
This cold is going to kill this woman, I said these thoughts to myself, I whispered them fervently as I watched her trot by. I was convinced by the fact that she deserved to die of the cold, it was obviously her destiny in my opinion and I was not going to deny her same by thinking positive thoughts on her behalf.
I dared a little further and spoke it out loud for her to hear "you are going to die of this cold woman," you know when such things like me happen to you on a cold morning, you begin to wonder if you are still in a continuation of your dream. The woman looked so shocked because she obviously heard what I said, she was still unsure of what to say or do so I said it again.
"I said, most certainly, there is no other death more deserving of your soul than the cold death on the curb of these streets. You deserve to get stuck on a spot and just die!"
She turned now and her face was a mix of shock and hurt, she probably wanted to say something like "Do I know you?" and I know that's a foolish question but she would probably still attempt it because no one who knows you would dare what I was doing but she still tried to ask.
"Do you know....... "
"No I don't know you woman but you are no different from a cutlery set, you have no choice than to be frozen to death because someone somewhere enjoys the idea that you are dressed just this way."
On a typical day, the cold in this town is so prickly and sharp, it clings to every bit of skin you allow. It terrorises you, it yells into your ear holes, nose holes, it searches for the seams of your clothe and looks for the crack or a tear somewhere close to your skin.
It was more of the cold looking for you than you going out into the cold, because even in your room, the cold pushes through the window frames. Even when you have shut the doors and pulled a blanket and worn a sock, the cold slithers in like a wet snake, it wraps around your ankles and sinks its fangs into the very pores of your skin. Yet this woman was out in a big flowing native gown.
I could imagine the cold tapping her awake at 6 am, instructing her to avoid a cold bathe, she must have taken a warm wipe and cleaned her face and armpits, down between her thighs and under her breasts all done in a frenzy. The cold never left her for a second, she had a pair of jeans she could wear that would brake off the cold, the Jean would give her some break from the standing hair, the goose bumps, the heightened awareness of cold wind rushing into her skirts but the Jean was not appropriate.
This much I could summarize for her in a few sentences, "I know this native gown speaks well of you and the traditions of your people, but when your husband comes around, I hope he equally wears Buba and Soro."
She disgusted me with her pseudo subservience, to me she was no better than a piece of cutlery, an item. The cutlery just like her has to be dressed for specific effect, for occasion, to suit the rules of the table and those who use the cutlery do not care how the cutlery wants to be placed, dressed or used "it's just tradition."
In her own case though, she was a breathing and living human who at any point could say "No," she could allow herself feel the bitter harsh cold and allow herself to live because sometimes to live is to rebel but to conform is death. So I wished death upon her so she would find peace.