
of his red manhood
to rape the red sanctuary
of my life. Boris is a rapist.
his scent is where the
mountain of my fears
meets the lake of my
tears. the rapist’s
perfume. his perfume.
another torturer on
the streets of my
footsteps. like black
ants snaking through
the woods of my flesh—
i don’t know how to buy
butterflies at the black
market. but the rapist’s
perfume is a road of fat
intoxications. a class of
long-form harassment.
Boris is the rapist. a rapist.
his perfume is all over the
noses of my steps. all over
five years: like a tortoise, I have
removed my steps from the front.
Boris joined the dogs barking
at the entrance of the eyes
of my suffering. the gate of my pain.
his rapist’s perfume. the rapist’s scent.
his. here. there. now. everywhere. his.

Josiane Kouagheu is a journalist, writer, photographer, painter and poet from Cameroon. Her works have appeared or are forthcoming in Brittle Paper, African Writer Magazine, Kalahari Review, Frontier Poetry, Prairie Schooner, The Nomad review, Apricity Magazine, Al Dente Journal, Double Dutch Magazine, New Ohio Review and elsewhere. You can find her on X, Instagram and Facebook @josianekouagheu