Sunflower & the Elephant ~ short story

 

Sunflower and the Elephant:

DAY 1, DAWN

Nanala

If I ran fast enough, I could be the first one to reach the sun. The first, to feel its warmth spread into every atom of my being. It would be ethereal.

The night was still, in wait. It was a like food you eat just before you go to war. I think the earth sensed it as well. She held her breath as if she were drowning on dessert land. Daylight peaked at the edges of her crust. I look around afraid, someone would catch me. Someone would steal the light for themselves. In the selfish wait, I tightened the strings of my worn sandals.

“When we get to the sun, I wouldn’t wear you,” I whispered looking at my feet, “the sun will keep us warm.”

It was a logical thought.

Taking slow steps forward, I could feel the material in my sandals burn holes in my numb feet. Feel the little stones crawl in. There was gush of pure wetness underneath my sole. I look down thinking I stepped on wee. The blood looked like dirt, brown with a few flickering dots. The sun touched my height and it was my chance. A race: I played every dawn. But today starts with a positive attitude. The earth won the toss and played its first move by throwing its most pathetic summer breeze my way. I was unaffected, my sandals slapped the sinking earth. The sun rays were unhurried, overconfident. Current crawled up my blisters, zapping throughout my leg. I could hear my breathing heavy, my lungs ache in longing. Catching up, but with every meter the rays laughed at my attempt. Sprinting across from the immortal cacti family. My feet buckled higher with every step; my hands stuck out wide.

“Wait for me!” my voice was shrill, “I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE NO MORE!”

And then that was it, the earth gasped letting the balmy air fill its lungs. It was an orchestrated show, seen every day. My foot crashes into a rock with sound a rock cannot make on its own. The crack sends me falling face first. The ground was humming with adrenaline. Its panting in rhythm with mine. I gulped the rough grained saliva with a moan, “NO.” Tears cloud my vision as I snaked wanting to get closer. In pity of the turn of events, the sun rays absorb me in an alienated glow. I was disgusted at my failure. Resting, I hide my face into my arms, it was shameful to feel so relaxed. My ears alert at the striking footsteps behind me and I know the storm is near. The wind swings its burdens all over the land. Fingers dug into the sand; my heart is in prayer as if the earth’s warning were not enough. The piercing screams pull me off the ground.

In this chaos I wonder…I will do this again tomorrow.

…

DAY 1, AFTERNOON

“Is she dying?” my Mama asks tentatively.

“These are blisters, I have explained this to you before,” the medic sighed “she needs to stop running around, maybe own a pair of comfortable socks.”

“So not dying?” Mama continues her trail of thought “it would be very nice if she was dying, I have lots of kids and rations does not feed us all.”

“She wakes up and eats more my mind than the food,” she explains “I tell you this is Gods way, it’s a curse.”

I stare as Mama tests her sad luck again. My hands move in memory, massaging Nene’s (grandmother) back.

“Don’t make bad of her words,” Nene smiles “I get your feet are broken but your hands worked better!”

“Yes Nene.”

I look around at sibling: asthmatic, down syndrome, normal, heart condition, nasal deformities, normal, turner syndrome and lastly me. CURSE, this could be made into a cinematic joke. The medic tries to get up, but she keeps pulling him down for a chat. I roll my eyes.

“Your eyes will get stuck there like your brothers,” Mama seethes as the medic leaves.

She moves against the wall till her back comfortably rest on it, then she folds her legs one on top of another and spits in pan collecting rainwater. Mama, brown tiger eyed, her skin kiwi colored. Blonde hair that peaked underneath her hijab was whitening. She was ugly. Missing teeth, mole face, ugly. There was no way to make it sound nice. I wonder every day, how she was loved, married with kids. Many dads came every few months of my life. The frustration of living under a perilous rule, a land not your own, house not your home, people not your blood, outcasts our name. Refugees known to be pitied like the cat being eaten by crows. This was the truth, ugly truth. It was a curse. Yet my blood still flowed like those on throne, sitting in their house feats above the ground. I was not blessed with looks or a good heart. Nor do I pray to a god that creates divisions. A god who does not pity me and thinks of me equal as the kings. That was me and if a curse then I am grateful.

“Nanala, get me water from the pipe I cannot breathe,” Mama chants.

“Yes mama.”

