Her eyes pierced me like a wooden
knife. It did not leave me injured but took my breath away in a minute the same
way I had done with her in her teenage years. It scared me, I could not take it
anymore. The early years flashed in front of my curious eyes. It was all past
but something was still waiting to get finished, I thought. I had hurt her every
time she came close to me. I ignored her. The ignorance which killed her in the
past was my failure in the present. I spoke no word of hurt but my silence
infuriated her to a larger extent. Her graceful eyes still searched something.
That something which she expected out of me. The slender and lithe figure made
her look elegant and that touch of beauty did not diminish in this age too. She
kept her eyes transfixed on me. As if she asked me. She questioned me. My
silence. I couldn't meet her gaze and averted my gaze. But truth appeared like
a rock in the sea of betrayal. It did not move but stood as a testimony to my
doings. I collected my thoughts and continued to meet her gaze. The eyes
ambushed me without warning. Emotions pressed together in my mind. I thought I
will apologize for whatever I have done and regain her trust. She might
understand. And let go the past. The hurt. She was holding a stick which
supported her to walk and move. She came forward. Her legs moved. Inch by inch.
It slowed down in front of me. The stick came right in front of my figure when
she was stopped by a very English looking gentleman. She quivered. The smile of
the man comforted me. They moved ahead. As if something was forgotten, the man
walked behind. He stood in front of me and said in a serious tone, “Uncle,
sorry. My mother cannot see. Sorry if you were hurt.” I stood there
dumbfounded. My eyes searched for her attention. The eyes saw me, yet they did
not see me. But even if they did not, they did reveal the truth. She loved me. She is not blind. I am.
“I wanted to tell Mama that it did feel different to be back, that our living room had too much empty space, too much wasted marble floor that gleamed from Sisi’s polishing and housed nothing. Our celing was too high. Our furniture was lifeless: the glass tables did not shed twisted skin in the harmattan, the leather sofas’ greeting was a clammy coldness, and the Persian rugs were too lush to have any feeling. But I said, “You polished the etagere.” " The above text appears when Jaja and Kambili return from Nsukku, their Aunty Ifeoma’s house, and witness their place as dull and lacking warmth even though the house glistened like a palace. The warmth that Aunty Ifeoma’s house had carried during the days they spent despite having a nondescript house and where they prayed every day for Peace and Laughter. Laughter among all the things. Because Laughter was valued in their house everyday despite living with shortcomings something that Kambili hardly got to experience in own h
A good one,Saranya
ReplyDeleteInteresting story.
ReplyDeletegood one last sentence is awesome
ReplyDeleteout on a break ??
ReplyDelete