paradise
GEORGINA.
It is a bitterly cold morning at the tail end of June. And exactly to the day, when Georgina left our home.
In her bag, she packed the memories of our times shared, the air of our coffee-stained kitchen tops, the sweetness of a shared sunset, and the entire weight of my love.
Despite my shattered heart, I found the strength to sweep the broken pieces with words. They absorbed the blot of sorrow that had soaked my being. These letters helped to heal the wounds that had infected my spirit. They spoke of what my mouth had been sewn from saying.
Today, I deliver them to her.
THREE DAYS
THE GARDEN NEVER DRIES.
Georgina is not the only woman to leave home.
I used to be happy.
When I walked barefoot on the dew-soaked soils of our garden and stood no taller than the coffee table at the heart of our living room. In this world of mine where everything dwarfed me, my spirit was purest. The boldness in my actions and the genuineness of my curiosity amused all. These lay the foundations for the man I would go on to become.
My mother used to write letters that she put in bottles. I would sit at the feet of her chair, looking at the towering world around me, and watch her write for hours. Every once in a while, I would interrupt her to show her the clay toy I had molded. With a ruffle of my hair and a smile, she would acknowledge my work and persist with her own.
I wondered what the letters carried. Were they secrets as to where my father left to? Or were there clues to my heritage? Because she never said much about herself. We had never visited any relative, and our doors never welcomed her kin.
I feared that the house she raised me in was the only place she had ever called home.
She always rose before the sun shone, and ferried produce from the garden to the market. Her garden never dried; not even when the earth got so dry that the worms came up. And it was not as if she bought the waste from Mrs. Nerine’s cows – the ones that made grass green and supple. Not at all. Mother barely ever tilled the soil, fought the pests, or cut the weeds. Her garden was always fertile and her produce ever plenty.
One day she placed the bottles with the mysterious letters in them, inside a wooden chest which she took to the forest to bury.
“Who do you write to mama?”
“There will come a time when you’ll understand.”
THE GIFT.
I had a cabinet at the bottom corner of the kitchen, where I used to hide whenever I played. Then one time, my stepfather, hot off the pints at the bar he so loved, came home to turn it upside down.
I ran away after he started breaking mother’s pots. Darting from the cabinet, I launched myself atop the kitchen sink, and out through the open window. I slammed it back on his face. He punched the window like a sharp pencil poking through paper. Spikey shards of broken glass tore his skin as he pulled back his arm, slicing through his veins and exposing the whites of his nerve fibers.
I ran into the forest and continued till my ankles gave in and with my knees as solid as jam, I collapsed at The Keeper’s feet.
“Why are you in a rush, my dear boy?”
“I… I… cannot. I cannot say.” I said as I cupped my eyes.
They had started to sting, but I didn’t want to cry.
“Everyone is angry. People are so mean. I just want it to stop.” I’d gained some composure.
“Boy, I see that you are hurting. The forest finds favor with you.
Here, have this blessing, a gift passed from the first angels.
Take it, and use it to bring kindness to a world where evil reigns freely.”
At first, I couldn’t feel any change. My head was tucked between my knees and my eyes were blurred by tears. When I lifted my head, I saw the birds flying, the deer running and the monkeys swinging. But as they did, they left behind traces of light.
Brilliant colors followed each individual animal wherever they went. Some shine with the red of burning embers. Others in the green of basil leaves. Some would have the gold of palm oil. Every animal had an energy trail. Each color radiating from their tails or legs or heads in effortless motion.
The Keeper had given me the gift of being able to visualize moods, feelings, and emotions. I observed that animals, unlike humans, didn’t carry complex emotions. They are driven by simple desires. Birds wish to grab straws for their nest while the leopards hunt to find prey for their cubs. None do so in pursuit of revenge, fulfillment of jealousy, or execution of anger. No father cub fights the mother cub because he had gone to a pond and had too much fermented fruit to eat.
Not like mine.
KING OF THE HILL.
It was lunch break.
We were playing in the compound behind the classes, on the white soil left after the builders were done with their cement. I remember it was king of the hill. And Dennis was standing at the top of the mound of soil. We would try to run up and knock him over one after the other. When it came to my turn, I charged toward him and he threw a leg in defense. I caught it and swung him over in one swift motion. He fell to his side, rolling all the way down.
“Sorry for that, I… I… am very sorry.”
He shot up and kicked at the sand in a childish tantrum. Angered and slightly embarrassed by his own fall, he took off his sweater and threw it to the ground. Then he grabbed my collar and pulled my face in,
“Why can’t you be normal?!”