…

Walking sends a jarring pain as I stumble out with a tub. The sun was so high, the longest ladder would not let me reach it. I turn the plastic tap attached onto the water tank. Water rushes in the pipe some leaking from its loose screw. I let the pipe fall into the tub letting it fill on its own. While my lips slurped the loose droplets falling. I sucked onto the plastic edges, making sure non goes to waste. This was precious water.

I felt my gaze wander around the parched land, setting onto black shiny boots. I look at him, he was staring as if I was the first gazelle he had ever seen. I concentrate on the water filling my mouth while avoiding eye contact with this stranger. New journalists came ever so often, it was brandishing the weak. A way of repentance for the many mighty misdeeds they had committed. Yet God made their status ever so high that they flew with birds and touched the moon. If I believed their god would he have enough room for me?

“That looks heavy, let me help!” the stranger demands.

He snatches the tub and water plummets onto the thirsty ground. I wonder if his sins could get heavier.

“Oopss my bad.”

We drag our burdens into my family’s tent. While I get two clay cups. The family watches in awe of our new sightseer. He snaps photographs without asking and drinks the water I give ungratefully.

I sit down as soon as he realizes that he is an intruder in our residence. Apologies, he is a lonely traveler from California he says. He is here to learn more about the harder life.

“I mean climbing those mountain ranges is difficult but this, wow”

He seems to be appalled to know some are not Gods favorite. His eyes are the skies I cannot reach. Mushroom hair invisible like the cactus, skin as bloodshot as my blistered feet. He wanders and talks to my family in turns. His backpack stuck against him when he gives my siblings fancy light up pens and scented rubbers. With me next in line, his eyes cross at my feet.

“Does it hurt?” he asks

“Are you stupid?” I speak my mind.

Offended, should he be for speaking to me in my tongue. The words used carelessly without meaning. I get no gifts. He leaves.

…

DAY 1, NIGHT

With an early night, my mind races to forget the throbbing pain. It comes from everywhere till I am floating in the rivers of my own psyche. I think about the sun, it is my friend unlike the moon. He came up every morning from the camps in Turkey to Greece to Pakistan. But went away in the night and let its lousy sidekick do his job. The sun told stories of the glowing princesses that made his land so bright. A life amongst the glitter and laughter. Each princess spoke poetry in her language of love and adventure into the unknown ravishes of her mind. A place of freedom without being fierce. A land that burns any weapon. That is where I want to be.

Slow and steady with the knowledge of how much pressure the ground can handle without a sound. That is how I learnt stealth. The roar in my sole diminishes with the excitement of my heart. I leave my sandal. Tonight, I will not need them as they will just slow me down. Tingling from head to toe. I scurry around the bend of the tents where I know is open ground.

Betrayal is the darkness that creeps when the sun leaves each night. My hatred towards the moon can never be enough, he takes my friend every day for hours! What my eyes see now, wish me to think I was better blind. There he stands with his own glow stick in his mouth. He breathes in the fire and dragons out smoke from his nostrils.

“What is your name?” he questions without turning around.

The sun must have told him of our spot. He is here to steal him away.

“Go away,” my anger drowns me.

“I will not, I have a planned meeting with the sun.”

I pick up the rock.

I have heard stories of the unkind. Their lands lost, diminished out of existence by the power of God. Prophecies that lead to the doom of the savages. Would I want God’s wrath on my back?

He turns with amusement in his smile. It was funny how his heart bled but he did not bleed. He rests on an awkward long log. Calls me to sit with him.

“Let’s wait together.”

That is what it took to end the war.

….

Sono

She was young, around 12 I assume. Rough breathing shook her miniature self. Head of orange flames must be mehndi (henna). She was not made for the dessert. Her limbs were swollen and bled from odd areas. Caramel eyes vigilant for the bombs to drop. A child of war.

“I want to go the sun,” her passionate heart speaks “that is where the glowing princess are.”

Curious, a mind that told stories that one could only assume were true. She did not stumble on her words nor thought it was nonsense. It was truth, her destiny I tell her. Her smile makes the sun rise. We sit there as the halo envelops us. She shakes impatiently and I wonder for the first time what it felt like to hug the sun.

…

DAY 2, MORNING

The camp was in ruins and seeing my plate of breakfast this morning made me gag at my luck.

“You are quiet,” Ivory states.

