What would he say now if I were to tell him how much this has cost me?
* * *
—
Would you still love me, dearest husband, if I told you that our sons are both dead, gone in part because we dismissed your words? Would you turn your back on me, or dry my tears for me? What would you do if I told you that there’s no grave for our sons, because they were killed and tossed aside to rot like garbage, your own flesh and blood?
I don’t need to tell—you know already, our children are with you.
They’ve told you by now what happened to them in Bézam.
You know better than I do the things that were done to them in that city of brutes. Things I do not let my mind dare conjure. Dreadful things I would never have imagined would befall them in those nights when I cradled them and shushed them back to sleep, beautiful as they were, life’s most perfect creations.
You are together there. I am alone here. The worst kind of curse that could befall a woman happened to me. Do you cry for me from over there? Do you wish death would be merciful to me and hurry up?
* * *
—
I yearn to join my husband and sons, but Sahel doesn’t want me to and I don’t want to leave her just yet. I hope to stay with her until someone comes to take her away from this hut. Someone may be coming soon. A Bézam man. He wants to take her to Bézam. I’ve told her to go. I’ve begged her. She has cried and said she can’t ever leave me, she can’t leave behind what she had with Malabo. I tell her she must; this village, it’s dying. I want her to take my grandson and go to Bézam—take far away from here the only person left to carry the Nangi name and make sure that my husband’s bloodline does not disappear.
The day before Thula left for America, she, Sahel, Juba, and I spent all day in my bedroom, entertaining relatives and friends who weren’t sure they’d be in the village to give her a final hug before she stepped onto the bus. Between visitors, we sat in silence, trying not to think about the meaning of the next day. In the evening, Sahel brought the dining table from the parlor into my room and we all ate our dinner from the same bowls. Juba slept on the bed with me that night, and Sahel and Thula slept on a mat across from us. When the bus arrived the next afternoon, before leaving with Sahel and Juba for the airport, Thula came and knelt by my bed. She said, “Yaya, when I come back I’ll do everything to make sure Kosawa is back to the way it was in your childhood.”
My poor, sweet child.
I wanted to tell her, no, please, don’t worry about Kosawa, we have to let Kosawa go. But I could see in her eyes that she wouldn’t let it go. Determination is her name; never have I seen her resolve broken. Even as a baby, no matter how hungry she was, she would push away everything until she got exactly the food she wanted. As a little girl, if she didn’t want to wear a certain dress, she would fold her arms to prevent her mother from putting it on her. Many parents would have beaten that willpower out of her, but Malabo refused to; he said children should be allowed to be the way the Spirit created them to be. So all I could do on her departure day was lay my hands on her head. I prayed for the Spirit to bless her and keep her, watch over her comings and goings, now and forever.
* * *
—
Everyone said that Thula was a replica of my husband, his face on a girl’s head. My husband’s eyes shone whenever he heard this—he wanted the world never to forget that she was his. I still recall the day of her birth, the moment I brought her out of the room and handed her to Malabo, who passed her to his father. Has one human ever looked at another with more wonder? Whenever he held her, even when she cried, his pride was laid bare. He reserved for her most of the few smiles he was willing to give to the world.
I remember one night when I woke up and went outside to use the toilet—Thula was just past four months then. I heard the start of her cry as I approached the toilet, but I didn’t hurry back, though she cried on; I figured Sahel had picked her up and was changing her soiled napkins. When I got back to our room, though, it was my husband who had her. He was singing softly to her. He’d figured out that Sahel and Malabo were not in their room—they were married people; it was never our place to ask them why they liked leaving the hut to go wherever they went in the darkest hour of night—so he had gone into the room and picked up the baby. I sat down next to him on the bed, and he continued singing until Thula quieted down. Her eyes soon became heavy, and she went back to sleep. My husband wiped away her tears. He rose and took her back to her sleeping basket at the base of Sahel and Malabo’s bed. He didn’t need to, but he stood there watching over her for close to an hour, until Sahel and Malabo returned home.