WHEN A BLACK CULTURE FADES

Mona had a knack for noticing the unnoticed. Therefore when she came across a seemingly insignificant item, she could not avoid giving it more attention. Every evening, at exactly 16:30, she peeped through her curtain window and saw a single black dress hung outside the apartment across from hers. It wasn’t particularly elegant or new. The fabric, a soft yet sturdy black cotton, swayed slightly in the evening breeze. It was structured enough to hold its shape yet supple enough to drape naturally, giving it a silhouette that was both striking and mysterious. It had long sleeves extending to the wrists, providing both warmth and modesty. The neckline was modest neither too high nor too low, just enough to frame the wearer's features with quiet sophistication, and the hemline fell just below the knees—simple, but deliberate.

At first, Mona dismissed it as a uniform or the only dress its owner had. But as days passed, curiosity gnawed at her. Why this dress? Why always at the same time? It was never accompanied by other clothes—no scarves, no trousers, no blouses—just this single black dress.

Her thoughts spiraled. Could the owner have one uniform maybe? Was she observing an old tradition? Or was this a symbol of something deeper—something painful?

One evening, as Mona stepped outside to take her lingerie off the line, she saw her standing by the clothesline, the black dress fluttering softly in the wind. She was tall, dark-skinned, with strikingly smooth skin. Her long black hair cascaded over her shoulders. She wore a black top, a black chitenge (an African wrapper) material wrapped around her waist, and a black headscarf covering her head. All black, Mona mused. At first, Mona assumed she was ill, unsteady on her feet, ready to faint. But as she drew closer, she realized the woman was crying—deep, primal sobs.

Mona hesitated, unsure of what to do. There had been a quiet shift in their community lately—a silent rule to mind your own business. But as Mona watched her, she could not ignore the grief etched across the woman's face. "Damn these new rules," she muttered to herself. "She might be dying, and I’m worried about cultural norms." Mona walked closer and placed a hand on her shoulder. The woman let out a loud shriek but then melted into Mona’s arms, crying without restraint.

“Can I walk you home?” Mona asked gently.

“My dress,” the woman whispered her voice shaky. Mona helped her pick it up.

Her home was neat but sparse, almost as if no one truly lived there. Mona laid the black dress neatly across one of the chairs, like it was waiting for something, for a purpose. That day, Mona didn’t speak; she simply rubbed the woman’s shoulders, offering what little comfort she could. She felt as Job’s friends must have felt when they saw him after his losses—sitting in silence, just being present.

Weeks passed, and Mona began to learn more about the woman, whose name was Shela. She still wore the black dress every day, always on the line at 16:30, the same quiet ritual. Mona had become a quiet fixture in Shela’s life. The more Mona learned, the deeper her understanding of the dress grew, though Shela never spoke of it directly. It was clear the black dress was a symbol of grief, a sorrow worn daily.

After a month of silent companionship, Mona knocked on Shela’s door again. This time, Shela greeted her with a soft smile. They sat together in silence, sipping tea. It was only after some time that Mona gently broached a question.

“I don’t see any children here,” Mona remarked, trying to make sense of the empty space. “Don’t you want a family?”

Shela looked down, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of her cup. “My husband and I were just starting our marriage. We were together for two years. We hadn’t started a family yet.”

Mona's heart sank. "That's... that's so sad," she whispered, feeling the weight of the loss for her. Shela simply nodded, her gaze distant.

A few weeks later, Mona invited Shela for tea again, hoping to learn more. It was a gentle moment of curiosity, but Mona had to ask: "I—I see your dress on the line every day. I hope I’m not being intrusive, but I wondered why."

Shela studied her for a long moment, as if measuring Mona’s sincerity. Finally, she spoke, her voice low, almost a whisper. “My husband died a year ago. In my village, when a woman loses her husband, she wears black until she is cleansed of his spirit. The dress must be the same one every day. And when the time comes, it is ripped—so that his soul leaves me, and I may be free.”

Mona shivered at the weight of the tradition. She had never heard of such a thing. To her, it seemed so strange, almost superstitious. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to dismiss it. She understood, in a way, the heavy burden of grief. “Have you… have you been cleansed yet?” Mona asked softly.

Shela smiled faintly. “Not yet. I still feel him in the walls, in the silence, in the spaces where he used to stand. I smell him in the house and sometimes I talk to him.”

