The wind blew in gently; specks of dust gently hover around the
unchanged room. A wooden bed frame lay unhinged, creaking gently when the wind
came too strongly. It’s hard to imagine that this was Ella’s room; everything
remained in the order that it was in the weeks after the news broke.
It was a timid morning then, when the sun gently raided its protest on
the harmattan wind, everything was either stale or dried but the dullness
seemed crested. For a while that day, everybody waited under the guise of the
living room’s space, impatiently waiting for Ella to appear, but she never
came!
When after a long while the waiting seemed foolish, they all gently
trooped to her door, standing gently robbing its surface, trying vainly to
implore her to join their morning ceremony. They waited and waited but Ella
never opened the door; hours later, the door was broken and there she lay,
prostrated in a humble rebellion towards whatever it was that ate her up. Yet
that is not her only story, the story of Ella is misleading because it starts
at her end, in that hidden space of taboos and the world she was born to.
That is not to say that her life was pointless; far from it, for Ella
was a mysterious child. It was more clearly stated that her near death brought
meanings to the puzzle of her life.
But caught up in the lines of the story we seek is Lisa, a twin left
alone to gaze the lines of the world. It is in Lisa’s memory that our most
important story stays; the story of Lisa is about the mystic of the African
world, its deluge and refusal to recognize its scars. This is not a fantasy
story or a realm of imagination, but a recollection of the mysteries that lays
herein, a mystery we feel safer when we cannot explain, and a people we deem
fit to believe exist only in the fables of the past that’s simply fading to
westernization.
That morning as Lisa stared blankly at the unmoving form of her sister,
her countenance was not of grief but of anger, as the compound filled up with
mourners, Lisa became more reclusive, often disappearing for hours on end until
she was discovered and brought home. To the parents, it felt easy to downplay
the circumstances of the near-death of their child. It was easy to swindle a
story because when Ella’s room was broken into, only a few privileged people
were blessed with the sight of horror that gently lay on display.
So to the world, the story was thus: Ella went to bed and never woke up.
But to those who lived under the roof of Mr. Simon’s house, the picture was
different. The image they knew was of a sister and daughter sprawled violently
on a bloody floor, a blade hanging close to her hands and her body severed with
marks it became so hard to understand what it was that truly haunted her.
For weeks after the incident had happened and the strangers moved on as
they normally do, Lisa stayed sulking through the days, a silent vision of
sadness gently surfing the walls of that home. The space illuminated as she
walked blindly from one end to the other end of the five bedroom duplex that
they owned, yet the space seemed to choke her, for at every turn she felt her
twin sister’s presence, in the clustered silence she heard whisperings of
Ella’s voice and often as she lay, the silhouettes of strangers stood over her
head. She talked less, played less and ate little of whatever exotic delicacy
placed at her feet. She slowly drifted in between herself, the spaces between
reality and imagination softly closed down as she immersed her agony into a
steep silence.
At the beginning, it seemed as if it was the way of a close sister
seeking the refuge of the world after losing an anchor, yet as time slowly
counted its days away, it became much more harrowing, her eyes began to lose
their sound, blinking less and staring endlessly, her sprightly maiden body
began to emaciate to a sickly form, her once curvaceous body was a ruin. She
stayed indoors, slept little and hardly ever ate more than a mouthful of
whatever food she saw.
Mr. Simon stayed home less than he usually did. Next to Lisa, he was the
one person whom the incident had taken a devastating toll on. Even on the days
when his presence was homebound, his mind seemed to be missing from the essence
of what he represented. He talked little with his wife, and immersed himself
into the world of work; he sought whatever duty that could take his mind off
the reality of a daughter that lay mutilated on the floor of his own house.
That same image had raised a past for him; it seemed a curious Déjà vu sprawling
back across his face and its truth nauseated his wits.
The memory that it raised was one from 19 years ago, a good year after
the birth of his twin girls, he was overseeing the construction of an
irrigation dam in the village of Katako when news arrived through the presence
of his brother in-law. The news was brief and its channel unnerving, for his
brother in-law was a trusted vehicle of secrecy and he was avowed to not reveal
the reasons as to why Simon should return home. Even though he tried, Simon
could not get a respite from the stone faced messenger. At the height of his
inquisition, the only words that spluttered out of the big man’s mouth were “it
is not my place to reveal, it is not my duty to tell”.
And the journey back remained silent, as the truck swiveled from side to
side on the often dust-laden road.
That day, Simon thought about the last time he met his beautiful wife,
he had recognized how much the twins had taken a toll on her for she looked out
of her depth, her countenance often seeming defeated, and her body laying limp.
She appeared a shadow of the spritely maiden he had chased unendingly for years
without much success till the day she arrived gleefully to the place of his
abode. She stood a long distance and called out to him. He remembered how he
had rushed at the sound of her voice, strangely confused at the mixture of
emotions guiding him. For he was amazed that she would come searching even to
his very house when she had never bothered to give him a moments attention. But
she was there that evening, smiling cheerfully as he walked towards her. He
knew she was very different and still he was elated, that night became the
first night of his very brief first marriage for she refused to return home but
rather plainly inform him that she had arrived to marry him and that he had no
choice in the matter.
