LOVE, BY THE BLADE

 1 

The sounds of crying women, kids, and men dying in pain had been running through my mind of late. I cannot shake off this feeling of guilt. I betrayed my ancestors, my tribe, and my father. It has been almost a year and some months after the riot and killings on my Emebu tribe by the then government of the country. I am now a married woman, with a beautiful two-year-old baby boy living in one of the best cities. My husband is a respectable lieutenant, the man who led the army a year back and had my village wiped out by blazing guns and tear gas. 

I cry whenever I recall the incidents. A nicely organized Mebu village consisting of a population close to 500 people or less with no established leader but elders who took decisions on behalf of the villagers. It was a peaceful home for all of us, a place of comfort and a home for all our dreams. My mother long died when I was only three years old and I was raised by my father. We were poor but survived on my father’s salary from repairing the village canoes. He was good at it that it earned him a name ‘Joseph’ likening him to the father of Jesus in the bible. He served his community well even though sometimes I felt he was trying to fill the void of missing my mother. We never spoke about her even during her death anniversary. My father only visited her grave on her birthday.

Our 2 bedroomed shack was the only place where I heard my father sobbing. I knew he was missing her, but I could not do anything about it. Honestly speaking, I miss her too but I was only a child when she died. Her image had died down in my memory over the years. Moreover, we did not have any photograph of her. During one of her death anniversaries, I planned to light up a candle and cook her favorite dish only to be aggressively shouted at by my father. I was upset and scared that I had made him angry despite knowing his heart condition. This old man had grown weary over the years, his face had so many wrinkles one could fail to draw. We never ate together but exchanged eating times. We spoke little and only sat together during evening prayer. I loved his stern faith in God, even though I still blame the Lord for my mother’s death. 

2

I grew up being told that it was wrong for girls to be seen at dawn with boys. My father taught me that there was once a lustful spirit that seduced girls at night as they mistook it for a handsome young man. With this being referenced every time I was sent to do something outside the compound I feared every person I met, hence, it made me quite shy and an introvert to them. One afternoon my father called me to the front of the house and knowing how strict he was, I went immediately. I found Mr. Jerry and his wife with their only son. Confused as I was, I greeted them and sat by my father’s side waiting for his instructions as he always did when we had visitors. Unfortunately, I was to sit through the meeting or whatever it was that my father deemed important for my presence. It was the most uncomfortable moment of my life, the son of the visitors making it harder by staring at me. He was eye catching, I admit, and his constant chuckles made my insides growl. I did not understand why my father always invited such people into our home. Mr. Jerry’s family were not from our village; they became residents after the wars before I was born. Apparently our village back then was known for being victorious over other villages. Since they settled in our village, the current villagers took them as captured slaves from their forefathers. They hardly showed them respect or treated them with any decency. 

3

‘Nankya!’ shouted my father who observed that I was not paying attention. I looked at the faces of our visitors who seemed concerned. My father narrated to me that the family wanted me to help them during Mrs. Jerry’s confinement as she was due soon. I reluctantly agreed because I knew my father had already given them consent. They excused themselves and went their way. I was very disturbed with the idea of ‘helping’ that family with their son around. The following week Dlamini, Mr. Jerry’s son came seeking for me as his mother was already from the hospital. I didn’t expect it to be so soon but I was ready. My father had raised me in a traditional way, I knew everything about confinements and babies. I asked Dlamini to carry on with his way back home as I was still finishing home chores and then I would come. Honestly speaking, I did not want to be seen around the village with him. Well, I still wanted people to see me as innocent as before. Upon reaching their home, I found Mrs. Jerry in her room that was separated from the main house but it was opposite Dlamini’s room. He was the one who showed me around and explained everything. They had these modern nicely built houses. I spent the whole day cleaning and cooking for her, even though she was not a new mother per say as she had an already grown good looking son. Mrs. Jerry was a very humble woman, we spent the day chatting about dresses and her interests. I would look at her when she was not looking, trying to liken her to my mother. I wondered what it could have felt to have her around as I grew up. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked realizing I was quiet. I wiped off the tears on my eyes and smiled assuring her I was okay.