“It is not fair, what is about to happen.” I preach.

My own words sound foreign. Time seems slow down when you stand on dead man’s land. Today I hear the filtered sound of happiness, children running with the wheel outside. Mothers laughing with their cups flowing with chai on today’s gossip news. The snores of men on a bed of strings, their tummy’s shrinking with the passage of grape leaf plates under the sun.

“Brother, I told you not to get attached, the papers been signed. It will begin in a week at dawn”

They say there are divisions in heaven. The topmost for the innocent and pure hearted. Living in world where the most sanitized of water is undrinkable. How can the body handle a heart like that? One which roams the earth without fear. Does the body weight lighter if you are not pushed down by your troubles?

“I think right now you should stay away from these people,” Ivory says, “they will get suspicious if you go around telling different stories to each family.”

“Sono,” a gentler tone, “I am talking to you brother.”

“Ivory, I think I am the most wicked man to ever walk these lands,” it comes out as shudder. The hollowness in my chest heaves in more polluted air until I am heavy.

“What changed?” she sits down next to me.

“I think umm, it was easier when we were in a dark room.” I breathe “when these names meant nothing other than filthy diseased pigs.” 

“You know, you said you wanted them to have a goodbye,” she sympathies “I think that is overly sweet of you.”

She is right. They deserved a worse end, but we went out of our way.

“You are right, I don’t know what got into me.” My mouth curves in smile as I hold my beautiful sister’s hand.

“I think it is the food,” she whispers with a wink.

…

DAY 3, MORNING

To my dismay, life seemed to thrive out of my airconditioned tent. There were sounds of clinking pots and cups in rhythm making a piercing harmony. It was tradition they said. There 5^th year Anniversary on land foreign to themselves.

“Another year and we weren’t thrown out!”

“Another year when we did not pay taxes!”

“Another year …”

Their logic seemed incomprehensible. In 52 years of my life never have I seen people so free yet trapped in cages. Naïve

The commotion started every morning in the same way.

“Nanala, poor soul talks to herself every day,” one said.

“I have heard she has a jinni inside of her,” the other.

“Wants to throw herself in the blazing sun, crazy is in her family’s blood.”

The girl of dawn who wakes everyone for fajr (morning prayer). She was famous around the camp for being unusual. Today she sits out of the circle of dancing women as the ladies’ twirl in jingling anklets. The crowd claps, motivating them to go on. The song known to each tongue by heart. They had all been one exiled family for more than 40 years now. While the world began healing and each nation gave nationalities to their healthy refugee campers. Lines were drawn if sick or above 60, you were separated. Families chose their loved one over a green card and some vice versa. While both choices had consequence. Either you were brought as labor or the countries fought over who takes care of whom. I wonder if they know about their brothers. Brothers who became live burning lanterns on enemy land. Their screams blaring horns that today is cheered upon year after year. Oh God I wonder if they know.

…

Ivory and I grew up in Ghana. Our parents worked as vets at an elephant conservatory. It was joke how she would be the blinding precious tusk everyone was after. She was stronger more capable of handling defense while I was what held us together. With or without me, she was the jewel. Campers eyed her wherever she went. More often shocked to find out that we could handle the hustle. It was a bit rustic, but we learnt. Surprised at each other’s ability we shared a laugh.

“Didn’t know you had it in you to fix that tent,” I would say.

“It’s a talented gene you missed,” she replied.

Every so often I saw a certain someone peak around the tents. Her legs too large to be hidden in plain daylight. She would give us a look as if she were suspicious and stagger away.

“I know who she reminds you off,” Ivory smiles.

“Yah, I know you do,” I say knowingly.

…

DAY 3, EVENING

Nanala

He was doing it all wrong. If the strings were pulled from inside the star than outside, it would not break, and my turn would come faster. The night is awakening, soon the stars would be the only light out and we would close ourselves in our nightly coffins. Ready for another trip, grateful for another day.

“Do not be a big baby,” brother says, “It is just one game, let me win and it is all yours.”

“Do not talk to me, I know my turn will never come!” I stalk off without another word.

I sit next to Nene with a disappointed hump. We watched as my brothers argued playing cat’s cradle. Their fingers twist in the mess of strings. Each time creating a knot that will be harder to reopen.

“Foolish,” Nene laughs.