“Sorry,” I said, as the other boys separated us but he had a grip so tight that he took off with my tie.
I was left adjusting my collar back to its place. He was kicking and screaming in the background, but I kept looking at my shirt and wondered,
“Now where could someone find an iron for this mess?”
SPECIAL, SPECIAL BOY.
“Your son, well, he is not like the others. He is special.”
Principal Mrs. Hannah, said as she welcomed my mother.
“Well, he for one, barely ever speaks. We can’t even tell if he understands us! And today he was involved in a fight with the other children.” she continued, her hands clasped right under her chin.
“I understand you, Principal Mrs. Hannah. Don’t send me away, I already told Dennis I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt him.” I said looking at the window, where I saw the others play.
“Please step outside and wait for me, honey.” My mother said as she tucked her hand in her wallet, and fished out an envelope, “and dont go anywhere until I come fetch you.”
I stayed outside and only moved once, I swear, only one time! I did so to help Mr. Robbins who was in a rush and had dropped his Elementary Science textbook.
“Here you go, Mr. Robbins. Have a good day sir.”
“Thank you. Good day to you too kind young man.”
When mother opened the door, she pulled me aside and said,
“Don’t let anybody tell you that you are different. You are my special! My special boy.”
She bought me a tub of ice cream on the way home, which we shared on the stools of the ice cream shop.
THREE MONTHS
THIS GARDEN IS REALLY WELL DONE.
(present events)
This garden.
I never thought I would love it. I see that the roses are full of color, I have done well. If Georgina were here, she would have been so proud. She wouldn’t believe you if you told her,
“Your husband now cares for the most beautiful garden on forest road.”
But you would be right, and she would be forgiven. I never loved the time she spent here. She would wonder about her pots when we were out shopping. She would moan about the weeds, even when we went dancing. She would talk about soils, even when we camped in the mountains. She would ask for us to return quicker from the beaches, because her crop could be drying.
“Georgina, it seems the garden has taken you from me.”
“You’re so silly, I can’t fancy a garden.”
“Oh, well, it sounds like it!”
I could admire the garden all day, but I have these letters to send. What’s more, my retriever who is now around 10 years old, needs to be taken for a walk.
“Come here Zanzu! Good boy!” I playfully rub his ears.
We are headed to the forest at the end of Forest Road; Zanzu wags his tail a lot when he is on this trail.
I have already swept the dust from my writing room. I closed all the windows in the house, switched off the lights, and locked the door behind me. If Georgina were to return, she would find me gone. She might have to wait outside in the punishing cold. And I fear she might get the flu.
No.
I don’t fear for her. I’m sure she is never coming back.
SHE SELLS FRUIT
Georgina used to sell fruit on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, at around noon. I started wearing my best shirts on those days as well.
“Oh my, you haven’t been waiting all alone in the rain for me, have you? You will get so sick.” She said one afternoon when she checked in later than usual.
“I didn’t want to miss your salad,” I said inaudibly, shivering from the cold.
“Well, you could at least carry an umbrella.”
There were days she would have a lot of customers. I didn’t like shouting so I would wait in the back for her. She took her time with her pineapples, and she sliced her watermelons very quickly. With her bananas, she cut them into cubes. With her mangoes she…
“Hello, I assume you want your usual order today as well?”
“Yes please.”
“I see you brought an umbrella.”
“Oh, uh, yes, I have brought one.”
“But it isn’t raining today!”
“You said I should carry an umbrella.”
“Well, okay.” She laughed, “It’s a beautiful umbrella. Here is your salad, I put in extra mango for you.”
SHE’S MINE.
It was two months after, in the rainy evenings of November.
We were sheltering in a parlor whose walls were soaked with conversations from lovers many. We shared a bowl of ice cream at the corner end of Koinange Street – just like I did with my mother.
“Do you think we could share a home?” I asked once I felt the silence had hung enough.
“I would suppose so. But, you wouldn’t know if you don’t take this from me.” She said as she placed her hand on top of mine.
“I’d love to hold your hand for longer,” I said, in between scoops of vanilla, melting and dribbling onto the marble countertop.
“Just ask me the damn question.”
“Will you have more of this?” I said raising the bowl that had fading stains of white.
“Such a romantic man you are!”
We then burst into shared laughter as she collapsed on my shoulder to mark the start of our thirty-seven years together.