4

It had been almost a month since I worked for the Jerry’s. Winter was approaching so it became dark faster than other seasons. Mr. Jerry decided that it was only safe enough for his son to accompany me back to my house after knocking off every day. I did not protest to the suggestion because I was scared of the dark. The first week of the arrangement was awkward for both of us. We never spoke until I reached my house and bid him farewell. On the third week, while walking I tripped and fell. He laughed at me while helping me to stand. I was embarrassed that I just had to join him by laughing to brush the shame off. My knee was a bit painful and I suspected I had bruises. We started talking about how round the moon was or how cold it was. The trip back home felt shorter than other days. As days went by, I was always looking forward to the end of the day. Sometimes we would sit by the tree and talk about life. Dlamini was fond of helicopters and guns. It was really funny for me because I had never seen a helicopter. I told him I loved drawing and would do anything to find myself in big cities to learn more about it. It was always painful to see him walk away after I reach home. One evening he asked to hug him and I agreed. It was a sensational moment. I was in trembling with excitement. I had never been that close to a boy before. I was scared but it felt right. He then baby kissed me on my lips. I felt a blood rush through body and a cold rush through my spine. I did not know what love was but I was not wrong to think that moment was all about love. I started humming songs during my off days at home and I could see my father was worried. One evening he asked me about the family and after letting him know how great there were, he coughed and kept quiet. 

5

Six months down the line, my father called one morning as I was preparing to leave to the Jerry’s that they said I am not needed as the baby had grown and Mrs. Jerry could handle her household well. I was not only disappointed but hurt that I was not going to be able to see Dlamini usually. I spent the whole day waiting for him to come. As expected, he brought some foods and my last salary sent by his parents. He could not stay long as my father was the one who received the goods. Almost ten minutes after his departure, I sneaked at the back and went to the tree we used to sit under. I found him waiting for me with a small plastic in his hands. I was very happy to see him. We passionately kissed. He told me that he could not stay long as his father expected him back. After reaching home, I opened the package he had given me. It was a necklace and a nice ladies shawl. Although, I spent the next few days without seeing him, I was happy knowing that he had given me something to remember him by.  

The sun was up early to me that fateful morning. My dad called me thrice and I could hear his footsteps as he approached. I laid still and I really did not want to come out at all. He stood by the door and just said ‘I wanted to let you know that Mr. Jerry’s family left this village for good this morning.’ I stood up trying to get to the door as quick as I could. My father had already left. I was falling apart. I felt dizziness suddenly covering my body, I wanted to vomit and I was just feeling too hot.  

6 

Almost a month had passed now after hearing the dreadful news. I could not leave my house, not even to the shops. I spent most of my time doing household chores and painting. My father had fallen ill and I had to raise enough money for his medication as I knew he was not working anymore. He was the only man left in my life. I had lost weight and didn’t really care about it. It was no longer fun to look forward to a day that held nothing to me but misery. One evening after supper my father called me to his side. He spoke about my mother. All their memories, he narrated that to me with tears in his eyes. I could see that my old man was saying goodbye. We spoke till I fell asleep by his side only to be woke by a terrible dream. I stood up and went off to prepare breakfast for him so he could take his medication. My father’s body was too still and cold. I froze with a tray over his body. He was lying there. I knew my father was gone but just couldn’t bring myself into terms with it. I did not even know what to do. I spent three hours crying next to his dead body until I heard a voice outside. Mr. Buru, the village elder had come to talk to my father. I broke down in tears as I pointed to the house. He understood from that moment what had happened and instead of going into the house he left. Few minutes later he returned with villagers. The women took me with them and preparations were made.  

