Abeo shrugged. “Nothing,” she said.
“It’s something or else you wouldn’t be here,” Nana countered. “Or perhaps you did something?”
“Me?” Abeo thought about it. What could she have done? She was a good girl. Well-behaved, well-mannered, polite. She was an exceptional student and daughter. Her mother had said as much on numerous occasions and her father had agreed. Nevertheless, Abeo scoured her mind to locate the sin she’d committed that had landed her in this hell on earth. She looked down at her palms, down at the sinewy canals that cut through the calloused flesh, and was slowly reminded of a transgression she’d committed in the recent past. She gasped.
“I-I borrowed my aunt’s ring.”
“You took it.”
“You stole it.”
The accusations cut like a machete.
“No!” Abeo wailed. “I was just holding it for her until she came back!”
The other girls smirked.
Anxious to flee the spotlight, Abeo shifted the attention to the youngest child in the hut.
“Little one,” she called to Juba, “how long have you been here?”
Juba turned to Nana. “How long, Nana, heh?”
Nana pursed her lips. “Uhm, I think a year now. Yes, you came during the last rainy season.”
“Aha, one year.” Juba raised her index finger into the air, then bent down and drew a long line in the dirt. “One,” she echoed, her face beaming with pride. “You see, I still remember my numbers.”
Juba was six years old.
15
Ismae stayed with Thema for two days before Wasik came for her, crawling on his knees like a dog. The neighbors watched and whispered. Thema’s husband was embarrassed; he placed a firm hand on Wasik’s shoulder and begged him to get up.
“Ismae, Ismae . . .” Wasik wailed, until she came to the door.
He wrapped his arms around her calves and cried so hard his tears soaked her bare feet. “Please come home. I cannot live this life without you and Agwe. Please.”
As Wasik groveled, Ismae stared down at the bald spot in the center of his head, which seemed to have grown in recent weeks.
“Can you live without Abeo?” she asked in a voice as cool as arctic ice.
“Please come home where we can d-discuss it,” he stammered through his tears.
“I want an answer now, Wasik. Right this moment!”
“You are my wife, Ismae, you need to be by my side.”
“Go and get our daughter and bring her back.”
“B-but Ismae,” Wasik blubbered, “she is not our daughter, she i—”
Disgusted, Ismae kicked herself free of his grip and retreated back into the safety of Thema and Joseph’s home, leaving Wasik on the front steps, beating his head and calling her name.
When the police came, Wasik didn’t argue with the officers, he simply apologized for his behavior, climbed into the borrowed car, and drove home.
* * *
That night, when the family was fast asleep, the phone began to ring.
A moment later, Thema rushed into Ismae’s room and announced in a panicked voice that Grandmother had called to say that Wasik was threatening to kill himself.
Ismae’s heart stopped. “Suicide?”
“Joseph is waiting in the car,” Thema said.
When they arrived at the house, Wasik was in bed damp with perspiration. When he looked up at Ismae there was not a flicker of recognition. He mumbled nonsense and flailed his arms wildly whenever she came close.
Ismae called for the family doctor, who came and examined Wasik. The doctor prescribed sedatives, bed rest, and cautioned him to cease his excessive drinking. His words to Ismae were blunt and direct: “Can’t you see what all of your nonsense is doing to your husband? If you were my wife I’d . . . If he dies, the blood will be on your hands.”
And with that, he left.
* * *
After ten days, the sun rose in Wasik’s eyes. He emerged from his mental breakdown thin and weak. But this time, when he looked at Ismae, he knew who she was and he smiled.
“My love, you’ve come back to me,” he croaked.
Grandmother cautioned Ismae not to speak of the events that had nearly driven him out of his mind, lest he return to the edge of madness. “Next time,” she warned, “he may not recover.”
Grandmother’s words had rattled Ismae, and in that moment she realized with great shame that her fear of losing Wasik outweighed the loss of Abeo.
Ismae went into the bathroom and gazed at herself in the mirror. She never imagined she could become one of those women who pedestaled their men—no matter the error, no matter the consequence. She certainly never imagined herself a woman—a wife no less—who would side with her betrothed ahead of her child. But there she was, doing just that, and it made her sick to her stomach.
She lifted the lid to the toilet, doubled over, and puked.