I giggle knowing well that she would not help them get their fingers out when they are done. Nene sighs leaning against the majlis (floor sofa attached to the ends of the wall). Her back bent lower each year. Her face faded like a candle. I touch her hand. The skin was clay. I could pinch and mold it to my liking and she would not complain.

“Nene,” I realize.

“Yes child.”

“Does it hurt when I play with the skin on your hand?”

She looked at me with love instead of annoyance. Behind the wrinkles I did not know if she was smiling or not. Her eyes would have to do. They swelled as the words left my mouth. I was worried that I had been hurting her all this time. Nene had never been the one to whine. She would raise her head high and say, “Alhamdulillah (praise to God).” Her pain would demise with “Hasbi Allah wa ni mal Wakeel (God is enough for me and he is the best disposer of affairs).” I never had that relationship with God. Though he burnt live in my heart. He was my guardian. We had shared secrets and he would tell me when a storm was on way. Then I would go about my day. Every so often my mind would wonder into thoughts of the creator, but they were just thoughts. Never did I perform the 5 daily prayers as Nene taught or sat in the Quranic (Islamic holy book) congregations. I did not think God cared if I sat down complaining of the problems he already knew off.

With a buzz the electricity shuts off. My brothers scream in the corner as I hold Nene’s hand in the dark. She was quiet. The angels on my shoulders booed at me. Then she pulls me closer into the depths of her bosom.

“No child, I do not think you could ever hurt anyone including myself.”

She kisses my forehead and breathes me into herself. Her grip never loosening for a woman her age. Though now I knew I was not the cause of her pain but then what was?

…

DAY 4, MORNING

The sun did not rise today, or I may have missed its call. Maybe it feared me wakening in a dead woman’s arms.

…

Sono

It happened in hours what was expected to be days. Medics, army, lawyers we got everyone dragging bodies into freshly dug holes. 200 hundred elderly sandwiched side my side. Some on top of another till finely packed. Men performed funeral prayer while their wives and kids wailed around the tents. Slapping themselves till the reality of the events hit them. It was a horrific site. Their pain displayed in action. Their cries in sync. It reminded me of the music they had danced to the previous day.

“Come on, let us give them space,” Ivory puts a hand on my shoulder.

Her grip was firm as she pulls me away. My eyes dart to the movement behind the tents. She was looking.

“Wait,” I urge, “I will be back.”

 I shrug her off and walk away.

There is an earthquake with an elephant cry. I had witnessed that with every wounded heart. Their feet slam the ground open; their tusks stretch in discomfort. But their eyes, their eyes show a kaleidoscope of stories. A sneak peek to their souls. Where they scream an explanation for the unblind. I did not know if she was asking for a clarification on my part or looking for me to ask upon hers.

“How are you?” I sat next to her on the same curious looking log. I did not expect an answer. Confused to be drawn to her energy. But instincts warned that maybe the girl knew. Maybe the spirits had told her of our hushed secrets. I look down at her feet, they looked twice the size of my own. It was dumb to pity her when she was waste of space.

“Why are following me?” her thick voice asks. Her eyes were clear pools of water. Sharbatein Aankhein (liquid eyes) they would call it. The words came from a Hindi love song and still often used by elderly to describe the years of anguish and wisdom. Startling to see the little girl in front of me age beyond her years. Fighting a battle inside herself.

Deafening silence sits between us as she waits for my answer. But I got nothing to say. How do u ask someone so young if they got any theories on death? I expected her to tell me herself. So instead of saying anything. I untie my laces and slide my boots off. The girl looks confused but laughs when she sees it.

Christmas elephant print socks. That was the present each year. The socks were made of dense sheep wool and soaked in dye.

“Do you like them?” I ask smiling. She nods wowed by colored socks. I wonder how many bright clothes she owns. She did not get insecure, instead sat there with a confident smile. The sun was shy. It felt cooler today.

“My mom would make these in different colors,” I explain her “they are used to stay warm.”

“They donated these last winter,” she exclaims. A part of her excited to know what socks are. She was easily distracted. I could say the most random absurd thing and she would laugh. Multiple time did I think she was faking but she was genuinely crazy. I hate to admit but it was funny.

