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Quest to shed a tear
"Story story!"
My grandma would say under the cool breeze of the midnight sky, with the moon, shining with all its' splendor above us. "Story"!!, we would call out like little chicks.
It was always the intro to a heartbreaking or heartwarming story. Grandma Arike, a dainty old woman, who lost her husband and daughter to the cold hands of death, would tell tales of past heroes to us, the four grandchildren nature blessed her with before it took her child. All this she did, to help us forget the missing spot our mum would fill if she was here.
We were young at that time, I, the eldest was just an eighth year old, with ebony skin and eyes like that of a deer. My brother, Tobi, six years old with mind as sharp as a needle and the last two, Taiwo and Kehinde, the three year old twin. I remember working with granny, helping her carry little pots of water on my head, fanning the flame from the fire wood, and sweeping the room where we all stayed. How lovely and cozy I felt then, oblivious to the sharp sword life holds, looking for it's next prey.
Days turned into years, we grew from little unsuspecting babies to young teenagers, exploring everything, from running in the field to my brother, Tobi tasting the new formed oranges on my chest and the new feeling I got between my legs. Grandma Arike was now very grey and bent, but that wasn't a problem. We were now fit to take charge. but she never chose to stay still. The years went by like a loose thread drawn from a fabric.
The cries of the war was something I still considered a myth. Never believing the stories of its victims. I saw fewer people by the stream sides and louder cries from the village sides. On a lovely day, with the pot on my head, strolling back home, the house had a face I couldn't read.
When the shard ends of the pot peirced my legs I didn't flinch, because the forms I saw laying across the room was something bitterly amazing. Who knew one could bleed so much, especially not from an old woman, the whitsh ooze from Tobi's head looked edible as I ran my hands through it. I couldn't tell who was Taiwo and who was Kehinde because their bit were mismatched. I tried arranging them, but was pretty sure Kehinde had the legs I placed on Taiwo.
Did I shed a tear, no, I never have. I stand in the battle field everyday, waiting for the blow or slash that would make me weep. Till then, I remain the ravaging beast, tearing the limbs of the ones that made Grandma still.
© Faith Daniel
My grandma would say under the cool breeze of the midnight sky, with the moon, shining with all its' splendor above us. "Story"!!, we would call out like little chicks.
It was always the intro to a heartbreaking or heartwarming story. Grandma Arike, a dainty old woman, who lost her husband and daughter to the cold hands of death, would tell tales of past heroes to us, the four grandchildren nature blessed her with before it took her child. All this she did, to help us forget the missing spot our mum would fill if she was here.
We were young at that time, I, the eldest was just an eighth year old, with ebony skin and eyes like that of a deer. My brother, Tobi, six years old with mind as sharp as a needle and the last two, Taiwo and Kehinde, the three year old twin. I remember working with granny, helping her carry little pots of water on my head, fanning the flame from the fire wood, and sweeping the room where we all stayed. How lovely and cozy I felt then, oblivious to the sharp sword life holds, looking for it's next prey.
Days turned into years, we grew from little unsuspecting babies to young teenagers, exploring everything, from running in the field to my brother, Tobi tasting the new formed oranges on my chest and the new feeling I got between my legs. Grandma Arike was now very grey and bent, but that wasn't a problem. We were now fit to take charge. but she never chose to stay still. The years went by like a loose thread drawn from a fabric.
The cries of the war was something I still considered a myth. Never believing the stories of its victims. I saw fewer people by the stream sides and louder cries from the village sides. On a lovely day, with the pot on my head, strolling back home, the house had a face I couldn't read.
When the shard ends of the pot peirced my legs I didn't flinch, because the forms I saw laying across the room was something bitterly amazing. Who knew one could bleed so much, especially not from an old woman, the whitsh ooze from Tobi's head looked edible as I ran my hands through it. I couldn't tell who was Taiwo and who was Kehinde because their bit were mismatched. I tried arranging them, but was pretty sure Kehinde had the legs I placed on Taiwo.
Did I shed a tear, no, I never have. I stand in the battle field everyday, waiting for the blow or slash that would make me weep. Till then, I remain the ravaging beast, tearing the limbs of the ones that made Grandma still.
© Faith Daniel