Ismae supposed her religion had a hand in it. The Bible was clear. Colossians 3:18 stated that wives were to submit themselves to their husbands. Not only that, but on her wedding day her own mother had reminded her—for the hundredth time—that Ismae’s place was not ahead of her husband, not beside him, but behind him.
Ismae righted herself and smoothed her damp hair back into place. At the sink, she turned on the faucet.
Divorce was not an option. If she wanted to go to heaven after she died, she would have to seek an annulment, and in Ukemby the Catholic Church was not fond of granting annulments. And even if the Church did concede, Ismae would gain her freedom only to lose her status in the community. Divorced women were frowned upon in Ukemban society and divorced women with children were damn near ostracized.
Ismae raised her eyes to the mirror and spoke to her reflection: “I’m caught between being a good wife and a bad mother.”
Grandmother, who had been lurking in the doorway, murmured, “Abeo is not your child, so you are not a bad mother. The one who gave her away at birth is the bad mother.”
* * *
The days rolled into nights and then weeks.
Thema called one afternoon, inquiring as to when Ismae and Wasik would be bringing Abeo back home.
“Soon. As soon as Wasik is well enough to tell me where he took her, we will go and get her,” Ismae lied.
“When will that be?” Thema questioned coldly.
Ismae quietly repeated herself: “Soon.”
When the school called, asking about Abeo’s whereabouts, Ismae said that she had sent her to a boarding school in London. She also told this fib to Abeo’s friends and the parents of those friends. She told this invention to everyone and anyone who asked.
* * *
It was worse than if Abeo had died. People reminisced about the dead. But in the Kata household, Abeo’s name was hardly ever uttered. It was as if she’d never existed.
They went about their lives, each secretly waiting for the good luck to find them again.
* * *
A month later, the phone rang with the first piece of positive news they’d had in close to a year—Wasik had been cleared of any wrongdoing and was to report back to work immediately.
A week after that, Ismae found out that she was pregnant. She made the bittersweet announcement at dinner. Grandmother rose from her chair, clapping, stomping her feet, and ululating.
Wasik grabbed Ismae’s hands. “See, I told you it was the right thing to do.”
And for the first time, Ismae believed that perhaps it was.
16
Abeo had been at the shrine for four months when Serafine dialed Ismae’s telephone number and, after a series of clicking sounds, heard the computer-generated message: “This number has been disconnected . . .”
Serafine assumed she’d misdialed, so she hung up and tried again. The same recording blared in her ear. She went into her bedroom, retrieved her address book from the nightstand drawer, and flipped through the pages until she came upon her sister’s name and number. She had d
ialed correctly. Serafine picked up the phone again and called Thema to find out what was going on.
“Hello?” Thema’s voice was wrapped in a blanket of static.
“Thema?”
“Yes. Who is this, please?”
“Serafine.”
“The connection is very bad. I’m sorry, who is speaking?”
“Serafine!”
“Serafine? Oh, hello! What a surprise to hear from—”
“Thema, I have been trying to reach Ismae, but the message says the number is disconnected.” More static crackled through the silence that fell between the two women. “Thema? Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here. I wasn’t aware that the number was disconnected,” she said, hoping the static camouflaged the lie. “I haven’t spoken to Ismae for quite some time.”
She had, however, spoken to Ismae recently; had, in fact, seen her in person just days earlier at a department store where she’d spied Ismae admiring an expensive dress. Thema had called out to her and Ismae had raised her head, the sunny smile on her lips fading when she saw who it was.
Her first words stumbled clumsily from her mouth, “Thema, h-hello?” before she shifted her gaze toward a rack of elegant head ties.
Thema’s eyes had popped with surprise at the baby bump pushing through the blue-and-white wrap skirt Ismae wore. “My goodness, you’re expecting?”
Ismae swung the bulk of the large handbag she carried protectively over her midsection. “Yes, I-I am. We wanted to wait before we told anyone. I know I owe you a phone call, but as you can imagine, I’ve been a bit out of sorts.”
“How is the family?”
“They are well,” Ismae replied. “Thank you. And yours?”
“Very good.”
Ismae finally raised her eyes to meet Thema’s excavating gaze, but she quickly discovered that looking directly into her cousin’s eyes unraveled her, so instead she stared at the buttons on her blouse.
“And Abeo, how is she doing?” Thema held her breath and waited for Ismae to say that the girl was back home, that it had all been a terrible misunderstanding.