…

DAY 4, NIGHT

The moon stared back in the peace of the night. It was silent. If you held your breath, you could just imagine the rest of the land barren. If only my heart did not beat so hard in my throat, even my own life could be mistaken for. The crickets reminded me home. They, the only buzzing life in the darkness. While the rest of the camp slept through this nightmare with hope of a sunrise tomorrow. The chill air pecked my cheeks as an accomplishment for surviving today.

“Ready for your shot,” Ivory says from behind me. The fear was not in the big needle she held out for me. She was glowing. I eyed her in suspicion as she prepped my skin for the pierce.

“What?” she giggled

“You told me to not give me heart to these people,” I sound offended.

“I will never degrade lower than you brother,” she says with a wink.

“Then what am I supposed to think of this smiley you.”

“I do not know what you are talking about, it is an inside joke.” She exclaims

“With yourself!” my voice throws the crickets off balance as the needle forces in the clear liquid.

“Exactly,” she whispers.

“Anyways, the president called he wanted you to know that the next phase should be ready before daylight.”

“Oh, so the president is on your joke but I’m not,” I accuse.

“You are right he is, because he is not here harassing a little girl!” she sounds hurt “I don’t know what you are doing with her, but it needs to stop.”

“We just talk, she is too stupid.” I start.

“Sono, do not ruin this.”

“She just reminds me of…,” I want to tell her, but she heaves in a sigh and moves back taking the needle along with her.

“You are disgusting,” she plucks the syringe in the plastic bag and starts to move away.

“Yah sure!” I scream at her back, “us killing these people is not disgusting at all!”

“At least some of us know how to keep our pity in control!” She is inside the tent, but I know well she heard me. Our conversation imbalances me. We had planned it through for 2 years now. With the entire continent on our backs ready to dispose of these bodies. I was never getting attached to these animals. While they begged for food and danced for lucky money. They were just weeds, wild and infested. They fed on the media for food, and then called us pigs for not giving them enough when they bathed in their own mess. They were poor for their own faults. Growing in toxins long enough to forget their inbreeded moralities.

“Hi!” she scares. I had not realized she was standing there.

“Do you want to watch the sunrise with me?” she asks politely. She kicks the little stones around burning holes in the sand.

“Yah sure,” I smile. She comes forward and holds my pinky. Pulling me along to our spot.

…

Nanala

“So, did you hear anything that upsets you?” His question stretches on the letters.

“Yaah,” I say it the way he did. His fingers stretch and bundle in constant motion. It felt good, to have such attention. Mama and Nene never let me in on their secret but this one. This is the one I will never let anyone in on too. As the hours pass by and I have thought of every possible place the crickets maybe hiding. His sighs get louder.

“You were not supposed to hear anything,” he sounds hurt. Sitting in the dim light of the camp, the moon looks the brightest it had ever been in my life. It looks hopeful, happy for tomorrow, but could I trust the moon. When I had not seen the sun today. It felt like betrayal. Looking up now and feeling the slightest hope. Unreal burning hope.

“I think you should tell me your secret and I will tell you mine,” he suggests.

“Bribing is a sin,” I smile.

“I do not think God cares at this point,” he is mad, “please I beg you, let me know the secret or I will never help you meet the sun.”

He is proud, knowing my weakness. I look down at my hands. He is not your friend if he uses you. But did not Mama use me to help with the chores when I am in the gravest of pain. Yet she was my Mama, but this man he said to be my only believer. Is he still my friend?

“Fine,” I say giving up, “but you will have to close your eyes.”

He looks confused but since this bears no loss, he does so. I hold his hand and pull him along.

“Where are we going?”

“To a place soaking in secrets.”

…

Sono

The girl pulls me around the tents again. My eyes peak at my surrounding to all tents looking the same. She did not know how this secret could cost her life. We would have to execute her without anyone knowing. Maybe spread a rumor of how the crazy girl finally threw herself in the ball of fire. She hummed to herself as tents closer in on each other. As we watched our feet hopping over the pins and ropes. My eyes were wide open, but the girl still had not noticed. We finally come to a stop and my calculations did not add up. We did not just walk from end to another. We were right in the middle of the camp. Maybe it was the darkness that made it feel so claustrophobic because we never noticed this error.

“It is there,” the girl points to a small ugly looking tent, that had no owner no purpose. The girl easily walked in through the curtained doorway while I struggled to bend through.

