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It was Mrs. Bertha Walsh's last dying wish to spend the remaining days of her life with her family at home and not in a foster care. The eighty-nine year old woman who suffered from Alzheimer's, had been a widow for ten years now and often forgot many things. She lived with her daughter, the mother of her three lovely granddaughters and who would kiss her goodbye whenever they leave home for work and school-and whose names she could barely remember. Though the disease corrupted most of her memory, there were still two things Mrs. Walsh would never forget and that no illness could creep it out of her. It was her eldest granddaughter Laura and the man called Luis.
The seventeen year old Laura was the only one who knew about her grandmother's so-called secrets which every night she get to listen. Whenever it's time for their bedtime stories, Laura would prepare her extended patience in hearing the same thing over and over again-and most of it she just didn't believe. She thought that they were all just made-up. Her grandma would tell her about the unfortunate fate of a black man who fell in love with a white woman. Because the world wasn't ready yet to embrace the unacceptable bond between the two different races, the man had to be beaten up to death to permanently part him from his love. Mrs. Walsh claimed to have seen the crime herself but she couldn't remember who exactly the man was. There were also times when she couldn't even recall telling such story whenever Laura would ask more about it. And so she had the impression that it was just the disease causing her grandma to imagine and believe things sometimes.
Another favorite story that excite the old woman and loved to tell Laura every single night, and always made her smile, her wrinkling face would blush like it was just the first time she had ever tell it was how deeply in love she once was. There's a man she called Luis who had nothing to give but flowers and his love. He was not rich unlike the other guys in town but he was the only one who had ever make her feel special without even touching her. Unfortunately, Bertha's parents wouldn't approved of him because he was financially incapable to match with their family's reputation of wealthy politicians. But their love was way too strong that despite the threats, they managed to continuously exchange letters and kept each other warm. They once ran away to Greece one summer, an idea of Bertha. She had to persuade Luis to it, who was hesitant because he simply couldn't afford the trip and the trouble it would surely cost. But it was a promise of a once-in-a-lifetime journey where they can be in love and free even just for a while. Bertha paid for two tickets for the travel on cruise, which they filled with memories and love. Together they shared the sunsets and sunrises in the long stretch of beach in Athens, not worrying about the chaos of their reality.
" I was the most beautiful woman in the world." Mrs. Walsh smiled at Laura, her voice was low and soft. " With those flowers he used to give me and he'd put one behind my ear. Luis made me feel like I was the prettiest. " she continued. As Laura looked into her grandma's weary and puffy eyes, the lines of wrinkles stretching around them as she smiled, she could see both sadness and happiness.
But this story that brought her grandma almost back to her youth full of life, also gave Laura both the chills and confusion. For she didn't know who Mr. Luis was. Neither could it be her late grandfather simply because his name wasn't Luis but Donald. Not even close. And no such name was ever mentioned to them, not even before the Alzheimer. This time, Laura finally asked.
" Isn't grandpa Donald your only great love? He is your husband remember? "She softly asked.
"No! Luis is the only man I ever loved." She began to sob. " Even when he suddenly disappeared after our trip, and stopped sneaking out to our yard every night to give me flowers, he's still the only man I love." Tears started to drip down her flaccid cheeks.
This was why Laura never wanted to ask She leaned closer, her face clouded with sudden guilt. " I'm sorry grandma, I didn't mean to make you cry."
" I know my dear that you're not like them. You won't make me stay away from Luis right? " Her eyes were begging.
" No,no grandma I won't. I promise." Softly Laura assured her.
A few weeks later, family and friends gathered around to mourn Mrs. Walsh's funeral and as she was slowly brought to the ground, sealed in a coffin. Laura clutched in her hand the heart locket grandma gave her few days before her passing as she stood still, all in pain.
After the funeral, Laura rushed to her grandmother's room and did exactly what she was told when Mrs. Walsh was still alive. She grabbed the dusty old box hidden beneath the bed and opened it. Goosebumps wrapped all over her as her grandma's precious secrets lay naked before her very eyes. In it were old black and white photos of Mrs. Walsh and in every picture there's a man smiling next to her. He was black, to Laura's surprise. There were exchanged letters too, so old that they already turned brownish and each had a name written on it: Luis Atkins.
There was also a picture of an old oak tree, sitting underneath it's shade was Mr. Luis. He was holding a flower with his handsome bright smile. At the back of it was grandma's handwriting saying:
To you I promise my eternal love...'Til my
very last breath.
