BETROTHED (13)

A concrete bungalow with a zinc roof, potted plants on the porch, a roughed-up bicycle leaning against the wall, a swept dirt path with patches of green grass, all of it told her she was standing in the place she now called home.

Ziba was grateful for the holiday break and already knew she would stay shut in her room. But knowing Mama Yola, and now Amena, that would never be possible.

Amena had kept things light on their first day of meeting, and Ziba appreciated that. But she knew the doggedness of Mama Yola, and she also knew there was a strength still coming, one not yet revealed.

Amena had asked to see her again a day before she travelled. Ziba kept wondering why Amena was keeping it so cordial, as though they wouldn’t cross paths again in the village.

“I have to pack up. It’s a long break, after all,” she said, looking at Mena, who had continued to disturb the waiter for another banana bread crust.

“Please, I just need two hours to discuss some personal matters. Mama Yola is only concerned about you.” Ziba understood. She really did. But she had tried. She didn’t want to be stretched anymore.

“I can’t. I won’t.”

Amena saw the fire in her eyes and knew that if she pushed further, Ziba would retreat completely.

“Okay, Ziba. See you soon, by God’s grace.”

Annoyingly, Ziba nodded as she gently nudged Mena that they were leaving. Mena waved excitedly at Amena, clearly unaware of the tension that sliced the air like a knife.

Remembering this almost made Ziba miss the late-afternoon sun walking with her down the path to Mama Rufus’ home. It caught the dust in the air and the sheen of polished cotton gowns on villagers going about their daily activities.

The elderly woman who had become her confidant and mother swarmed her in a hug as soon as she sighted her from the living room window.

“See how beautiful you are,” Mama Rufus said, smiling affectionately, pulling her into another embrace.

Mama Rufus sized her up. Ziba was wearing a high-waisted Ankara palazzo pant with a crisp white button-down shirt tucked in. Ziba didn’t see what was spectacular about it, but trust Mama Rufus—her greatest cheerleader.

She entered the house she shared with Mama Rufus and Papa Sunny. They had bonded over loss and pain. Papa Sunny straightened up on the semi-rough sofa that had become his signature seat. His coral beads made a soft welcoming sound as he embraced her.

“You are looking well."

Mama Rufus shouted from the inner kitchen, “I told her oh! She thought I was joking!”

Ziba pecked Papa Sunny and went in to drop her belongings, there was never a dull moment with Mama Rufus and Papa Sunny. She smiled as she covered her intricate stitch braids,with their tiny gold rings, with a scarf.

She went out through the back to draw water and overheard the two elders using laughter as a language for forgetting pain and loss. She smiled as she drew the last bucket. She needed to remember, not forget.

“Ziba! Go and rest oh! I can hear her fetching water. She should be resting! Go and rest oh! Don’t let me catch you there!”

Ziba laughed.

“Yes, Mama.”

Retreating into her room, she smiled as she took out the letter Mena had told her to read after she got home: Hello Ziba, I know you know this is Mena. I want to appreciate you for being my friend—even though you did not want to be…Ziba laughed softly, I found out from my Papa that it was your hometown that got razed. Now I understand better why you froze in class. My deepest condolences for all that you lost. Your mother was dear to a whole lot of people, including my Papa. He said he loved how she delivered the eggs from the hens and cared for them until they were transported to be sold in different villages.

I am sorry if I am entering uncharted waters. May God comfort you in Jesus’ name. Amen.

Your love,

Mena Tike.

She frowned, Not this again. She hated sympathy. She was just beginning to like Mena, and now this?As the thoughts burned in her chest, she heard Papa Sunny’s cane tap three times. She smiled.

It meant it was time to appreciate the stars and the moon.

Looking out of her window, Ziba heaved a sigh. How does he always know what I need when I myself don’t?

The routine of appreciating the stars and moon was from Mama Yola. When they had first arrived in the village, frightened, shaken, broken, Mama Yola had gathered them one evening and said: “When we appreciate God’s creation, we remember what joy feels like in our lives, and we are comforted for our lost ones.” Ziba had thought it ridiculous then.

She still thought it ridiculous now, but she always obliged Papa Sunny, because he was dear to her heart.

“I won’t wait for you oh, Ziba!”

She hurriedly folded the letter still open on her wrapper-made bed and moved toward the door.

“Papa Sunny, I’m coming!”