My jaw must have dropped low because the girl giggled to herself. Was this normalized to these people? The low tent bore holes in its fabric, that let in moonlight. In pitch darkness the light made patterns on the other end. In calligraphic illuminating writing. It had no meaning just random arrangement of torn fabric, that would cause the other end to radiance. It reminded me of glow in the dark stickers. I must have been lost because the girl pulled on my coat.

“Do you like it?”

I had this rage inside me that could burn this tent down. She has been playing with me with her innocence.

“You will regret wasting my time little girl,” that is how she talked to me when I first came. With anger and disgust. I had thought nothing about till now. She was crying. I could not see much of her face in the dark, but her hiccups were a red flag.

“Stop crying, I just thought you had something bigger than this.” I roll my eyes in instinct.

“This is bigger!” she yells. My hand covers her mouth stopping her from making more noise. She screams into my hand. Her saliva mixed with snot making it slippery taking a hold of her. Using this as her advantage, she bites into my skin and runs out of the tent. What a loser, I think.

…

DAY 5, AFTERNOON

 The map spread in front of me. All the tents were tiny triangles. Each one equally spaced as the UN had overseen.

“Something is off,” I attract Ivory’s attention. Last night was a forgotten dream, with today still running. Ivory drags herself from the bunk we share to the mapping table.

“Last night the tents looked closer in together.” She stares at my mouth blinking twice. I know she stops herself from saying a sassy comment that will set both of us off.

“Around here,” I point to the middle of the land. Our base tents were in red and spiraled through the camp in a swirl but ended off before it reached the middle. Her head was in hands as processed my suspicion.

“What is in the middle?” she asks in understanding.

“A torn tent, it does not belong to anyone.” My voice is thick as we reach climax when she speaks my mind.

“Why would the UN make a useless tent right in the middle of the camp?” she answers her own question without knowing, “unless the UN did not make it.”

…

We are hopping out of the camp in hurry. Ivory lets everyone in on the walkie talkie. She makes sure to let everyone in the perimeter of the tent disperse. In a rush I see the campers gaze at us again. My mind whirls in thought of how I once thought they fancied us. Bending around the tents, I can hear the Soldiers push people away in event of a feast. While they ran against our flow, the path seemed clearer. My eyes second on the still shadow that waits outside her tent, she was staring again.

“We need to hurry,” I say going into a run.

…

There were empty files everywhere. Taken out in a rush. I slap myself, how stupid could I be. Nanala had brought me here last night wanting me to see but I had pushed her away. Ivory bends into the tent on call with the president. She glares at me before walking out again. The illuminated wall still exits though, brighter than it was last night. I stare at the incomprehensible words, wishing they had made sense to me. I was wowed by dancing light knowing full well I had made fun of Nanala when she saw my red socks. The spirts laughed at me and the walls were closing in again.

Feeling dizzy, I walk out. Ivory hands me the phone.

“Sono, we will initiate our last phase,” he says, “we do not need an uprising when we have 2 days left.” He speaks the truth.

“Do you agree?”

“I just wanted them to die off happier sir, we got…”

“There is nothing called dying happier, they got their last big meal, it’s enough!”

“Yes sir”

I walk away slowly. Handing the phone to Ivory while he is talking to me. I feel lightheaded. Ivory calls my name from behind, but I do not have the guts to listen. I walk amongst the tents, following the loud sounds. The refugees have all gathered around like ants. The food ranges from chicken curry to varieties of juices and rum. What I thought their last happy feast would look like, comparing to what I see with now made it feel like the whole team was right when they said that these people did not deserve a happy hour. They hoarded the food with anger and no thought of their brothers. The soldiers tried to pull apart the moms attacking each other for the chicken leg. Children their tongues licking all the spilled pudding someone had dropped. They made me sick. Upon the side there was an abandoned microphone left by one of the soldiers.

“ITS ENOUGH!” I shout through. My voice is course and wicked.

“BACK AWAY EVERYONE NOW!” the crowd is shaky as they gradually part away. I turn around to see Ivory glowering at me. It was my fault. I need to fix this mess.

…

Nanala

We are all given plastic plates and made to stand in line. The adults on one and the children on the other. They give you all food in small bits till your plate is full.