-Bertha, 1952
Shaking, Laura rushed outside with the photo in her hand-the same oak tree that stood in front of their house was the one in the picture. It was all real. He was real.
But Laura was puzzled to see an unfamiliar figure of a man standing beneath the tree. He was black but he certainly wasn't Mr. Luis. She walked towards him.
" You must be Bertha's granddaughter. You have her lovely blue eyes." The stranger said smiling.
And with each closer look, the man's face resembled of someone Laura couldn't quite recognize.
" I'm sorry sir, but I'm afraid I don't know you." She sniffed.
The man introduced himself. He was Robert Atkins, Mr. Luis' brother. And under the old oak tree Laura listened to a jaw-dropping revelations of the long forgotten past. Mr. Robert was her grandmother Bertha's only ally when Luis went missing. He said, the night after their return from Greece, his brother was abducted and taken away somewhere nobody knew to torture. Robert and Bertha searched everywhere but couldn't find him. Until one night, when he was walking her home, they witnessed their fear came to reality. From the distance they could see a silhouette of three men in the dimly lit yard where the oak tree stood. The other two men was doing their dirty job, beating up the man on the ground who was begging for his life. Even from a good distance, Bertha could still recognize her own father and Donald walsh-the man she was arranged and forced to marry. Then right before she could run and save her beloved, gunshots filled the air and two bullets hit Luis right in the head. Her father had pull the trigger onto him. Bertha could only collapse into her knees in sudden grief. Nobody in the neighborhood dared to speak against the unlawful execution of the black man now stumbled on the ground. Robert was also threatened to death including his family. So he had to flee as far as he could with a heavy heart.
Robert told Laura how he wanted to keep his promise to his brother that if anything happens to him, he'd be sending Bertha flowers everyday in his behalf. But it was too impossible back then. And he also shared how Luis saved all his money to buy Bertha a gift, the locket necklace she treasured the most. Now, it was for Laura to keep in remembrance of a love that once bloomed in this cruel world.
As Mr. Robert departed, Laura sat on the grass leaning against the oak tree. The sky above changed color as it prepared for the coming of darkness. This will be the first night she won't be hearing her grandma's bedtime stories. But more than ever, she felt happy for her. She now finally understood why grandma chose to forget who the man was in her tragic story. Maybe because it was way too painful to believe. She knew, somewhere her grandmother could finally be free to love the only man who has ever made her feel the most beautiful.
" No one can separate you now from him, grandma. I promise you." She closed her eyes, almost whispering to the heavens.
Somewhere far, Bertha is young and beautiful again, dancing freely in the beach of Athens. Luis tucked a flower behind her ear. He had long been waiting for her. Now they can finally disappear into the beautiful paradise together.
ENCOUNTER WITH A GHOST
If I had been told, I would have simply disregarded it. Another delusion, I would say. I was no believer of any superstition, and I made sure to put that clear to anyone I associated with. My friends would say my attitude towards things that were in fact, true, even as they sounded improbable, would misguide me some day. I would only laugh at their statement.
?I'm not changing my views either ways,? I would firmly reply.
I'm not sure if that reply still stands today. What I've seen with my own eyes had changed that. And now, I am left to decide whether to believe all superstitions I hear. The world we live in is an open, yet strange world. I would never have believed it if someone had told me. But one cannot easily disparage what the eyes have seen, the mouth has spoken to, and the skin has felt. I never told my superstitious friends about it, but I knew from that very day I saw him, I was changing my stance to a superstition.
I was riding through the streets of Sokoto city that very day. The sun there was as usual, fierce. Nothing compared to the one I left in Minna few years back. As unpredictable as Sokoto's weather was, dark clouds suddenly started forming. And before I knew, it started. First like a shower, but before I could get to the Maggi market close to the roundabout at Dandima, it turned into a downpour. If I wanted to avoid being drenched to my underwear, I had no other choice than to take refuge in one of the shops few meters before the market. Getting off the motorcycle, I hurriedly dragged it into the first empty space I could find. I had borrowed it from a friend, and wouldn't want anything to go wrong with it I was lucky to have found a closed shop. I stood in its balcony. I don't know what time it was then. My wrist watch was inoperative ? a characteristic shared by most wrist watches worn by young men. The time setting on my phone was inaccurate either. But knowing that I had left the lodge I was staying early in the morning, I guessed it should be anywhere around ten.
