ALIMA

ALIMA

Grey clouds loomed over our little hut, inauspiciously—like a deathly curse laying at the tip of a witch’s tongue and waiting to be spat. The surrounding trees ruffled slightly as gentle breeze stirred around in the air, and tickled the leaves that crowned the trees. Papa once told me a story about how our forefathers planted the trees and prayed that it guards our home, and so for ages, the trees have stood gracefully tall, keeping our home from evil. They paved a path, decorated by fallen leaves, that led to our garden.

I hurried along the path to the garden, whilst holding down my flowing dress, in hopes of finding herbs for my ailing father. It seemed like a storm was coming, and it would be a shame if the storm got to the herbs before I did. The garden, which was only a stone throw away from my hut, was merely a small piece of land. As small as it seemed, it nurtured everything green my poor family might desire. Getting there, I plucked the last of the herbs from the garden. I brought the little green plant to my face and observed the webbed intricate designs on its leaves.

“Curse you," I blurted out, scrunching one of the leaves in my palm.

Papa had been using the herbs diligently, just as the native doctor had instructed. I never let him go a day without using them. I even started growing the damned plants in our little garden, but papa never got better—in fact, his illness grew worse. Day by day, I watched his health continue to decline. Papa, who was one of the warriors in Jojo—our small village—could no longer move his limbs. No one could administer a proper medicine, for his sickness was strange, and the cause, unknown. It hurt me to watch him always sprawled on his bed with silent tears clouding his eyes and itching at his throat. He had lost his vibrancy. The ever present light in his eyes were long gone, and the knowledge that I was helpless alongside his weakness tormented me so.

A cold drop of water fell on my nose, but I ignored it, as I found peace in losing myself in my sorrowful thoughts. Another dropped on my arm, accompanied by more sharp drops on my back. I turned my gaze up to the sky and I was immediately greeted with the downpour of raindrops. I gathered my dress and raced into the little hut that I inhabited with my Papa, but not before sending a deathly glare to the skies.

“Curse you too!”

* * *

“A-Alima," Papa croaked, barely. I sighed at his sad attempt to call my name, as I hurried to his make-shift room.

“Yes Papa.”

I never met my mother. Papa said she died during childbirth, and that child was me. I always felt sorry knowing that she died while trying to bring me into the world, but a smaller part of me felt cheated. At least she got to go somewhere better. Anywhere was better than here. I looked around the crumbling little hut, it was on the verge of an undeniable collapse. On few occasions, I would see the villagers shake their heads as they passed our home. They said Papa lost everything after the death of his beloved wife, I never understood the logic behind their woes and theories. You’re just a young girl, they would say.

“Alima.” I heard the distant cry of my father. It was sad and weak—just like him.

I turned to face him as tears welled up in my eyes.

"Yes Papa," I said again.

I hadn’t noticed that I had gotten to his room. I had lost myself in my thoughts again and it must have worried him to a great extent. The familiar stench hit my nostrils as I walked further into the room. It had begun to reek around the hut ever since Papa’s illness hit full force. I could smell death.

I hurriedly wiped my tears off with the back of my hand as I knelt by his bamboo bed, taking his wrinkly palm into my smaller one.

“Alima, smile.”