“Come back for more if you need to,” the soldier man says. I nod going to sit next to my siblings on the sufra (plastic sheet spread while eating food). They ordered everyone to sit in a long row. To maintain the rush, there were soldiers everywhere. I eat my food, happy to be fed twice today. The rock bread I had this morning was forgotten when the cool pudding touched my tongue. The flavor was indescribable. It was the perfect sweet. No hard crunch in the sugar, it melted in my mouth. My sister was hopping in her seat and I mimic her actions. There was drool of curry on her face, but it did not matter because her smile ruled it all out.  I look up at the sun asking if he wanted some. He was happy and wild today watching the clouds race. Nothing in this moment mattered, I had never seen so much happiness even on celebratory days.

“Watch that man!” one of the soldier yells. He had puked all over the sufra a few meters away. Maybe not everyone was happy I think as they cuff the man and drag him away. I look around for my other friend, he had been having bad days. I was not surprised when his anger blew up. That was all what the kids were talking about and then someone said.

“Nene would have called him a hot dog,” there were cheers of laughter. I look to my left and I see him gazing at me as a woman talks to him. Suddenly I do not feel like eating no more.

…

DAY 6, MORNING

Sono

The cold air spreads anxiousness around the camp. You feel it when accidentally bumping shoulders with a soldier or see it in the hurry manner medics pack away their belongings. The sick in the tents increased in numbers, were given their last dose and left with part goodbyes. Everyone was leaving in a rush while I sat stretching the scarlet fabric of my socks. I could not leave so soon. Mother’s last glimpse shadowed by vision. It melted my thoughts and left the nothing but a static buzz. Buzz after the bomb that left my home into bits. It was about to happen again, but it was not my home. Ivory always took pride in her past. Her thought being she was saved by her own instincts and skill. From her knowledge to her athletic healthy body. She who nurtured herself to be strong. If these campers were anything like her, we would not have to come to this. They disregarded every rule in a substandard attempt of rebellion. There was no world peace with their existence. Their bodies held in disease that we could not cure. Viruses spread through them. Death was around like a cloud that rained blood. They did not pay their taxes and stole from people what their women could sneak in bundles as they left the strangers home in the middle of night. Their children buried if disobedient because God asked nothing less of perfection. A God who only sees faults in others, other than themselves.  A disgusting race that I felt pity for. Mother’s ashes now drowned in who knows what part of the ocean. What good did it get her to be part of such movement? Her limbs swollen day by day. Her cracked feet, puss mixed with blood oozing out. She did not ask God to be diseased. Death would have veiled soon enough but the countries decided they had enough before she closed her eyes. She was one of the innocents to die that day. Part of the many that will die today including Nanala.

I wear my socks as the ground shakes with copters overhead. Before zipping my belongings shut, I grab a pair of yellow socks I had brought along as extras. Soft made with delicate details of elephants. It was perfect gift goodbye.

…

2 MONTHS LATER:

I woke up today with a migraine. It spread around my head in a web of electrical shocks. My vision was cloudy as I made way across my bedroom. The plain of my four walls with artificial light made you forget about time. I sit across from my PC. Blinking red light atop of the monitor meant there had been a new message.

The bombs went off a long time ago. I would cheat my thoughts by forgetting the land had existed.

“It was a lie; you were never there.” I would preach to reflection every morning before today.

“You do not know those people.”

“Dirty diseased pigs.”

“No relation between us and them.”

I turn my screen on and click open the new email. It was forwarded from the private group circle of the government. This news would reach the press, months from today. It got advantage for being part of a bloodthirsty team. My thoughts encircle and intertwine messages. What contribution would I have given to achieve privilege like this? Months of recitation but could my mind still hold memory? I was there in the sanguinary crowd when Ivory pushed the button. She had no remorse in that moment. No second thought to consider the weight of the situation. If my baby sister denied them with such ease, meant we had no reason not to. Cooped up at home, I admired her for not letting anything blind her from her goal.

The email titled ‘pics’, looked least suspicious to any hackers out there. There were photographs of fine beaches and happy couples. Amidst of the joy held a locked file. I type the pin in, and the page takes its time to open. I am not nervous; my forged thoughts held little meaning to this secretive file. It opens with ease. There are pictures in the file that remind me of nothing. I smile, scrolling through. This must be my greatest moment in life. I could publish an article ‘Ways of Memory Alteration.” This was success. A laugh builds up inside of me imagining the ways I will tell Ivory and her fiancé of my experiment.

