BETROTHED (8)

Mena remembered the exact moment Ziba went stone-cold during Prof. Linda’s History class. The memory returned as she rubbed face cream into her skin, standing before the mirror, preparing for bed. 

Apart from Papa—who she was always on calls with, Ziba was the only second person she truly connected with. Papa used to say, “Choose your friends first before they choose you.”

I wish the part where Ziba chooses me comes sooner, she thought. She wondered why Ziba had reacted that way to a historical event. It had felt personal, or so she thought.

 Shrugging off the thought, she reminded herself that she and Ziba were not on that level of friendship to ask such questions. She heaved a sigh, finished her night routine, whispered her prayers, and let the night breeze do its quiet magic.

Ziba did not have the luxury of quiet. She fumed in her room, hurling her textbooks at the wall. She needed somewhere to pour her anger, and for now, her books bore the weight of it.

Her phone lit up.

Mama Yola.

Ziba sighed. “Good evening, Mama Yola."

Mama Yola felt the unspoken anger "What’s going on? Why are you sounding like this, please?”

“Would you let me be if I don’t speak?” Ziba muttered.

“No, I won’t.”

The words tightened something in her chest.
Ziba never understood why Mama Yola wouldn’t leave her alone. She had tried, even back in the village, and it had never worked. Mama Yola was always present,during the daily check-ins with the surviving villagers, at the village square, at festivals, always watching, always reaching for her with questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

The thought dragged her backward.
She had slipped away one afternoon and stood beneath an abelebo tree, staring into the thick forest ahead. Mama Yola had warned that it was enchanted, forbidden ground, but all Ziba could think of were the stories hidden at the other end of it.
“When will you find out what the purple linen is?” Mama Yola had asked.
The sun had been harsh that day, forcing Ziba to squint as she looked at her. Mama Yola bore a quiet resemblance to Mama Rufus, tall, firm, hands shaped by years of hard work. Her beauty had endured time, softened by a gentle chin, a curving nose, cheeks that spoke of rich black soap, balancing the warrior spirit she carried so effortlessly.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Ziba had said.

Mama Yola had smiled, patient and knowing. “You need to feel and embrace peace. Opening that cloth is the way to do it.”

Ziba had smiled faintly, muttered something inaudible, and slipped away. Her fingers tightened around the purple linen.

She had touched it at different times, on different days, deliberately avoiding Mama Yola’s words. 

Sitting on her sack-made bed, she took it out from the small bag Mama Rufus had bought for her during one of the festivals, against her wish.
She untied the knot.

Inside was a letter, rumpled, dirt-stained, written with the urgency of a moment that had no patience.
My Ziba,
the one who hears me calling a billion times and does not listen,
it has saved you today, and I am glad you are not part of the horror.
I love you. I know your desire to further your education. I wanted to surprise you soon with this, but I guess…
I love you, alwa—
The words stopped.
A blood-stained thumbprint sealed the ending.

Ziba felt everything at once, the rush, the fear, the love that did not have time to finish its sentence. Tied to the letter was a strip of fabric bearing a bank name and an account number in Tenja. Her name.

Her mother had been saving for her future.
The tears came, but she did not wail. She pressed the letter and the fabric to her chest and exhaled.

Mama Yola’s firm repetition of 'Ziba, please talk to me' jolted Ziba back to reality.

“Gumba Village was used as a historical subject matter in my class today,” Ziba said quietly. “It shook me. I couldn’t watch the slides. My… our… hut was also shown.”
Mama Yola sighed. “That must have been tough.”
“Very.”
Mama Yola wanted to show warmth, but she had learned, with Ziba, to choose patience. “What do you want right now?”
Ziba slumped onto her room floor. “Just silence.”
Mama Yola gave her exactly that.
And as the silence stretched between them, Ziba remembered the day she had shown Mama Yola the letter and the fabric. How, the very next morning, they had traveled to Tenja, to the almost depleted state of a bank, and begun the process of securing her admission into the University of Tenja.

Not as an escape.
But as continuation.