When she came into my house, fresh off selling fruit, she would find that I was alone. She stopped selling them – not my decree – and took up gardening. She, like my mother, never spoke much of her life. Not of her family, nor of her education. I gathered she hadn’t studied much, as she always asked me to help her read the hard words in my books.
“No thank you, I don’t have much of a patite of late” she said one day when I offered her some fried eggs.
“Georgina my love, what is this patite you say?”
“That thing you keep mentioning when your tummy grumbles.”
“You mean appetite?”
“Oh don’t get smart with me now!”
ZANZU.
Dr. Mikasa has the most comfortable couch.
He never shared the same seat as me however much I offered. He even encouraged me to lie flat back. He would sit cross-legged on a single chair across from me. With a pen in hand, he would write over and over on his notebook that lay open on his lap. I found it amusing - to note down everything someone said.
“It is easier to just hear and remember. Silly Dr. Mikasa must be slow of hearing.” I would secretly judge.
“I have also tried taking notes of everything people tell me, it isn’t easy at all!” I said one time as I lay on his couch.
“You should let me do that.” Dr. Mikasa said through hearty laughs as he held the frame of his spectacles.
I laughed with him.
“Maybe you should adopt a pet. Like a dog. That could help you deal with the hole of not being able to have a child with Georgina.”
Energy tracing; the gift the Keeper gave me, had blossomed. I had worked with sick animals across the country as I could feel what ailed them. Every living being has an energy wavelength that is left behind as they move. It acts like a thread. Whenever you connect to someone, your thread and theirs are tied. If your thread is thicker than theirs, then you will overwhelm them – and if yours is thinner, then you’ll be seeing Dr. Mikasa for the heartbreak. So you have to tie yourself to a thread as thick as yours. And there are many beings whose threads can tie to yours – but not always human.
So I headed straight to the dog rescue to follow Dr. Mikasa’s advice. I walked out with my Golden Retriever. A puppy, not older than two weeks. He had not yet fully opened his little eyes, and I could feel connected to him. He gave off a whiff of familiarity. Of fondness that I had not felt before. It was as if we had known each other in our lives that had passed.
“You will be called Zanzu.”
Yellow, the kind you see in sunsets, is believed to shine in that brilliant glow because of the souls leaving earth that day. It is a color often found in the energy trails of people about to die. Or newly born children.
And, that is what I saw in Zanzu.
I did not teach him his tricks. He already knew where to pick the newspaper from. He lived in the kennel we built outside, where he took himself to sleep. He never barked at anyone I considered a friend even if he’d never met them. He would walk into the house, and head for the pantry without any direction.
He has grown with me till now that the grey of my hair has spread and the aches of my lower back have spread all the way to my neck. Every morning, noon, and evening he taps my leg with his nose and that reminds me to take my meds.
TEN MONTHS
ZANZU IS LOST.
(Back to present events)
Zanzu, has started barking loudly. Something could be of his bother.
I step into the forest and I hear the sounds of those that roam the skies, waiting for judgment. Floating daintily, like a will o’ the wisp.
I hear the songs of the lady of the forest singing in a haunting whisper. A fine tune that every daring adventurer knows. I whistle along to the ethereal melody.
“I see you have returned sir.”
“Yes, I come to fetch Zanzu, something seems to be of much stress to him,” I say to The Keeper – the guardian of the forest.
He stands not too far inside, and has never moved once. He watches over the spring that bubbles from beneath.
“I hear Georgina left, to not return.” He says with a voice low and hoarse.
“Yes, you hear well.”
News about Georgina leaving seems to have reached the forest. It is not surprising; The Keeper knows much and had always been very fond of her.
I take time to look at the pool before me. It glows in a beautiful deep blue hue. And the waterfall that streams into the pool whirrs on. Birds often come to drink from it - the deer and the monkeys too. But this morning, there seems to be none of them. In fact, there seems to be no animal, in the forest, at all.
I took Georgina here once where we swam naked. We had a fantastic time as the water rubbed with the smoothness of silk on our skin. Georgina believed it helped keep her look young, although I would remain adamantly skeptical.
“The wrinkles on your face are more each day!” she would say, “I think we are due a dip in The Keeper’s pool.”
We often returned with the fruit from her garden to give The Keeper. He never really ate much through the year, and I would often worry about how he stayed up.
“Sir, would you happen to know where Zanzu is?”
The Keeper enjoys a deep and bold laugh. He hands me a flaming torch and gestures on.
Ah, it seems Zanzu has chosen to go farther into the forest than I had even thought. So I take the torch into the deeper canopies. The lady has switched her tune. She sings of the many souls she has moved on. I do not know of this particular one, but it is even better than the last.