I stood there, breathing in the sweet air from the rain. I loved rains. Especially, rains that came without winds; the like that was currently falling. I had once written a poem on such rains. I thought of my morning appointment with Zahra. We had arranged to meet the night before. It was to be our first meeting. A meeting I looked forward to ? I admired the girl a lot. Although the rain was jeopardizing the possibility of that meeting, I was surprisingly happy about it. The colder the weather, the cozier we would both be, I reasoned. I knew she would object to coming out after the rain. Her mother would not let her, she would probably say. But I knew I wasn't going to accept that. I would simply cajole her to sneak out. Moreover, if the internet love she had shown me earlier on was anything true, she would happily oblige. Everything was moving fine in my mind. I could feel myself smiling. Today would be epic! I beamed.
As I stood there, another person intruded me. From the way he looked, I could not see any reason for him running away from the rain ? he was already drenched. Water was dripping off from his almost tattered buba. He turned after squeezing out the water from the lower part of his garment,
?Salaamu-alaikum,? he greeted.
I rose my head to answer, and froze almost immediately. Was who I was looking at really who I thought it was? I wondered. Maybe the man of around fifty noticed the puzzlement,
?Anything the matter?? he asked.
?No?Nothing,? I stammered. ?Wa-alaika-salaam.?
?Sorry if I scared you,? he said in Hausa.
?No, it's nothing Baba,? I answered, accordingly.
?Okay then,? he finalized.
We stood there quietly. However, secretly, I was scared to the bone. Didn't he know who I was? Or maybe he was feigning ignorance? I asked myself as I stole a look at him. Here I was, standing side by side with my friend's supposed?or should I simply say?late father. I had witnessed his funeral proceedings. Was I not in fact, one of those that dug his grave? How could I have forgotten that day, when I and few others had together shed tears with my friend? He was devastated by his father's death. I spent a long time trying to quieten him, even as I cried. I knew the pain of losing a parent. I had also lost my father few years before then. And even though I hadn't known my friend for as long as a year, we considered each other the best of friends, and one person's agony was equally the other's. We had met in boarding school about a year back before then I had seen the man once. But at the time, I have not made friends with his son yet. Except for the incentives from father his son would bring for me on resumption from holidays, I had seen nothing of the man again. The one and only day I would have gotten to see him again, was the day we went to his funeral in his hometown.
How was I then looking at the same man I shed memorable tears for? I was lost in thought. Maybe I was hallucinating. Or I may have been dreaming all along. I was unsure of the state I was in. I was so engrossed in my mix-up that I didn't realize the rain had turned to a slight drizzle.
?Ah, Alhamdulillah,? the man's voice jerked me back to life. ?The rain has subsided.?
I rose my head and gave him a faint smile. I think he noticed I was shivering.
?You are shivering,? he laughed. ?And you didn't even get wet.?
I forced a smile. If only he knew why I shivered. Perhaps he knew, but enjoyed seeing me that way. He chatted on as we both waited for the drizzling to stop. We could see the sun forcing its way through the clouds. I was not saying much, but it didn't appear the man cared. By the time the rain stopped, I was feeling a little bit at ease Not with the fact that I was talking to a ghost, but that I was to a harmless one.
The sun finally conquered the clouds. Except for the water-logged holes, the culverts that still contained running water, and of course, the man that still looked drenched, everywhere appeared dry. That was one of the wonders of The Seat of the Caliphate: Sokoto. We both stepped out of our sanctuary. The man bade me farewell. As he turned to go, I had a sudden inclination.
?I'm sorry Baba,? I called. ?If you wouldn't mind, I will love to give you a lift back home.?
?Really?? he asked, pleased. ?Thank you, my son.?
?It's nothing Baba.?
Forgetting that I needed to give Zahra a call and explain things to her, I carefully lowered down the motorcycle for the man to hop on. I rode slowly as he directed me to his house. We arrived at a mud house in Arkillan mallam shortly after.
?Wait for me here,? the man announced as he got off. ?I will just change my cloth and be with you shortly.?
?Baba tsaya dan Allah,? I said in Hausa. ?wait, please.?
?Yadai?? he asked. ?What is it??
?Do you know me?? I inquired.
?Yes.?
I shuddered at his reply. So, he knew all along, I thought. But just before I could say anything, he added:
?You are the boy I met a while ago while it was raining.?
We both laughed.
?No, seriously,? I pushed. ?You don't remember me??
?Gaskiya, I don't.?
I scratched my head, thinking of how best to approach the matter.
?I am Aliyu,? I announced. ?Aliyu, Ndana's school friend.?
The man scratched his head in turn.
