tears in the red wind.

Chisomkanma
Nov 1 · 8 min read

She sat in the large open compound containing their tiny flat stained with red dust that the wind carried, no surprise because it was never painted. With her daughter in her arms she wished that she could be something more than what she was. The compound was filled with huge metallic pots laced with the red of the earth that spun around the huge trees that stood upright in the compound. They sprouted from the earth providing cover for her and her daughter. The red of the earth a common feature of the atmosphere of the eastern parts of Nigeria. The air was dry and she continuously licked her lips to prevent them from cracking completely. She wrapped the Ankara cloth tighter around her body and swaddled her sleeping daughter as a dirge arose from her soul.

As she sang, the breeze grew wilder and wilder and the wind became fiercer as it caused the dance of the trees and the little shrubs and weeds that sprouted out of the cracked corners of her compound. Her eyes stung with tears from the combined effect of the wind and as the tears welled up, a projection of her pain and anguish there was an eruption. She let the tears flow freely, mucus running down her nose, past her mouth, to her chin.

She was startled by the sound of dried palm leaves hitting the ground, some falling from the roof and the others falling from the high heap she had stacked from the palm tree in boredom. Her days were slow and the little hobbies she found where hardly productive. She hardly did anything to provide for herself and simply lived off the kind gestures of neighbours. Their pity was slowly turning to disgust of her laziness and helplessness. They all seemed to think she had mourned enough and according to tradition she was supposed to have picked herself up by that time to engage in farm activities and harvests while wearing all black to parade round their small village.

Her husband had died only a month ago. A man she had genuinely loved and cherished. In the wind and in her tears and in her child and in the soil and in the leaves and in the shrubs she swore she could see his soul roaming in every element that surrounded her at every point in time. Just a month ago he had carried their daughter and sang songs of praise on her beauty and for her future. He had come back in a haste every day to her sweet embrace. Just a month ago he had come back as usual singing as she danced and showering words of love on her. He had come back to taste the food she had so eagerly made for him, each ingredient cut and flavoured with a smile on her face.

Just a month ago he had come back angry after facing the man’s world he had to compete in. He had returned after answering queries and solving problems concerning farming and land allocation. He had angrily flung his cutlass at the long round surroundings of their compound as a result of his ire. He had always called it their compound even when addressing his colleagues and this worried them, as they wondered if he had been charmed by his wife for they believed for a man to be devoted to one woman she must have used black magic to influence his position. As she sat in the wind wallowing in her memories of him she imagined how the villagers would have treated her concerning his mode of death if they hadn’t indeed witnessed his fall from the tree he had climbed to get fresh palm wine for the meeting of the men of the village.

She wondered if they would have treated her like they treated her mother and grandmother after they became widows. If they would have pulled her out her house as she screamed in the agony and pain of just losing a husband and the sole provider of her and her child. If they would have spat on her as she lay on the red earth in bruises from the beatings she would have gotten as they called her a witch. Wondered, if his family would have immediately seized all the property he left behind. Wondered, if they would have washed his dead body in the preparation for the burial rites and made her drink from it in nakedness. Wondered, if his dead body would have been her companion for days as they hoped she would break and confess to poisoning him. She wondered if they would have shaved her head with the nearest razor they could find as her head was thrust between the sweaty laps of the oldest woman in the village. She wondered if the bruises they would have left on her scalp would turn to infectious circles causing her to ooze a smell ever so nauseating. She was angry with her husband for dying but she was grateful for the way he died.

Just a month ago he stood outside the flat after coming back from a stressful challenging day. And outside the flat he stood until all the anger he felt was gone before going in to meet his family. She always watched at the small entrance to the flat as he caught his breath in a deliberate attempt not to pass his frustrations unto her. She always wondered how she had gotten so lucky to have such a considerate man especially considering the way they were introduced.

He claimed to have seen her dancing with the maidens around the fire in the village gathering. He claimed to have immediately ran to her father to ask for her hand without taking time to consider her age, name, family, or heritage. He claimed to have danced like a mad man after the meeting of both families to discuss the topic of marriage. Through all this she had not once set eyes on her mysterious head over heels admirer and suitor. All she knew was her duty to her family and its name in marriage good conduct and behaviour. On the day of their union she was given the blessing of childbirth and he was giving the blessing to grow in wealth, wives and children from the elders of the village in the traditional marriage ceremony rites. On one of their nights together, during her first two years without child, he had promised that he would neither marry nor love anyone else. Her tears grew as she thought of how his passing would not allow her see his promise come true. And she knew now that she could only become someone else’s second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth or tenth wife.

She remembered how he protested against his family during her first two years without a child. His mother cried because her first son would father a child after her second and third. His mother who had been blessed with four boys in quick succession immediately after her marriage did not understand how her son had been cursed with such misfortune. His mother could only see her as a witch, nothing else made sense in his mother’s eyes. She remembered how he comforted her every night as she cried about her curse. She remembered how he spoiled her during her pregnancy. She wondered if he had only spoiled her because she was carrying his first child. She wondered if he would have seen her in the same way if she were only carrying a sixth child. But she quickly killed that thought when she remembered his increasing love for her only a month ago as she carried their second child.

The wind grew even stronger and it carried dust from the earth that stung her eyes even more, drying up the tear drops that slid down her face. The cries of her daughter, now awake, jolted her back to reality and she cradled the child in her arms. Her mind wandered soon after to another memory. But this memory was not one of love nor compassion. Her dead husband could not fit in the story line of this memory and she felt a streak of hate for him for leaving her. This memory was what brought her out on this cold windy red evening, this memory was what caused the sting in her eyes. She felt as though the memory were only a dream and she needed the wind to jolt her back to a much needed reality. She wished the memory were only a dream.

Her neighbours had been caring, but her husband’s family seemed to know only one form of expression, hate. They came in their bundles to prosecute her for reasons she was yet to wrap her head around. Reasons that made little to no sense when she replayed their screams in her head. Earlier that evening the only visitor was her husband’s immediate younger brother who seemed to be the golden child of the family. He already had three wives and five children. With two more on their way. He came to see her that day with a different mood. A casual, almost seductive one. She knew the village traditions and her fate to be eventually married to him but he seemed to have come that day to convince her that marrying him was her best option. She sat in shock and barely gave him answers to his questions and suggestions. Before she could pull her thoughts together he had pushed her to the cold hard floor and forced himself on her. She barely let out a sound and stared at her daughter who stood at the door with wide eyes. Her daughter was as silent as her as she watched her uncle thrust over her mother.

After he left she cried and bled from all parts of her body. His touch was forceful and his nails pierced her skin like claws. She bled from inside her and she watched her unborn baby sprawl on the floor in trickles of blood. In just a month she had lost her husband and the last thing he left with her, their hope for a son growing in her. She felt no other compulsion in her to do any other thing other than sit in the wind and shed tears for her helplessness.

The wind stung her eyes and she opened them wider as if to let the wind cause as much damage as it could to her eyes so she could no longer see the wickedness of the world. Even her family had left her in her despair. Her father claimed he had no other resources to care for her. He had completely handed her over to her husband and his family on the day they were married. So with nowhere to go and no refuge, she gave herself over to the world to keep on hurting her. Widowed, lonely and with trickles of blood staining her thighs, the only thing left of her unborn child, she wept.

And her dirge grew even louder as she let out her tears in the red wind.

Chisomkanma

Written by

Chisom is a writer and poet with an instinctive view on the world and the things around her. . . . ugh. I sound like I died.

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