“Your voice is as lovely as ever my lady!”
She moves towards me, and kisses my cheek, without losing even a hum. As she moves, she leaves behind a trail of bright light – but not too bright to have you shield your eyes. This is purity, and no human can leave such trails behind. As she swirls around me, my torch flickers even brighter – and she wades into the forest where her light trail takes time to dim off.
I bow in honor of her wonder.
I hear Zanzu clearer now. He must be close, but the light from my torch is fading. I think The Keeper didn’t smear enough oil this time.
Oop, there goes the light. And as it’s gone off, the smoke from the flameless torch now spreads around. I am in darkness. The vastness of it. Engulfed in a place where no light has ever shone.
And Zanzu barks no longer.
“I must be in The Belly of the forest.” I realize.
This could spell danger.
Nothing of pure essence resides in The Belly. I have to escape quickly, lest I get lost in these nether realms.
THE CARPENTER.
My mother had left. She walked out of the front door, and I realized soon after that she won’t be coming back. I was not aware of anybody else that knew her. Well, except for my stepfather.
He came into my life three years after my birth. I had not known of my “real” father, and I never bothered to ask. And I always suspected he must have been the one mother wrote to. As for the man that raised me, the one that broke our kitchen window to reveal the whites of his nerve fibers, he still lived.
Not too long after that very incident, he departed. Mother must have chased him away. She told me regular updates of his state until she left home. But she never mentioned where to find him.
“He ran off to Nairobi somewhere.”
That’s all I had to work with. But there was a phone directory at the post office where the bus dropped me when I arrived in the big city. I searched through the names and found his. I went to the phone booth and dialed the number. It rang once, then on the second ring, I heard the phone connect.
There was a moment of silence. I hadn’t known what to say. I had hoped that he would start off the conversation. And when the time had passed long enough to make anybody cringe, I began to speak.
“I think you might be my father,” I said.
“Daddy! Daddy! This one is for you.” Answered the voice of a girl.
We met, later that very same day. He had a woodshop off the road and displayed his work of doors, tables, and chairs, on the roadside.
He had eyes that were tiring, as he would squint to even see the nail on his hands while before, he would spot a bird from the sky. He walked around our house and commanded discipline at every turn, but now he slouched with his skin falling loosely off his cheeks. His overalls were stained and tattered, worn out by the labor he must have put himself through. When I reached out to shake his hands, he got startled but smiled politely. He shook my hand feebly and I wondered how he crafted items of such finesse. Since it had been years, I forgave the look of unfamiliarity on his face. I didn’t want to assume that his memories of me had gotten buried beneath the pain he shelved.
“Do you want to know how I am doing, son?”
“You seem well enough, I can sense it.”
He did go on to tell his story through bits and parts, excusing himself every now and then to cough and spit.
“Look boy, I am sorry for what I did, who I was. You know well you were not my own seed. Maybe I felt angry and I shouldn’t have. I’m not that person anymore. Please, forgive me.”
“Hmm, maybe I shall.”
I walked out as I was thirsty. I was trying to soak in the conversation. I had promised him that I will need to see around the town first before I came back to the shop. I didn’t know what I wanted to gain. I felt that the apology came too soon, maybe I expected him to still be the bully I knew. So that I could hurt once more, and fuel myself to become someone better.
Memories of the man that had tormented me weren’t set in at all. I couldn’t recognize him. But in a completely different way than I expected. He didn’t even give off the same energy trail. It was as if he had been reborn through the burning embers of regret. His mind caging him in as if in a prison for eternity. Now, he begs to pay for his sins but the world offers no willing buyer. I had nothing left to say. I felt that his chapter had closed, and there was nothing to return to.
Until…
Right at the end of my path, where the highway intersected with an offroad and grass kissed the roadside, I saw a crowd gathered. A woman was selling fruit.
I walked back to the old man’s wood-work shop with a salad at hand,
“Well, there’s one way you can make it up to me.”
HONOR, BEAUTY, PRIDE & LUXURY
(As told by Georgina)
On mornings, when many would be turning in bed, covered with blankets warmed by the heat from their lovers’ bodies, I would be trudging the muddy paths. Where the air smelt of dew and dung. And where your face would be slapped by a sweeping breeze so crisp and cold that even the sheep would bleat in protest.
The security guards and their faces of nonchalance. The farmers with their arms hardened by their hoes. The drunks with smiles that hid the shame of waking up in a trench - were the only ones awake at these hours.