?Ndana?? he was puzzled.
?I mean, your son Ndana,? I explained.
And I saw the man's jaw fall. His eyes reddened immediately. Before I knew, tears flowed freely down. I was confused. Why was he crying? Was he remorseful over faking his own death? But could he have fooled his own wife and child? I asked him politely and carefully, all I needed answers to.
As I rode back home that morning, I turned the man's words in my head. True enough, he was a ghost?or more properly, a wandering ghost. I've heard numerous accounts of people dying but later being rumored to be seen in other places. Superstitions! I would angrily say. A dead person can never be seen anywhere. But even as I disregarded that fact, the phenomenon behind it was quite clear: The supposed dead persons whose ghosts were seen in other places have in fact, not naturally died. The deaths were simply orchestrated by witchcraft. The corpses everyone would see were tree stumps that were made to look like the deceased. The deceased are however, teleported to faraway places to wander; either in the bush, if the witch or wizard responsible was cruel, or in a settlement to start a new life, if the witch or wizard was considerate ? never to return home again. If by rare chance, any of such persons were to be found and brought back home, the witch or wizard responsible for their death will instantly, on seeing the person, fall and confess their sins. After which they would die a miserable death. The returned ghosts would themselves not last more than two years before dying a real, natural death.
I was starting to believe some of those facts now. For what the man related to me, coupled with the little I knew were in accordance with them. I had arranged with the man to inform his relatives. He had agreed to the suggestion. On reaching home, I had phoned my friend, Ndana. I chose my words carefully. Broaching such news to a close relative wasn't going to be an easy task. I was pleased by the way Ndana reacted. He was ecstatic. He wanted to speak to his dead father almost immediately. I had asked him to be patient. That I was going back to his father's place later in the day. He had thanked me. I was happy for him.
At around five-thirty in the evening that same day, I rode down to Arkillan mallam. I surprisingly, didn't have any trouble locating the house. It was unlike me to get the exact directions to a place that I had only being to once. But I guess, by the virtue of the task I had embarked on, everything was going smoothly for me. Before I came down there, Ndana had put his mother on the phone. The woman had remarried, but was anxious to hear the voice of her former husband. She had requested I went there immediately, when in fact, I intended to go close to the time of the dusk prayer.
I came down from the bike, and made a loud Salam at the house's door. There was this smile on my face. I didn't know what it was for. Smile of happiness, maybe, I thought. My Salam was answered by an unusual voice. The man that came out was not who I was expecting. I greeted him anyway. I then asked to see my friend's father.
?I've not seen him since he went out in the morning,? the man replied.
Maybe he wasn't back from his business yet, I thought. So, I asked:
?Please, when will he be back??
?He should have been back long ago,? the man replied, ?I've lived in this house with him for two years now, and he has never stayed out this late before.?
I was now confused. What was this man saying? My friend's father had told me earlier in the morning that he sold fried fish in town, and usually comes back by seven in the evening each day Why was this man now saying he had never stayed out late when it was just some minutes to the hour of six?
?But he told me he always comes back by seven.?
?He did? Well, I don't recall ever seeing him outside by that time, except if he goes out to that mosque over there to pray.?
I started to shiver. The man noticed and asked what was wrong. I narrated everything to him. We both sat and pondered. And then it was only after I left the place that it dawned on me the other phenomena associated with wandering ghosts. It had been said that only few people have successfully brought home wandering ghosts. And those few people were mostly hunters that were highly skilled in magic. For it was with no doubt that if wandering ghosts realize they would be taken back home, the charm acting on their being will immediately, unconsciously, compel them to leave that place they were spotted. They would then move to other places far away, to begin life afresh. I called Ndana and explained things to him and his mother. We all cried.
That night, I laid on my bed with a mind full of thoughts. This world we live in is an open, yet strange world, I concluded. I knew then that not all superstitions were superstitions. And that this superstition, if ever it were one, was one I had to regard. For how could I deny that which I have been a part of? I laid there turning all that happened that day in my head. And then suddenly, I wondered, whether my own father died a natural death. I found myself wishing he didn't?? That he was living a new life in another place. And that someday, I would set my eyes on him again, even if it were to be as brief as it was with Ndana's father, and call him Daddy once more. For I have missed him too much. For a moment, I craved for a superstition?a delusion.
As I drank in my fantasies, I could feel my tears streaming down freely. And then, my phone rang. I picked it up. Zahra! I dropped the phone absent-mindedly and turned on the bed. This is no time for romance my dear, I mumbled.
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