I stop at a picture with the sun. It was high, blinding the rubble of stone and fabric. Zooming into the picture, I gape at the bodies. Hundreds buried under the mess. The sky showed off, there were no clouds. It looked perfectly clean against the trash. Zooming in closer, my eyes catch a glimpse of bright colour in the grey. Curious, I skip to the next pic, that showed clearly the bodies bent in odd positions.

My heart stops and I feel the tears slide down on my cheeks. She looks soft. Her hair was slick back, it made her features prominent. An angel, glowing as she stares into the camera with smile. I sigh leaning back in my chair to observe the image from afar, afraid she would jump out. The memory of her scaring me that night. “HI!” she had said. It echoed in my mind. Her thick raspy voice that shook her entirely when giggled.

If a cat had nine lives, how many do humans do? This was a prominent question. No one ever lives long enough to see rebirth of the same soul, well until now. I had not seen a picture of mum when she was younger, but I knew her long enough to know her face. Our last night together, I lay next to her memorizing every inch: her eyes, nose, skin. She was a missing puzzle but with Nanala’s laugh mixed with her face and she was a live again.

I look at her hands and I force a voluntary laugh which echoes. Nanala wears the socks I left her on her hands. I had not realized when leaving the gift, that it would not fit her lumpy giant feet. My breath comes out shallow. My head hit the table and I scream into my heads. The memory of the night I left mum with Ivory, burdens me all over again.

The doorbell rings a few times till I realize that the person on the other side is in a rush. I wipe the tears of my numb face and sigh. I do not know how long I had been crying, my screen had blackened in pause. In the dark reflection, I could see the bump growing on my forehead. There is another ring overhead. I drag myself to the door, wiping my puffy eyes so I do not look so weak.

She looks at me in shock. Our image mirroring each other.

“Why have you been crying,” Ivory whispers as a statement. She looks breathless, like she had this conversation with herself multiple times before.

“Nothing,” I say in response. My mouth feels dry when I ask, “why have you been crying?”

Heavy tears threaten as she waits. She is looking down when she says, “I am pregnant Sono.”

“Oh um,” I do not know what else to say. I do not understand. She looks up with fear clouding eyes. Flashes pass in silence as it all comes back in pieces. That one prominent night comes back, like slap on all our faces. I stare at her in disgust. All that time cooped up in my room, admiring her courage felt shameful. I was ashamed.  

“All of this, what was it for,” I was angry, “WHAT WAS IT FOR!”

“You want to know,” I tease her continuing, “Nothing, all of this was for nothing!”

With no words to explain herself, she stood there trembling, “I am sorry, please I am sorry.”

A robotic rant, with no meaning. I push her away when she comes close. Chest puffed trying to heave as much air in before I fall over.

“Congratulations Ivory” I slam the door shut.

My walls quaked for seconds after my door closed. Feeling dizzy, I slip down on the floor. I am trembling when I scream the black void that had kept me safe for the past weeks. The built up of years’ worth fury now pushed on my shoulders. I thought about Nanala. A little sunflower I had crushed under my weight. Gazing at my ceiling, I close my eyes. Her smile an eclipse before me. Never had I prayed to God. My status at this moment could not stoop lower, lower than the devil himself. So, I prayed to Nanala’s God, my mother’s God. One who turned them off before they chocked on the oxygen surrounding them.

 I am still, I am at peace. I can feel the tinkle of blood streaming down my face, but I feel free. There is a dream within me. A vision for the next life. A purpose to come back to the wild old Ghana. Going to strolls with my mum. Sucking cool water through trucks. The river, brown and muddy but we bathe in it every day. She catches me when I slip or when gravity pulls lower. The whole time watching, an unusual little sunflower laugh with us from the banks. In this life, there is no war. We are at peace. We are at peace.

The End.

Sono	Nanala
Name Meaning: elephant	Name Meaning: sunflower
Gender: male	Gender: female
Origin: Ghana	Origin: Hawaii

P.s Ivory was pregnant with the refugee’s baby. It meant that the baby held all the genes. It was a diseased child. The whole camp was annihilated, to prevent their genes from spreading. But with a soul growing inside of her. Meant that the child, if birthed would bring up a generation of unwell children. It is also a test for Ivory, since she took away Sono from their mother. So, if Ivory loses the child, then she will feel the loss her mom felt. Her fiancé would leave her. She was overconfident. This is her curse.