He laughs as he remembers the way she had said it. It seemed
preposterous but she was different. Her self-will was strong and she was
beautiful, when she said something, she never lagged around but instead went
straight ahead to action. When she said she was marrying him, it seemed a
laughable insinuation that a woman would so boldly say she was marrying a man,
yet as the days after showed, she did marry him. For when her parents showed
their face with threats and sanctions, she blindly told them that no man was
worth her time than the one she had chosen; whatever cancerous libations they
threw, she retorted with a calm answer of her own. In the end, her father and his
brothers proceeded to use the only play the game had dealt them; they demanded
for a bride price and quoted an exorbitant price and left. All through the
discussions, Simon had been relegated to the peripheral view, yet when they had
gone, she meekly turned to him and asked what he will have for supper. For a
while he sat staring blankly at her beautiful face, she bore no mischief or
anger at what had happened, and she brushed away the threats of being disowned
as if it never existed, to be truly African and not be swayed by these vices
was uncommon to him and he did not know how to react to her question. When he
was silent for a while she gently questioned him again, “My dear, what will
suit your appetite this evening?” her voice gently rang. He stared at her
again, “Are you not worried about what your family has said” he blurted out
gently, unsure of the air of calmness that she had. She paused, raised her eyes
and softly stared at him with a hint of a smile on her face, “do you love me?”
she questioned calmly, drawing her soft curvaceous body closer to him. He was
green for a moment, contemplating a logical answer to a question that needed
just a word. For a while her heart betrayed her as he remained silent, her face
began to oust the smile that was on it but then he did the right thing, he drew
the palm of her hands and placed them into his, staring gracefully at her, “of
course I do, I chased you all around, did I not? The problem is your family and
their reluctance to even see me as a viable person who is good enough for you!!
How are we supposed to marry in that hostility?” he said gently at her. She
listened intently, looking away as he echoed his doubt, then turning back to
him, she drew him closer, tilted his head upward so that their eyes could meet,
“lets pay them the dowry then!” she cheekily suggested, trying to find an
amusing side to the debacle that had immersed them. For a moment they laughed
and were lost in space and time. “My darling, you know yourself that I do not
have that kind of money, they brought it up to discourage me” he finally said
turning away. She followed his steps, gently tapping his shoulders as he stood
under the baobab tree that they had first conversed under when she came to him
a week ago. He leaned forward and she gently held him from the back. “Don’t
worry she softly said while holding on to him “I will find us a way” she
finally said.
And true to her words she did. When her family returned a week later,
they were settled with the stipulated pleasantries of tradition and her father
though still not attuned to the idea, admitted defeat and gave her his
blessings.
A year later the twin girls arrived and here he was, working hard at his
new job to provide for the most loving wife that he hardly deserved. Yet his
mind seemed uneasy as the journey appeared to be a little bit longer in the
village truck. He keenly felt the loneliness that his wife had without him
being around; how she felt distant the last time he was home. She was still the
same kind natured, loving person, but her aura of happiness had faded just a
little. The road did not help his
arduous plight, for they were littered with bumps and gaps. The truck swayed
from one end to the other, doubtless of the state of its own cargo. After about
4 hours of a gruesome journey, Simon had arrived at his home to a curious
ordeal, the whole town had been camped outside his home and people cast curious
glances when he gently raced in, he knew from the faces of the younger public
that his wife was no more so he ran faster into the house, the men present
vainly tried to stop him but none could outpace his tigerish speed. And just as
he entered his room, he saw it clearly, hanging from a part of the roof,
elegantly beautiful even in eternal silence, her face strapped with a beauty
never seen before. He looked closely, his body falling numb at each step of
realization, vainly as he sought to deny that truth, it coldly sought his
agreement. Gently reaching forth, he touched her lifeless limb.
If he had hoped she would move, she never did. After that he went into a
downward spiral, encroaching himself into the troughs of trouble. Everyone
stayed away from him; recognizing that in spite of his faults, his life was a
darkened mist.
Ella’s body reminded him of the peaceful image of her mother; it
reminded him so clearly that some things are darker than the shining light of
love. It reminded him of the timidity of death and how even in highest points
of life, man returns to somewhere unknown.
The tale of father and daughter could not be so gruesome, yet even their
own point of view offers no redemption to this story. The story also involves
the eyes of Lola, Simon’s new wife whom he had married five years after his
wife’s suicide. The tale also goes back to Simon’s brother in-law, the silent
natured Danboyi, whose wit cannot be outlined. And ever more clearly when the
story seems too vast, we call upon the silent voice of Ella to remind us in our
feeble minds, that stories, especially these ones, have no limit to life but
can transcend the clutches of death to give us an insight into the intricate
meanings that it seeks. The question is. Are you ready for it?
by Elijah peter
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