Boys, whose childhoods were robbed and sold to capitalism, would hang their feet off the edge of the truck carrying produce. They would then grab onto white sacks as big as them and fling the bags down the chain they had formed. We were the usual six or so. Everyone tucked in their gloved hands into their heavy jackets that layered over thick woolen sweaters. We yawned and the mist from our mouths clouded the silent air.
This is where I picked my fruit.
The honor of doing this job would have all the men you wanted; the touts, the craftsmen and the guards, always in constant jab at you. The beauty of it was the sweaty pits and sore feet from standing and walking around. And its pride was in the coins you carried in your pocket after a good day of business – allowing you the luxury of one or two meals for the day.
I sold around Nairobi University. On Mamlaka road. Where all the people my age left class and passed by my stall. I had set up on the tarmacked road that had grass kissing its edges. You could smell the fried fish and eggs from Suleiman next to me. You could be unwise to have a debt with Mama Aloo that sold tea and Mandazi. We were in our own way, colleagues. Our realities were similar, and we understood the debilitation of burning feet and the depression of cold mornings.
THE MAN AT THE BACK OF THE CROWD.
I always remember when I first met him. He stood at the back of the crowd of buyers. I distinctly recall how he simply watched me slice the fruit without saying a word. The men would often be first to speak and blurt out orders. But with him, he simply stared.
“Would you like a salad?” I asked him through the chaos. Singling him out of the many around. He only responded by nodding his head a lot.
“Be sure to return the spoon!”
I said as I handed him the salad and continued with the rest of the orders. I had put in a little bit more banana than usual – impressed by how quiet he was.
“I liked that a lot.”
He said when he returned over an hour later. He handed over the plate but stood in front of me without saying another word.
“Okay. Do you want another one?”
“No.”
He started walking away, but turned around and said,
“I hope to see you again tomorrow.” He held a paper toward me.
He had folded it four ways. I opened it so fast that I almost tore a corner off. On it, was a detailed sketch of a cart. One that could carry even more fruit and have drawers for storage. Beneath the sketch were scribbles of what immediately registered as directions.
“The man in that shop owes me a great debt. May he repay me through you.”
He bowed ever so slightly, turned, and walked away.
“The day after!” I said when he had not made more than five steps, “Find me here the day after tomorrow.”
I stood at the entry of the shop as the carpenter nailed the handle in. The little shack had no window and all the light came from the doorway I stood in. My silhouette laid over his handiwork. This was not a distraction, he held his hammer firmly, and struck the nail once more.
“Done.” Said the carpenter, as he clapped the dust off his hands, and stood back to look at the cart.
“Thank you, you’ve done a fine job.”
I had finally gotten myself a cart to replace my basket.
“Please, anything for my boy.” He said in between spurts of coughs, “and pass him my best wishes.”
CHILDHOOD HOME
We moved into his childhood home.
He had a room where his mother would write letters, a single chair and table, where he would write his short stories for the local newspaper. He wanted everything straight. His seat would always be tucked into the table after he left. He would clean his desk once with alcohol rub, then with soap, then with water. Every single time he sat there, he would count his pens and pencils, arrange them in color, and then place them back in his pouch. Even though nobody else used his stationery. He always pulled his seat and measured the distance of his chest to the table before beginning to write.
“Oh, Karim asks for you?” I once interrupted him.
“Close the door! No, no! Please close the door! No, no! Everything is ruined. I have to start again. No, no!” he said in delirium.
I never interrupted him again.
He also never shut the window, not if it rained or if the wind blew his papers across the room. The window stayed open when it froze cold, and even when the birds perched to sing him a song.
“Mother never shut it either.” Was all he’d ever say about that.
SPECIAL CONNECTION.
Connection. One unlike any other. He sees things other people cannot. He has this special gift to understand people and even animals on a deep level. His eyes often dance around you, as if looking beyond, to observe something metaphysical. If only he spoke up more, the world would be completely in love with his ability.
He walked in on days I was angry and didn’t need me to say a word, and would immediately know how to get me dancing. When I was burning out and my enthusiasm for life had crumbled, he would simply take me to swim in The Keeper’s pond. When I was happy, he would smile before I broke the news. He could have used it all on something more sinister, to manipulate the masses, or make himself the richest man in our land. But no, he used it to make everyone around him feel heard. Feel seen. Feel special.
HAVEN OF MY ONLY ROMANCE.
“I love the tea,” I said when he handed me the cup and joined me in staring at the birds that visited our garden every December.