Almost six months after my father’s burial, I was asked to leave our house and stay with a certain woman who had no kids. They said it was for the best since staying alone for me was not okay for security reasons. I didn’t want to go but I had no choice. My life was only meaningful to me when I was painting. ‘Ausi Rei’ as I always called her, was the woman I was staying with. She was in her mid-40's and she had a big appetite. My only concern with her was the fact that she always had concerns over me as to why I was never interested in what other girls did. She always tried to make me wear her makeup cosmetics and made me walk in her high heeled shoes. I hated it but was grateful that she cared for me. Sometimes she would have me sing lullabies to her. It was quite therapeutic for both of us as. I had courage to go out of the house every now and then when sent to buy stuff needed in the house. I also started going to my father’s house to paint.

7 

7 years later the village had more population. I had grown into a young woman and men seem to have interest in me. I never gave them anyone attention and I was only interested in my artworks. Ausi Rei tried several times to set me up with several gentlemen but failed as I was never interested. I always feared they will one day leave as Dlamini did and I will be left by myself again. My mother’s death anniversary was approaching and all I wanted was to spend the next days at our house. Aunt Rei agreed to my request and even told me to stay as long as I wanted. I had spent the day and night painting more portraits of my parents and Dlamini. I wanted to have their memories appear in canvases so that I would at least remember how they looked like over the years. I was woken up by women and children’s voices shouting in all directions. I tried to ignore it until I had gun shots and more cries from children. I ran outside trying to find where it was coming from when a woman passed by running and asked me to stay indoors as there was war. War!? I was scared. I rushed back inside and closed the door. I sat next to all my paintings and took a short prayer. My father had taught me that before dying everyone ought to repent for their sins. I was scared to the thought of death but I really had no choice as the gun shots were approaching and the noises were dying down. There was a loud bang at my door and three gun shots. I held my breath and hoped they wouldn’t check for anyone.  

“We have been told no one lives here,” said a voice outside “The old man living in it is dead and his daughter might have already been killed by our men in one of the first houses we went into”. The voices kept laughing as they got far from the house. My eyes were still closed and I was still shaking. I was wondering if I was dead or alive. I got under my father’s big kitchen table. I could not believe what was happening and I was still scared to go outside. Almost several hours after the shootings had died down and cars could be heard driving away from the village, there was some footsteps approaching my house. I knew it was time for my demise. The person kicked the door open and looked around. It was a man wearing an army uniform with a gun on his hand. I held my breath as I watched him moving around the house. He stopped at the sight of paintings and took off his hat. He ran his fingers across Dlamini’s painting. He started sobbing and mumbling something I could not hear. Few minutes later he could hear me breathing and had his gun pointed towards my direction. “Nankya?” the man called. I was scared wondering how he got to know my name. Perhaps he was instructed told to find me? I wondered. He approached the table and extended his hand towards me. I swallowed hard before extending mine. I looked straight into his eyes. I know this man. He hugged me for the longest time and I could find myself reverting to olden times. My only true love was back but now in the form of an enemy. I pushed him back and stared at his face while crying. I couldn’t stop asking him why he left in the first place. I did not care much about the war. He did not say anything but rather sat down and kept sobbing. We sat next to each other for some time until his mobile phone rang. He picked up and spoke like an educated man for some time. He told me how the villagers had sent his family away and killed his parents on their way out. How the village’s notorious gang had taken turns raping his mother while his father was tied up. When I asked him about the baby, he said she didn’t survive. I was furious at what my own village did. Their cruelty towards the Jerry’s. 

We were married eight months later in the city district commissioner’s office. I had come to know that he was now the one in charge of the army and had such respect from the city residents. His house was big enough to host the whole village. We spent most days drawing and travelling around the city’s nicest spots. When I became pregnant, my husband was the happiest man. He asked his colleagues to throw me a big party. I had never been that happy in my life. Now, thinking about the past isn’t wrong but I guess we should not be caught in between the present and the past. It is best to let past events full of such pain go and face your present with so much love in. As Nelson Mandela would say, what is verbe is verbe (What is past, is past).