Esther – short story
“So, my dear, you want to stay, do you?” The unpleasant, oily tone said more than the words, and the sneer left no room for doubt. Esther Alambe was unwelcome.
“I have fled from my home because…” the woman’s words came slowly, one at a time. Not only was she unused to speaking the English she had learnt at school, but having a conversation, understanding what the man was saying, considering a reply, all took time. And there was the question of why. Why had she run away, concealing only her identity papers in her cleavage and disappearing into the night wearing her thin, evening clothes and light sandals?
“I was soon to be married and, well, in my culture, it is often that a woman is -” Unsure how to reveal what was so very private, she whispered to the woman sitting next to her “Do I have to tell him, now?” The quiet nod was enough, and Esther’s hopes sank, just when she needed her courage most. “In my village it is the custom to cut her before she is married!” She spoke more loudly than she intended, her cheeks flaring with embarrassment.
“All right, all right, no need to shout. Keep yer hair on. In your country…” there was a pause while the gentleman shuffled through a thin dossier that was at his right elbow. “In your country, it is illegal to cut a woman, according to your penal code. Is that not so?”
“I suppose it may be, but…”
“Well then, there was no reason to leave, was there?” The man shut the file and sat back, lacing his hands over his stomach.
“Yes, but you see, where I live, in my village, all the girls are cut before they marry. It is the custom and I cannot go against it. I am just a daughter. I saw what happened to my sisters. My two older sisters died soon after, from so much bleeding, there was so much blood on their clothes, on the bed. My uncle was negotiating for my marriage and the man who was to marry me was insisting that I should be cut, you see.”
“You could just have refused, or run away to the city?”
It seemed obvious when he spoke like that, so that Esther was silenced. She could feel the woman beside her urging her to speak, because silence now might be taken for agreement, and that might signal capitulation. But Esther looked at the man before her and understood. He was pale, too broad around the stomach. His legs looked thin and his hair was thin too, from lack of exercise, from sitting at the desk all day, shuffling papers to one side and then the other. Bizarrely, she felt sorry for him and for his glib cruelty, his deliberate unkindness. He did not want to understand, and everything she managed to tell him would be twisted around the wrong way.
But why, she wondered, why the hostility? What had she done to deserve such stupidity? Was it because she was a woman, a black woman? A black woman from Africa who did not have any rights? I do not fit here, she was thinking.
“They would have found me and taken me home again. If I had run away to Accra they would have found me, reported me missing or – something like that. Afterwards they would always be looking for me. In our families everyone can find out. It is the way.”
“Well, our way is a bit different, I think you will find.”
Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, her questioner wanted Esther to leave. “Is there anything you would like to add to your statement before the end of our interview?”
“I miss my country and my family. I would not have fled at night unless I was very frightened. Cutting and bleeding and such pain would have brought only sorrow to me. But, in our culture, because I am a woman, whatever I could do would bring pain. It is the way.”
He eyed her speculatively, wondering what to say next. “Well, you see my dear, your country’s penal code makes it clear that cutting is illegal and anyone involved in it can expect to go to prison.” He spoke the last words with deliberate slowness. “We accept that your government has a policy against. So officially, there is little we can do, see? If the law was different, it would be easier…”
“But women live in the villages, with their fathers, husbands…even going to school is difficult. Unless our fathers protect us, we will be given in marriage….like cattle, she was thinking. “My father died.”
Esther sat back, exhausted with emotion and memories. “Have you seen a woman being cut?” she asked, unexpectedly impatient. “They tie a little girl to a table, or they hold her down, two up top and two below, so that she does not move. They take an old knife, and they cut away all her private parts. Just like that. No stopping for the screams, or mercy. She is stitched up with a needle and thread and wrapped and left to heal all alone. That is what they call “cutting”. Make it polite so that no-one knows what happens.” Esther’s eyes sparkled defiance as she waited for him to close the file. But he looked up, straight into her eyes, and she saw new respect. So, he was a bully, he liked women to talk back, eh? Esther was glad she had spoken out. “I hope you wrote that down, what I said?” she asked more politely. The woman clutching a shorthand notebook beside her nodded sharply, her mouth set in a grim line.
“I’ll defer a decision on your case. Meantime, see if you can rustle up some representation.”
Esther nodded. She saved the small, grim smile until her back was turned. She had not been cut. She had escaped. Now, for now, there was a small window of light, a breath of air she might breathe. Someday, she might be safe. It was a hope she held close to her heart.
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January 21, 2014
The Soundbox and the String
Fran Macilvey choices, choosing, communication, desert, gratitude, heat, hope, music, story, travel, water, writing Flash Fiction & Short Stories 0 Comments
The Soundbox and the String
Ahmed hefted his satchel higher. His shoulder winced with the rigidity of a long-held pain. Wiping his left hand across his forehead, eyes shielded behind his palm, he could just see the particular dip in the dunes that meant he was walking the right way home: over to his right, the clouds, knowing that water was closer, kept nearer the ground, and he could navigate from here on a good day, using his sense of smell and the sounds that drifted to him like the notes from an ancient, sacred text. Drifts of music, bellows and bells, sang to him in the desert breezes and gave him as much direction as he needed.