“It’s because you always know the right amount of sugar, not too much, not too little.”
I started sipping immediately. The hot season was upon us and the sky was spotless blue. We sat outside to soak in the majesty of a calm Sunday afternoon. With the tea brewing on one stove and the soup boiling on the other, the air was spiced up and infused the nostalgia.
In the silence, I embarrassingly choked on the tea and began singing a common childhood rhyme – to misdirect his amusement. He joined in, and when we sang, the birds would fly around the garden. I stopped mid-way,
“You’re singing it all wrong!” I said, ridiculing him.
“We will be old one day, and our children will come to play. Okay? Come… to… play…!”
“Well that is what I say isn’t it?” he responded with defeat, probably wishing I wasn’t as obsessed.
“No, you keep saying our children will come to stay!”
“Your version is boring.” He said pulling his tongue out.
“Oh so mature of you!”
We sat in silence for a moment and then I went to the garden to pick him some berries.
“Never cut them when they have this shade of red anywhere on it. Remember, blue berries with red spots. Not red berries with blue. Blue… with… red.”
“I am not a child, Georgina.”
ONE, OR TWO SPOONS?
(Back to the narrator’s memories)
It was December, and the birds had returned.
I thought it would be fitting to serve myself a cup of tea and watch them as she did. I went to the kitchen and took out the yellow cup she loved so much and poured a teaspoon of sugar in. Then I added another… I probably shouldn’t have.
“Was it one or two?”
I grabbed the cup and poured the tea down the drain. Then I filled it again and placed only one spoon. Tasted it. Still, it was not good enough. So I poured it down the drain again. I looked at the cup and reached to pour tea once again, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So I just left it on the pile of dirty dishes.
“It’s not worth it.”
So I walked out and watched the birds and tried to sing the nursery rhyme she sang.
“Was it, play, or was it stay?” I could not remember anymore.
I tried to pick the berries.
“Were the ones with the red spots sweeter? Or what was that she said about them?”
My heart started racing, and I dropped the berries to the ground. I was losing memories of us. These were the only things I had left, and I couldn’t even hold onto them any longer. Age, a wicked master, had caught up with my legs that now couldn’t run. But I had hoped it would spare my mind. I feared that as time would pass, the bank of my invested memories would get depleted.
I had to find her.
THE BELLY
(back to the present)
Maybe the belly will find favor with me.
It is almost impossible for a man that still lives to find this part. This is a place for those in transit to the afterlife. I wonder why The Keeper led me here, as I had not yet passed over to this realm. It is vastly dark like god had split open the earth, scrapped off its innards, threw me into the shell, and locked me inside. It has no sky, nor floor to step on. I hang suspended like a butcher’s meat, permanently at the mercy of a terrifying - and hidden - being.
“I seek my dog Zanzu, he must be beyond your reach. I do not wish to offend! Please spare me Dark Spirit, so that I pick him up and leave.”
It is so dark, that my eyes feel like they are being pressed by someone’s hands, sinking them into their sockets. My ears feel like the wax inside them has become denser, blocking even the slightest sound. And when I part my lips to speak, my tongue feels heavy on the floor of my mouth. And even though I can walk around, I dare not to take a step in any direction; lest I step on the Belly himself.
“Fear not traveler, I carry a message for you.”
Before me, a chest appears. Just by glancing at it, I know this to be the one my mother had left in the forest.
“I… I can’t believe it! This chest was my mother’s. Shall I open it?”
The belly says nothing but turns on my torch. I have always known of his dislike of light, which to me, is a sign.
I crouch and open the chest. In it is a note that glows red. I am bemused, I expected more letters. I pick the note and it irritates my finger like a wild weed.
It reads…
“The smell that stuck to my clothes. Find it and you’ll have found me.”
Suddenly I smell it. A scent that awakes thousands of memories in my mind. One that I have loved more each day. That peppermint. The smell of my love. Then a breeze blows across my skin, raising the hairs, and awakening the senses that had been dulled.
Georgina is here!
She appears in a glowing light and dances around me. Swaying up, down, and around.
I snap my fingers to her rhythm. She no longer has the body she owned when I last held her. But it is her alright. The darkness is parted by the colors of her energy trail. She falls onto my arms and we kiss. Yet it doesn’t feel like skin, but like water in a vase. And the taste of her lips reminds me of the kisses we shared in my dreams. Besides, even as she falls into my arms, she holds no weight.
“You have come for me.” Each word reverberates after the other. It is as if she is shouting in an empty warehouse.
