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The little girl's braids
The normal morning started, my younger brother, Emeka ,would always wake me up with a tap to come wash his bum from his morning ritual of dropping the previous days meal. I stood up with a groan and a slight headache from the braids my mom made for me the previous day and walked with him, little hands in mine.
The morning wore a dress, the color of dusk as it kisses the sea. An unusual one. Anyways, as the day went by with it's dusty feel, I carried out all my task, from cleaning the windows to sweeping the floors with a joy I couldn't resist...
The screams erupted from the fartherst side of the gate. I heard the booming of footsteps from behind the house, the gate crashed and a weak cry followed. Emeka . When I got there, my little brother's insides where out on display. I was still wondering what I was looking at when I felt the slash on my hands. The pain was like nothing I've ever felt. It was so sharp it made me tingle between my legs.I saw the little limb roll away and wondered if that was mine. I fell, eyes fixed on my taker.
I thought I would behold an evilspirit that looked like the ones from the horror stories I read at night. No, all I saw was a man, not too older than Papa. The weapon in his hand, crimson, like my favorite tomato stew. As I fell, I heard a distant sound of wimpers wondering if they were mine. I watched my taker split the parts mama told me to cover. The part she prayed would bear her grandchildren, the parts I love to stroke in the dead of the night, when the world was asleep. I couldn't feel the pain, I just watched as he did his work and wondered how skillful he was. I knew I looked like what was on Baba Abdul's table, our favorite meat seller.
Before the dark caved in, I wondered what remains mama would see of me, when she returned. In all this, I felt the slight tug from the braids my mother made for me the previous day.
Inspiration from The woman and the braided head of her daughter in the calabash from my favorite story teller Chimmanda Ngozi Adiche's Half of the Yellow Sun novel.
© Faith Daniel
The morning wore a dress, the color of dusk as it kisses the sea. An unusual one. Anyways, as the day went by with it's dusty feel, I carried out all my task, from cleaning the windows to sweeping the floors with a joy I couldn't resist...
The screams erupted from the fartherst side of the gate. I heard the booming of footsteps from behind the house, the gate crashed and a weak cry followed. Emeka . When I got there, my little brother's insides where out on display. I was still wondering what I was looking at when I felt the slash on my hands. The pain was like nothing I've ever felt. It was so sharp it made me tingle between my legs.I saw the little limb roll away and wondered if that was mine. I fell, eyes fixed on my taker.
I thought I would behold an evilspirit that looked like the ones from the horror stories I read at night. No, all I saw was a man, not too older than Papa. The weapon in his hand, crimson, like my favorite tomato stew. As I fell, I heard a distant sound of wimpers wondering if they were mine. I watched my taker split the parts mama told me to cover. The part she prayed would bear her grandchildren, the parts I love to stroke in the dead of the night, when the world was asleep. I couldn't feel the pain, I just watched as he did his work and wondered how skillful he was. I knew I looked like what was on Baba Abdul's table, our favorite meat seller.
Before the dark caved in, I wondered what remains mama would see of me, when she returned. In all this, I felt the slight tug from the braids my mother made for me the previous day.
Inspiration from The woman and the braided head of her daughter in the calabash from my favorite story teller Chimmanda Ngozi Adiche's Half of the Yellow Sun novel.
© Faith Daniel
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