Things We Never Speak Of

HER

They named her Asante and she was a dreamer. Her name meant to thank in Swahili and as always, names command their bearers blindfolded and plunge them into their destiny. It was clear from the start that the name was meant for her, even though her parents would never receive its meaning. A girl full of wonders, a mystery wrapped in delicate retro patterned washi paper, begging to be torn open. But only by those who had enough heart or perhaps no heart at all. 

I remember the first time I saw her. It was the second year of high school after the transfer and my generous rise to teenage popularity. Lunch time. The enticing smell of thick curry and creamy rice tugged at my heartstrings. And all of a sudden, there she was. She was wallpaper. The kind that draws your attention, holding your gaze for hours on end, intent on robbing you of your precious time. She was beautiful but not in a conventional way. Her eyes were deep, soulless to the unwanted trespasser but a secret key to hidden thoughts that weren't uncommon, but rare to those who had eyes open wide enough to see.  She floated past the stream of famished teenagers in a beeline straight towards the ornate dinning hall doors, all the while her fingers tenderly stroked the ivory wall, parting with it one finger at a time. Head down. Anticipation drawing her lips into a playful smile. The deafening ruckus continued and her thick black hair swayed beside her carved face. 

I watched her take her first step outside, eyes closed, waiting. The leather sandals slipped right of her feet. Arms outstretched and head pointing skyward, the heavens divided and the raindrops fell. In the thick of the rain, attracting attention from no other soul but my own, Asante filled her lungs; she could finally breathe.

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If you just so happened to be wandering down the streets of Abata town at roughly half past two in the morning, the glow of the amber street lights would illuminate your path. The grey of the concrete sidewalk would intensify the aura of loneliness emanating from your surroundings. The echoes of a ghost town during the twilight hours, a complete juxtaposition of the daytime vibrancy that floods the cobbled streets. On the corner of Kainua street, huddled at the entrance of Ebenezer bakery, you would see a slim figure, the right side of her body pasted on the glass of the shop door.

The street light illuminates half her face and the other remains in the darkness. Full eyebrows furrowed in concentration with the tip of her tongue gliding back and forth across her upper lip. Once you peel your eyes away from her face, you would notice the bulky spiral bound notebook clutched by elongated fingers. The twirling of her fountain pen on the paper resembles a dance, a smooth adagio then swift brisés forming curvy letters on the blank page. For 30 minutes she remains this way. Writing, pausing, glancing up at the town hall clock then back to writing. Seconds tick by and as the clock strikes three, the musical scratches seize and the girl rises. After a series of stretches to cure her cramped legs, she hugs the notebook to her chest and tucks the pen behind her left ear before striding away from the bakery into the tea bushes on the outskirts of town.

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No light shines through the windows of the pastel yellow house that sits at the top of the hill overlooking the vast Marigold Tea Plantation, its colonial pillars standing guard over the family that lays asleep inside. Unbeknown to the Siva family of Casa de Maravillas, less than one kilometre away in section D, Asante was making her way back home through the dew covered tea bushes. Her ankle length paisley print dress had been reduced to rags, the hemline tattered and flapping in the tranquil breeze. Each squeeze in between narrow spaced bushes creates a new tear. As she nears the back of the house, the puffs of mist surrounding her face and the mild convulsions of her body become more obvious. The backroom shutters are wide open, inviting her to climb into her room. Curled up in a ball under the window frame is Chino, her not so conspicuous Great Dane. His lethargic gaze drifts upwards as he hears the squelching of muddy shoes outside; Chino has learned that the sound of his master's arrival in the wee hours of the morning is simply not worth getting up for these days. His head retreats to lay on his outstretched paws and his drooping eyelids close. 

Asante whispers an internal thanks to her already aching upper body for providing her with enough strength to vault her body through her window and into the comforts of her musky bedroom. From habit, her fingertips graze her amaranth stucco walls. They caress the supple velvet of her antique chaise before reaching down and slipping her filthy leather boots off her feet. Barely a few moments pass before hushed snores drift from the sleeping girl's lips as she lays twisted among her mismatched covers.

She retired in the nighttime symphony, oblivious to the chirps of waking larks as the sun kissed the darkened sky, oblivious to the bulky silhouette of a boy-come-man lurking in her doorway. He glided silently towards her sleeping figure, unaware he was holding his breath until a sigh of relief escaped his plump lips as he saw the dramatic rise and fall of her chest. He tugged the notebook out her loosened grip, picked up the dejected looking pen off the covers, placed them on her dresser and slunk back into the retreating shadows.

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Author's note:

Hello! Hope you all liked the chapter. If you did, comment and tell me what you liked or feel free to ask any questions, but if you didn't like it, comment anyways and tell  me what you think went wrong:(

Much appreciation!