“Yes. Yes, my love. Yes, I have.”
She holds my hand and starts guiding me across the nothingness. Her hair floats behind her. I can’t see, but I trust her to know where we are headed. She stops running every other moment to kiss me.
“There is so much for me to show you here!”
She laughs and touches my face all over.
“I still can’t believe you came to me.”
She moves with the grace she last had when we danced at our wedding.
And then she disappears. Leaving me in the darkness, like I had been before she appeared. I still try to piece together what is happening, and I can’t seem to get a workaround.
Out from the part beneath me, like a mermaid from the sea, she rises with a handful of berries.
“I know you love them”
Her hands feel soft. It is as if feeling the puff of cotton balls. She places the berries onto my palms, as she throws some into her mouth one by one. She giggles and kisses me all over my face.
She floats back and sings the song we used to love. She dances and moves like the wishing stars of our galaxies. Suddenly, she stops and darts right back to my face.
I lean back.
“Why aren’t you having your berries?” She says still throwing berries into her mouth, yet not chewing any.
“They have red spots,” I said, tears forming at the corners of my eye. She plants her face above my open palms, quizzically observing the berries.
“Yeah, that makes them sweeter. You always confused them.”
“You… you… said red spots make them bad.”
“Now, I am eating them aren’t I?” she speaks in ridicule.
“No, I am sure you said that I shouldn’t have them with red spots.”
She laughs, in a mocking manner.
“You silly man, you have always been special. You must have mistaken my words.” She says, now coiled around me, and whispering to my ears.
“Eat the berries, my love.”
“Are… are… you really Georgina?” I say as I try to brush her off me.
Slowly, her light turns red. She grows bigger and bigger, that even the mountain with an ice crown would have been below her. I am like an ant to a tower.
“I don’t mean to offend you oh spirit of the forest.”
“Am I not what you always wanted? Is this not what you desire?” She speaks with a voice as loud as the heavens during a storm.
“Oh no, I don’t mean to offend you. Please, find mercy.” I say as I kneel and bow before her.
“You would rather live with your dog than me? Am I worth less the life of a dog?” She roars and the world around starts to spin.
“You have been drinking yourself silly. You have been begging for death. To join me. I am here. Come have me!” She says as the wind around blows with the strength to split oceans in Biblical fashion.
“You cannot escape me.” She starts to take the air out of my lungs. I choke and crawl around the ground. Clasping at a throat drier than coffee grains.
“Mercy. Please, oh Great Spirit. Find mercy. I don’t mean anybody harm. I just came to fetch my dog.”
Ever since Georgina left, every single time my eyes shut, I only saw her. She filled my dreams and consumed my living days. I drank to make her disappear but would blackout to make her re-appear. I had convinced myself in a silly stupor that happiness couldn’t exist now that she had left. Toxically developed into a man self-punishing himself in self-hate and perversion of the mind. I hurt those that I loved, dismissed those that extended a hand to me, and completely ignored the ones that were always with me. All for one last chance with my love Georgina. But now that I have met her, I see that I had it all wrong.
I had been too greedy to let go. Holding onto a soul and harboring it within you stops them from transiting into the next world. The souls of those we lost only grow weary when tied to our wants. I may be called selfish for still holding on, but Georgina must understand. Nothing, and I mean nothing has been the same. Not the feel of the sun on my skin, nor the taste of coffee on my tongue. How would I ever live with myself? Who was left to give my days meaning? What should I dream of? Because letting her go, would surely mean, that I have truly let her leave.
But I must. I must let go.
I can’t breathe any longer. The air has long since been taken from me. I fling my hands over the empty dark mass that I am about to be consumed by. Clutching at the death-stained hell I am in. I haven’t even had the chance to weep. I was hoping for something more gracious. Perhaps some last words to be written on my epitaph. But I am dying in the Belly that dead men go. How would anyone still living ever know I lived? My eyes can’t see, as the tears have dried and they are falling into my skull like nuts from a tree. My lips are shriveling like the skin of dates, and my skin is now as rough as the barks of trees. The light from her movement, from my eyes, and from the life I have lived, shines no more.
GAIA AND HER FIELD.
When I wake up, I find myself in the middle of a field.
I have been here before, my mother took me to get my blessings from Gaia - the matriarch of earth - when I was getting my foreskin cut off.
I run my hands over my throat and mouth – they are as they always have been. And I see as well as I did when I was a boy. The grass has grown so tall, that a cow and her horns would be hard to spot.
Or have I grown short?
