The death of Obiageli part2 She was always in a hurry, she never had time to sit down and tell her about her life anymore. The old woman remembered when Ndidi was small, how she would always wander into the house with a funny looking pebble, or a strange flower, or with one of her many questions. Ndidi loved to ask questions. Now her daughter was the important wife of a rich man, and whenever she tried to talk to her, Ndidi would brush her off with an apology and a reminder of how busy she was. She wondered what had happened to her daughter, she missed her curious little girl; she did not know who this impatient woman with the red fingernails was. The old woman thought about these things as she peered again at the street below her. She thought of her parents. Of her strict mother, quick to beat her for the slightest error. When she was beaten, she would run to her second mother, her father’s other wife. Her second mother would dry her eyes and rock her to sleep. She had a happy childhood; her mothers loved her father and treated each other like sisters. She was her mother’s last born, the apple of her father’s eye. Day became night as the old woman pondered. She sat outside on the little balcony and watched as cars drove by and people chatted in the street. She saw her daughter’s security man go to the house opposite to pass the time. She watched the shadows lengthen and saw when the lights on the street came on. Sometimes she dozed off, but something would startle her awake. The old woman sat and waited, but nobody came. Night became day, and then night again. The old woman did not know how many days she sat there, waiting, but still nobody came to check on her or to take her back inside. She was weak and the cough stabbed her in the chest every time she took a breath. Her bladder had become full and one time when she coughed, unable to hold it anymore, she relieved herself. That was when she wept, painful, struggling tears of shame. Was this who she had become? She, Obiageli, her father’s pride, her mother’s joy, the most eligible maiden in her village. The memories started again, one after the other, almost too quickly to catch hold of, stories told in the moonlight as a child, the first time she saw Chukwudi, the celebrations when Chukwudi came to make her his wife, the birth of her children. She traveled through the years of her life, relieving every moment. Suddenly, she was tired, very tired. Human ears could not have heard her voice, so low was it as she said “Let me come”. In case they did not want to agree, she whispered again, “Chukwudi, my husband, it is enough, tell them to let me come” As she spoke, the wind ceased to blow, the crickets stopped chirping. The night was quiet; there was not even the rustle of a piece of paper in the street. In the stillness, Death came. She looked up and saw him, her Chukwudi, her handsome husband, come to take her finally. The old woman smiled, and her smile was the smile of a young maiden who has just fallen in love. Obiageli died alone and un-mourned on her rich daughter’s balcony. Her daughter’s 2 house staff, each supposing that the other would care for her and unwilling to be cheated, had decided to take advantage of their boss’s absence and sneak out for a holiday. It would be 3 more day before her body was discovered.
Posted on: Mon, 09 Sep 2013 07:12:57 +0000
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