THE QUIET LAND

THE COURAGELESS by KASHAMADUPE

*The Courageless.*

I've died many times before, watching my body from the safety of the clouds beneath the heavens, wondering how I could have been so foolish to let death under my skin over and over again.

The first time I died was the very first day I was born. I was whipped so hard with a cord till I was revived back to life. Oh, I had cried. So loud till I died again. Only to be resurrected in my mother's arms, with regrets of why I didn't just strangle myself a million ways with my umbilical cord that curled itself around my neck while I rented my mother's womb, forever lingering at the back of my mind. Then on my naming day, in the presence of the corn cookies and coconut; the hot peppers and alligator peppers; the salt and water; the sugar and honey; and the bitter kolas and kola nuts, my mother called me Ojo as it was my predestined name when I could have just been given any of the beautiful names of an Abiku since I was born to die all my life.

Then I've died many times after. I've died watching those shoes on display because I doubted my mother would have bought them for me if I asked; I've died in the hands of bullies body shaming me for being fat; I've died in the face of the congregation when I suddenly forgot _Psalm 27:1_ that I knew by heart; I've died asking my father for some money because I feared he would yell at me and say I was a bastard; I've died being an outcast from my peers because I was different; and I've died from discovering who I was because I feared no one would ever really know who I was even if I knew myself.

Today, I died again when she looked at me and I looked away. Perhaps she must have been staring. I was seated two seats behind her. She had looked over her shoulder when our eyes had met. I thought she was looking at someone else so I scanned my surroundings briefly with my eyes. No one but me. When our eyes greeted each other again I looked away. Not because her eyes were a pair of full moons with the core of a starless midnight sky fit for the owls to flutter or because of her clean, light face that was just as pulchritudinous as the morning sun sweet for the sparrows for to sing. No, it was because I let death under my skin.

I've stood by the entrance of the hall once watching her walk out, alone, with nothing but her brown braids dancing behind her little golden frame and a bag over her shoulder. Then she had walked past me. I had longed to reach for her shoulder and speak to her, even if it was just to ask for her name (which I already looked up on the attendance online). But instead, I died. Only when she was about some yards away did I live again.

Maybe I'll never really ~love~ live till I die.

© Kashamadupe.