The rants of an antsy girl

01/02/2020

Saturday

'You never even heard my side of the story!' The elder daughter was saying over the phone. Zita's face squeezed in contempt.
'Oh, your reaction to whatever your younger sister did or said to you leaves me no choice but to justify her. Just because I gave you some slaps doesn't mean I am over your stupidity.' Her mother countered while cutting strong disapproving looks at her Make up artist. The lady was practically sweating in the chill room.
'You know you are being unfair. Whatever I did, Laju caused it. You always take her side.' Joan continued to talk. Zita made a sound at the back of her throat. She had always hated the manner with which this people spoke, the way they spoke English to each other like they were trying to prove a point. The falsity that their plenty money and social status had heaped on them.
This particular daughter, Joan, was one who had a ready complaint to drop every passing day. She was so green that she forgot positivity. From her mouth she unendingly spewed ungratefulness.
'Don't talk to me that way. Today is my birthday, at least respect me and... In short, I am not having this conversation with you. Like Aposto Paul said in the Bible, greet each other with a kiss,'
'But-'
'Also, send the photo man upstairs now.'
'He is called a photographer,'
'Go and tell JAMB and stop wasting my card!'
Then she dropped the phone on the side stool. Zita  made her presence known by dropping the tray of sliced fruit on the same stool. The latter half expected the woman to make a remark on the ended call, but she did not speak concerning that again.
So far, she was the one whose personality flowed in and out like tides sweeping on the banks of the beach. Natural.
Urowoli. Softness.
Sometimes Zita wondered why though, the complexity of the human mind. How the outward could portray something totally different from what was on the inside. The thoughts and more critically, the motives. Sinister motives never determine if one's behavior would be sinister.
Zita did not know what to feel anymore. There was nervousness, there was venge and there was uncertainty. There was hate. Hopefully, gratification would follow after everything.
'Happy birthday Madam,' she said gleefully.
Urowoli smiled but said nothing to her, instead she snapped at the Makeup artist yet again.
'My face looks like I swallowed a lightbulb! Reduce the bronzer.'
Zita got her answer then and she started out of the door. Just as she was closing the door behind her, the woman called her and she turned back.
'Thank you,' she said with a stiff smile.
For a moment, Zita wanted to back out. If not for anyone, but the woman.
However, whatever had to be done, had to be done.

...

She had her moment when everyone was finally distracted. The younger daughter, Laju, had come down with Urowoli. She had her mother's beauty. Rich, dark with the beauty of quality mahogany and so Zita had always like her, felt this special connection with her and pitied her in short, knowing what the end was.
Euomo was the woman that was available. Her heart was cold like the nose of a dog, her eyes dead like swatted down flies on hot afternoons and she had the deceptive and softness of her womanly body. Graceful, feminine and she was ready to die.
For what, Zita wanted to know, why? The explanations could not suffice.
Such a pretty, stone cold woman yielding to such a dark act. The free will to die, a more grievous yet pious form of suicide. The gradual death. Was it sacrifice or selfishness?
She had been told not to ask though, but still she wondered what it was. That a woman would succumb to slow, painful, disgraceful death. Despite her excuse. Her reason.
No, the woman was in no way materialistic.
She had come on a cool afternoon from the drizzle. Her hard eyes pierced them and He had the perplexed of a skilled thief that had just been caught. He was unsympathetic, cold, gruff because he was always that way whenever he smelled threat. Whenever goddess vulnerable came to seduce him.
'How did you find here?'
She seemed to not want to answer at first, she hesitated in a deliberate manner, sighed like it was a mock song and scrunched her brows like there was heavy question hanging on the air.
'I had a daughter,' she started. Something in her voice wanted you to stop listening but gripped you nonetheless. 'She reminded me of the ripe tomatoes of Jos. Full of life, comely, red.' Her voice quivered a bit and she spoke like Zita wished she could've.
'She was burned. It was not by will since my ancestry forbids cremation but yet...' she shut her eyes and held for some breather. 'Yet, she was burned.'
She counted off five on her starchy looking fingers.
'Five. Five is the number of pain and it is the fifth month now. I want to be burned.'
His irritation had long died but all he felt now or showed was official sympathy. She had been sent, referred and he understood. Zita knew he had expected someone bound like a goat and thrown at his feet, mercy pooling in such's eyes. He always loved mercy because he hardly had none. They all never had none.
'Your sentiments seem discouraging. Are you willing?'
The woman raised her eyes as if to say, does this look like unwillingness?
Zita was affronted. It seemed too incredulous to her that someone would readily die.
When she was asked her name, she said,
'Euomo.' Like she detested the name with her all. Zita knew then that the woman was going with it through and through.
'Her death will solve nothing for her,' Zita had said later but then He accused her of growing soft hearted after such a long time of waiting. Too many sacrifices had already been made, too many investments, too many study, too many pledges had come to happen so that she locked herself off from the depths of her emotions.
Finally! The time had come. Everyday for fifteen years she had been fed the draught of hate, anger with steady fueling. She had grown up to hate the rich who felt righted to things. The rich like Phillip Ofortokun.
It was not her fault that in a battle of wills her hate overwhelmed her emotions of pity. She hated their various guts. And today was the day of vengeance and like Euomo, she would go through with it through and through.
Euomo was under the mango tree by the windows and her face was expressionless, with a hint of bitterness. Bitterness at the world.
At a glance, one would attest to having seen two identically dressed identical twins.
"Are you ready?" She asked in a bid of gruff.
Euomo breathed out heavily and smoothed her gown as she replied. Her voice shook a little.
"I should be asking you."
Zita pulled off her oiled stained apron. The one that Urowoli had clasped on her hands as one would throw feeds to hungry chicks.
The woman donned it like it was a weight. Truly, it could be a mere physical representation of her cross.
Zita hesitated and said,
"Is this ritual necessary to give you peace?"
Euomo smiled.
"My people say that children are ancient and wise over the plains but even the ancient and the wise need to be mothered. Five had yet to fully embrace her when she got burned and I had shifted my buttocks and allowed such mishap locate." Then very sadly she added, "She was so innocent and she had a smile that switched on my lights and made me surface the waters again. Each day."
Zita did not know what to say again. She put on a strong face and tried on her authority over this pathetic woman that made her feel so much that it confused her.
Somehow she wanted to tell the woman to go burn herself elsewhere but somewhere in the terrifying calm and infinite ending of the woman, there was a quest for closure.
A mother trying to break out of the guilt of the death of her child. Trying to appease her soul.
Suddenly it became more apparent that there was more selfishness than selflessness.
"Now Urowoli is down and it will not be long until they start cutting the cakes. I will be by the sink and the latch of the window would have been undone. We'll be quick and the gas would have spread some. Just light a match."
Unexpectedly, Euomo grabbed Zita's shoulders quickly and bore her eyes in a gripping stare.
"You promised me death. Death is all I want."
Zita shrugged off her hands and returned to the kitchen and then washed absentmindedly.
Joan entered then with a boy with bushy hair to cut the cake.
A tear dropped and then no more. This was the beginning of the end.

...

She was a long way when she heard it. It was not like she had pictured it. It was a combustion of meeting chemical. Silence. Then mortified shrieks. The orange glows illuminated the dark sky some and then it reduced steadily. It was a success. She knew the fire could have left the room. The door had been shut.
Now she felt powerful.
He pulled up then, the timid one and they drove off, downing cans of hot lacasera.