BETHROTHED (6)

“These texts are brutal. I wonder how you do it,” 

she said, her eyes holding a trace of amusement at how her friend calmly worked through the tons of ‘little’ assignments, as Prof. Wale liked to call them.

Ziba smiled. “I’m not a bookworm, oh. I just dedicate myself to it, that’s all. It keeps my mind engaged.”

She had noticed how Mena had gradually infused herself into her life, too smoothly, too easily. Ziba hated it, yet she did not know how to gently wade her off. Over the next couple of days, she deliberately sat far off in class, but Mena always managed to fish her out. Today was one of those days.

“When will you agree to have lunch with me, na? I know a nice buka on campus,” Mena smiled. She was genuinely intrigued by the dedication Ziba gave to her studies, and she knew she needed a fraction of that discipline to ace her grades.

Ziba smiled back. “Soon. I will agree soon.”

Mena had a sixth sense, she knew she wasn’t entirely welcome in Ziba’s space, but she also wasn’t completely unwelcome. She decided to take whatever she could get.

The history lecturer cut through her thoughts, “The not-so-recent event in Gumba Village is worthy of study. Gbenga, help me bring my laptop for the slides.”

Mena sighed and leaned closer, whispering to Ziba, “Papa and I live on the brink of Gumba Village, a little distance from the main village. Just a few walks and a boat ride to our side. Papa said that’s what saved us. We thank God. It’s brutal what those villagers went through.”

She hurried her last words as the lecturer turned back to the class and began the presentation.

Ziba froze.

Her hut appeared on the screen.

   ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Take this wrapper. Go and bathe. You must eat today.”

Mama Rufus was firm but gentle. The woman, in her mid-forties, had a distinct spray of white hair at the front of her head. Before the tragedy, she had been one of Gumba’s most fascinating tourist attractions, there weren’t many, but visitors always wanted to see the woman with the striking white streak. Now, that same hair sat uncombed, heavy with grief, a silent symbol of what had happened two weeks ago.

Two weeks. Just like that.

Ziba knew Mama Rufus meant well. Only a few of them had made it across the river. Papa Sunny had been shot while running toward them, a child clutched tightly in his arms. He still managed to reach the boat, though it had already drifted slightly from the shore.

They had camped by the river for days: no food, no water, before finally reaching the neighbouring village. Some of the people from the neighbouring village were waiting to welcome them, they hadn’t seen the carnage, only heard the faint echoes of screams and terror carried across the water.

Mama Rufus’s elder sister had welcomed them, her own hair marked with the same luscious white spray at the front, though hers still looked hopeful. They had hugged and cried before she ushered them into her compound. That was when Ziba discovered Mama Rufus’s sister was the wife of the ruler, explaining the vast compound, the helpers who tended to the wounded, and the steady supply of food for the hungry.

Mama Yola watched Ziba closely but could not read her. Still, she noticed the clenched fist, the thread of purple cloth peeking through her fingers, a fragile semblance of love held tightly.

Mama Yola knew that pain too well. She understood the weight of loss the young girl carried, and she also knew that comfort was the last thing Ziba wanted.

Ziba had remained silent even as others slowly let their guard down. She cleaned Papa Sunny’s wounds and refused every meal sent her way.

“I cannot understand how you feel,” Mama Rufus pleaded softly, “but your mama no go want make you stay like this.”

She even moved to kneel in supplication, but Ziba stopped her sharply. She took the cloth that was offered, a cream-coloured, floral, buttoned shirt gown. She knew instantly it was Mama Yola’s doing. The towel, the soap, the comb, all Mama Yola.

Standing inside the mud bathroom, Ziba pulled off her village custom cloth, cream-coloured with geometric patterns. The moment felt final. Reality crashed over her, and she wailed.

Mama Rufus heard the sound and rushed toward the bathroom, but Mama Yola held her firmly and said, with deep affection, “She needs to feel it. Let her be.”

Tears rolled freely down Mama Rufus’s face as her sister pulled her into an embrace. Together, they stood listening to the shattered heart of a young woman breaking open at last.