Crying Marriage BY Abimbola Michael Bismarck [STORY]
Crying Marriage BY Abimbola Michael Bismarck
The sun was already dwindling up in the sky, as the day
deliquesced into darker shades of the evening. Stray dogs
were still growling at unsuspecting passers-by, copious
clouds of dust, extravagantly hanging in the air, trailing
behind children who ran playfully with their arts in their
feet as they printed foot marks like a signature they'd
come back to claim.
.
I'd often catch myself from falling while sitting on a
crooked bench, facing a grey headed stranger. His
moustache, the faded colour of his hair as they fell in
tired redundancy. He's way older than I am, probably
thrice my age.
.
He'd glance at me from time to time while his hands
picked and dropped seeds into the ayo board. He had
beaten me six times since we've been playing since
afternoon. A few other adults would stop by to mock the
losers. There were large lumps of unvoiced solemnity in
his eyes as he blinked, picking and dropping seeds. He
said little or nothing at all.
.
He seemed like he didn't know how to laugh.
.
"You are such a wise boy," he said, his eyes fixed on the
board. I wondered why he said that, he had beaten me
six times. "Your father must be proud of you."
.
"My father is dead," I paused. He looked up. "He died the
night I was born, I never knew him."
.
Unlike people who heard my story before, he had no
trace of sympathy in his eyes and somehow, a clean wind
of relief swept through me. Even if he felt sorry, his eyes
had the same tinge of colourless spirit. Deep; like a well
that drowned several heads of sacred silence, yet
pronouncing wisdom in the most quiet voice of all.
.
"Are you not the son of Halima, who sells herbs down the
road?"
.
"Yes, I am."
.
"Your mother is such a beautiful woman. I knew your
father before I left for senegal. We fought in Burma,
together. He was my comrade."
.
"How does he look like?" I asked, squeezing my face in
curiousity.
.
"You don't recognise him? His pictures?"
.
"No, sir. Our house got burnt in a religious riot, when I
was two."
.
"Oh!" He exclaimed before staring at the bats, hovering
around in circles just above our heads. He resumed
picking and dropping seeds again, whistling an unfamiliar
melody whilst getting drowned in his usual solemnity. "
You believe in ghosts?" He asked after a while.
.
"No," I replied.
.
"And you are a christian?"
.
"Yes, sir."
.
He nodded in responce. "Take me to your mother," he
said, "I have to pay homage."
.
We walked briskly as if our steps long to escape time,
drifting in with the evening. He whistled every now and
then, his pace was slower that I'd have to wait at intervals
so he could catch up with me.
.
One moment, wafting around in silent smog of familiar
strangeness, he stood a few metres from the door, my
right hand moved in deliberate swings, knocking on the
door in rapid, successive sounds. And another moment,
the door swinged open and mother was standing at the
door, her eyes dart across the yard to the stranger that
followed me home.
.
"Keita??!!" She screamed just before she blacked out. I
turned swiftly towards the stranger and fresh, empty
breeze blew to my face, empty of the presence of anyone
but myself and mother.
.
He was slow, how could he have moved away so fast?
Where had he gone to? Why did mother slump and
blacked out?
.
Mother told me he was my father, I had played ayo with
my father who had died some twenty years ago. I felt an
usual queasiness mixed with fear and subtle disbelief,
maybe mother didn't see him clearly tho. But his
presence now haunts me. I see him everywhere now, like
a faint shadow melting into light, a silent entity, figments
of imagination even when he appeared again last night, in
my dreams, he touched my shoulders and said nothing.
This time he had transmogrified into a scarecrow of
defeat and his eyes pooled with streams of pity and
helplessness. I didn't believe in ghosts, let alone a ghost
that cries.
You are not to copy this work in part or whole without permission from :roll: ©Abimbola Michael Bismarck
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