“It has been long since I last saw you boy.” Said Gaia, revealing Zanzu, running after hares.
“Indeed, but long are the days I were a boy.”
She smiles.
“Son, the chest the Belly showed you is not what you seek. It is a curse, a Dark Spirit would have plagued you for a decade.”
“I fear I already fell victim Gaia.” I say as I recall the memories of Georgina, “Why would the forest play such a cruel trick on me?”
“To test your worth,” Gaia says, as she guides me on. “You were able to keep your own desires aside, for the sake of Zanzu. Many men would place their wants over the well-being of my animals. You are truly as special as your mother says you to be. And for that, you have been rewarded.”
Gaia opens the earth at the center of the field to show a chest. The same as I had seen back at the belly – thus like my mother’s.
I was wary, “Is this yet another trick?”
I approach the chest, Zanzu now beside me, panting heavily. I run my hands through the wood. It is as fine as if it were made just this morning!
I open it.
At once, winds blow across the field, swaying the grass with a vigor I had last felt in Wambamba. But the winds don’t blow in vain, the sky has parted. What was day, has become night and I see stars above.
Then the winds stop.
Inside, the chest holds countless bottles. As my mother had always done, each bottle held a note within. I reach out to open the first one and at once the note inside bursts through the glass and the note flies away, projecting itself on the backdrop of the dark – yet beautiful sky. The words glow in a beautiful yellow-green shine. So I lie on the field to read;
I open one after the other,
They are all rumblings.
“Surely, mother must have left more than old recipes and complaints of my childhood for me?”
I shuffle through the bottles, hoping to find notes with more meaning. Maybe answers as to who my father was. Maybe treasures that could help me and Zanzu live on. Luckily, they have labels.
I pick another. It is a little plastic bottle used by babies for their milk.
“Interesting.”
I say as I squeeze open the top. A child’s cry accompanies the letter as it floats above. “Had mother saved a note I had written before? Or had she torn a page off the journals I kept?” Because it seems to be writing done by my hand.
The note floats back into the bottle, as I watch. I take time to look around me, and the creatures of the forest have gathered. The rabbits, the deer, the monkeys and squirrels, the birds and snakes as well. They are all around me, under the starry night, reading along.
Georgina would have loved this. She claimed to like animals – even though she often quarreled with Zanzu.
“That dog of yours has eaten the bones for your soup!”
So I go back to the chest, to draw yet another bottle. One that could have the answers I seek. The bottles are all clear glass bar one; the purple one at the bottom.
I try to pick it but I fail as it is heavy. In fact too heavy for me to use only one hand. It slips and slides across the floor of the chest. I grip it so tightly that my fingers lose blood at their tips.
Zanzu hops into the chest and he helps me lift it. I finally open the cap and the most unflattering smell comes from it.
“Dear creatures of the forest, I didn’t mean to offend you with this,” I say, as I fear they must have smelt it too.
But the letter flies out with grace, unlike the others. And to the sounds of horses of war. It floats and the words shine with a brightness no other letter has shone. And the deepest voice I’ve ever heard, reads;
“I knew there was something special about you Zanzu!” I say giggling and rubbing his neck. He licks my hand and turns on his back for me to rub his belly.
I am the son of a king. But I hadn’t heard of a King to leave behind their own kin. I laugh at the note for I know it to be a tall tale. I am no prince. He must have the finest humor. And for leaving me while young, my true father must be as lazy as I am!
I lie on the ground, my spirit has been lifted by the letters. I have not been this happy since I last sat on the porch with Georgina, or with my mother as she wrote. Zanzu comes to cuddle me, and I wish to rest. But time has surely passed, and we must head home. I tug onto Zanzu’s collar, but he refuses to move.
He seems happy here, and maybe I should let him be with his new friends. I kneel and hug him,
“Zanzu, you be a good boy now! This is where you’ll find all the hares to chase down and the fields have no ends to run to.”
“There is one more,” Gaia says and shines over the box.
I am startled. So I head back and find there is indeed another one. How could I have missed it?
I look around, the creatures have bowed to Gaia – Zanzu too. This one is yellow as the sunrise. And it shines from the inside!
I open it and fireflies - the guides to the afterlife - begin to glow. They flow from the bottle in hundreds and thousands. They move around the fields, and as they do, the melody of the forest could be heard yet again.
A fragrance sways in the still air, and I recognize it immediately.
Georgina.
The letter floats above and glows softly. My face is bronze, and my eyes are wide open. Georgina’s voice reads to me;
The End