Mona reached out and took Shela’s hand. She didn’t speak, but the weight of the moment passed between them, heavy and real.

“I can be with you when you are cleansed,” Mona whispered, her voice gentle but full of emotion. Shela nodded, her eyes moist.

“I refuse to rip the dress,” Shela said, her voice firm. “I’m Christian. I believe that my husband’s spirit doesn’t need to be ripped away, just allowed to rest in peace.”

Mona sat in silence, understanding the need for Shela to make her own decision. They spent hours talking, trying to find meaning and comfort in Shela’s decision. Ultimately, Shela felt she did not need a ceremony to “release” her husband’s spirit. She would pray for him to rest in peace and, for the first time, consider laying the dress aside.

That evening, for the first time, Shela did not hang the black dress outside.

Mona smiled to herself as she watched from her window. She had made an impact on Shela, and perhaps, in her own way, Shela had made an impact on her too.

The next day, when Robert’s family arrived for the ceremony, Shela and Mona stood together in new black dresses with small, matching hats atop their heads. The room was filled with quiet anticipation. Shela had prepared snacks and drinks, not to mourn Robert’s death, but to celebrate his life.

“I’ve prepared food and drinks for us,” Shela announced, her voice steady, filled with quiet strength. “We will celebrate Robert’s life. But I have not brought the dress for you to rip. Instead, I will pray that Robert’s soul rests in peace.”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, there was silence. Robert’s relatives exchanged uneasy glances, murmuring softly. Some argued that tradition had to be upheld. But Mona’s brother, Morgan, stood up, his voice strong and clear.

“Traditions change. There were things we did in the past, but not all traditions should be held onto forever. Shela has shown us that the soul doesn’t need to be forced out. It should rest in peace, not be torn apart.”

A few relatives clapped, though others cast skeptical looks. But then Robert’s eldest uncle stood up. “Shela,” he said, his voice booming with approval, “what a wonderful idea. You have decided that the spirit rests in peace, not torn from you. I agree with you fully.”

A ripple of quiet joy spread through the room. It was a small, subtle victory over the weight of tradition, one that Shela and Mona both felt deep within their hearts.

At that moment, the ceremony took on a different tone. Instead of a ritual of grief and separation, it became a celebration of life. The table was laden with food—stews, fruits, bread, and soft drinks. Shela had thought of everything, ensuring there was enough for all her visitors. People helped themselves, offering smiles and soft chatter as they ate and drank together. Mona moved among the guests, ensuring everyone felt welcome.

A hush fell over the room when Robert’s uncle stood and raised his glass. He looked around at the gathered family, his eyes soft with emotion. “We have come to honor Robert today. We have gathered to remember his life, his laughter, his love. Though he is no longer with us, his spirit lives in each of us.”

He took a deep breath before continuing, his voice trembling slightly. “We let go of the old ways today. We will not rip the dress. Instead, we will let Robert’s soul rest in peace.”

Everyone lifted their glasses, some with tears glistening in their eyes, others with nods of agreement. “Robert, rest in peace,” Robert’s uncle said, his voice thick with emotion. “May your spirit be at peace, and may Shela find the strength to move forward.”

There was a moment of silence, then a murmur of agreement from those gathered. The atmosphere, once thick with tension, softened. The meal continued, laughter replaced sorrow, and a sense of closure began to take hold. The black dress was no longer a symbol of mourning—it had transformed into a tribute to love and acceptance, to moving forward without forgetting the past.

As the ceremony came to a close, Shela stood, her posture straight and proud. She looked around at the family who had come to honor Robert, and her eyes found Mona’s. The two women shared a quiet moment of understanding.

“Thank you,” Shela whispered to Mona, her voice full of gratitude. “You’ve helped me find peace in a way I never thought possible.”

Mona smiled, her heart swelling with quiet pride. She had not just witnessed Shela’s transformation; she had been part of it. Together, they had dismantled an old tradition, not out of disrespect, but out of a shared desire for something more meaningful—a ceremony of peace, not of tearing apart.

The next day to satisfy her curiosity, Mona looked out the window. The black dress was no longer on the line. She had helped a friend de-tangle herself from a culture, assisted in cutting the threads that had bound her and set her free to live, to mourn, and to heal.