He would have liked a drink, though. He had only enough left in his water bag for a couple of careful mouthfuls. He would keep that awhile and swallow its warmth with the remains of his food for his evening meal. As the heat of the day became intense, even his sandals were scorched. It would be time to rest soon.
Not much further to go.
Starting awake from his walking stupor, he noticed a small, dark snake sliding towards him, smelling water. Or perhaps just slipping from one hole to another…. He watched, and the snake was gone, leaving him feeling alone. Uneasy in the drifting sand, he moved more carefully. Out here, it would be too easy to fall asleep and bake oneself dry. Best to keep moving.
Time passed in a slipstream painted blue. Perhaps he had gone wrong, after all, when suddenly he heard shards of music. His feet took possession of his body and turned towards it easily. Up ahead, as if it had crawled there and stood itself upright, was a tent. A boy was concealed within shadows to the side, where a thin, ageing camel was tethered uneasily. His face carefully expressionless, Ahmed approached slowly, carefully noting the strange tilt of this bivouac, the ropes pegged at unusual angles. From the usual polite distance he dipped his head and signalled his approach while the other boy, hunched over a tall stick of some polished wood, watched warily, flapping his hand in a movement that suggested he should move on.
Ahmed tilted his head: all visitors had the right to ask for rest and a drink, for shade at the height of day, and the boy’s posture made him curious. Why should he not hope to wait here through the heat of day? It was either a woman, or some other private business he had chanced upon: trade in rifles, an argument over a water hole or negotiations for marriage…whatever it was, he assumed he was being invited to move on. He flashed anger at the boy, who smiled sheepishly. Looking again, Ahmed saw the guardian’s face blank, his eyes still and unseeing. But, held propped up in the sand, the polished wood staff vibrated, sending a sound like breathing music into the air beyond. Arrested by something he had never seen before, Ahmed now waited, politely standing back. The instrument, whatever it was, had been fashioned as a crude sound box strapped with leather strips to a staff, a bridge and strings fastened above with wire or something like plastic string. It had taken a long time to make, but out here, that would not be a problem.
Low notes and trills reached his ears as he stood still, rooted to his place, watching the boy’s fingers dancing over the wires, then heard a slower, broader melody coaxed with a bow. Audience of one, Ahmed waited, listened and hoped he had not missed most of it.
There was a sensation round his ankles. He looked down to see a small cat winding itself around his legs, looking up at him with a peaceful, hopeful face. Uncorking his water bottle he dipped his fingers in and allowed the cat to lick them dry, its rough tongue rasping greedily.
“You like my music?” the boy called.
“Very – very much.” He groped for words to describe musical breezes. “It is very beautiful.”
“I will play some more, if you like.”
Ahmed approached slowly, saw a grin and reached down to clasp the boy’s big hands in greeting. Beneath the long tunic which only partly covered his neck and shoulders, Ahmed saw crossed legs and worn slippers. From the eyes there was no glimpse of recognition, just a smile that shone.
“Thank you.”
“My father is away searching for firewood. He will be back after dark. If you like, there is a little food in the tent. You are welcome to have some, and to fill your water bottle from the large gourd.” He went on playing as Ahmed lifted the flap, crouched and went behind his host into the tent. A small cushion, old and frayed with use, lay towards the rear, with a scrap of blue carpet beneath. Poverty was not masked by the large gun, an old flintlock, which hung at the back of the tent, well-oiled.
Beneath the canvas, the light was diffused, as if by shining, the sun painted the cloth a deep pale yellow. There was a small pot resting up against the cushion, which presumably contained the boy’s meal. Ahmed knew that he could not eat that, but he gratefully filled his gourd with water and took a few extra mouthfuls, letting a small trickle of water run down his neck. The urge to sleep was overpowering, but he shook it aside, crossly. I must not fall asleep now he thought, I have only a kilometre or two before I am home, and then Fatima will be waiting for me, with some warm milk and a piece of flatbread. I must press on.
“Where are we?” he asked the other boy lazily, as much to make conversation as to know the answer.
“Not far from the water, is my guess. About a day’s travel at the most, I should say. Can you not smell it?”
“No, not that. I smell other things, of course. Camel dung, smoking fires, even tobacco, but not the sea.” Ahmed chuckled.
“Well, it is not far. My father is there, and will be coming back today. He said he would….”
“I am sure he will. Peace be upon him.”
Ahmed sat companionably, listening to the plaintive music rising up from the bow that the boy was sawing gently. Resting, he waited until the sun was dipping at the horizon and turning the sand a flaming red before continuing on his journey. Of the boy’s father there was no sign; the playing continued until Ahmed was out of earshot and the sky was quite dark.
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