But Ismae didn’t say that. In fact, she ignored the question altogether and answered one that Thema had not asked. “Yes,” she said, reaching for a lavender and gold head tie, “I think this one would be a very good choice for the naming ceremony.”
Thema had just stood there blinking in disbelief.
When Thema relayed the encounter to her husband later that day, as well as her intention to call Serafine and inform her what Ismae and Wasik had done to Abeo, Joseph calmly fanned his fingers out on the dining room table. “This is not any of your business, Thema. I think it would be wise to stay out of it,” he cautioned.
And now here was Serafine on the other end of the telephone bellowing, “Thema? Thema, are you still there?”
“Yes, yes, I am, Serafine. I will go see Ismae this week,” she lied, “and call you back, okay?”
Serafine sighed. “Thank you, Thema.”
“Okay. Goodbye, Serafine.”
“Goodbye, Thema.”
17
Ismae had always been the beautiful one, while Serafine was attractive and intelligent. Their uncle, their father’s brother, had always doted on Ismae, but when he saw Serafine’s potential he suggested to his brother that he send her to America to complete her education. “The opportunities in America would be better for her,” he’d said.
And so their parents packed Serafine off to stay with another uncle in Texas, reminding her that she was to obey her uncle and his wife, and also that it was important that she keep her head in her books, her focus on her studies.
Her uncle and aunt had careers, small children, PTA meetings, and cocktail parties. Serafine seemed to be a responsible young lady, so they believed her when she claimed to be at the library or studying with friends; but maybe they wouldn’t have been so trusting if they’d witnessed how the adolescent transformed from honor student to quivering mound of jelly whenever she was in the presence of her math teacher, Clark Forester.
Clark Forester was the complexion of iodine, tall, and broad-shouldered; his smoky eyes made grown women swoon—so an innocent, impressionable teenager didn’t stand a chance.
Clark Forester was blatant in his advances on Serafine, and he took every opportunity to accidentally brush his hand against her breasts. He was fond of standing at her desk, his crotch just inches from her face, his penis twitching behind the zipper of his khakis.
Serafine was in love.
Mr. Forester asked her to stay after class one day. When the other students had gone, he invited her out for coffee. Serafine didn’t drink coffee, but she was so flattered that if he’d invited her out to drink a cup of dirt she would have agreed. He claimed that he had a deep interest in Africa—in Ukemby especially—and wondered if she wouldn’t mind giving him a quick overview of the country and the culture.
Serafine called her uncle and told him that she was staying at school to finish a project, and would get a ride home with a friend.
Mr. Forester took Serafine to a coffee shop located in the lobby of a motel. They sat across the table from one another, Serafine melting away with each compliment he paid her.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he said as he reached for her hand. “Your skin is so soft, it feels like silk.”
Serafine blushed and crossed her legs at the knee, like a grown-up woman. Mr. Forester lit a cigarette and asked if she’d like one. Serafine said no and then yes, and sucked on the filter until she was dizzy.
He took her to room 112, located at the end of a dark corridor. The carpets were tattered and moldy, the room smelled of smoke. He drew the shades, turned on the television, but kept the volume low.
“Lie down until you feel better,” he gently ordered.
Serafine stretched her body across the musty bedspread and closed her eyes. Mr. Forester sat in a chair across the room, smoking and watching her.
“Would you like me to come lie down beside you?”
Serafine said yes.
The first kiss was warm and tender. He held her chin between his thumb and forefinger, just like she’d seen the leading men in the movies do.
When she was naked, he kissed her everywhere until she thought her body would explode. When he entered her, she whimpered and then cried out and then moaned.
* * *
Serafine hadn’t wanted a child, not at that tender age, and Mr. Forester hadn’t wanted one either—he already had three at home with his wife.
“Can you get rid of it?”
“Abort it?”
“Yes.”
Serafine couldn’t imagine doing such a thing. “I can’t do that.”
“Well, keep it then. I don’t care. I don’t know if it’s mine or not, and if you implicate me, I’ll deny it and you’ll be labeled a whore. Is that what you want? Do you want to be called a whore?”
By the time Serafine’s uncle and aunt figured out she was pregnant, she was entering her second trimester. Her uncle pressed his lips together in disappointment and his wife cried.
“Who did this to you?” they asked.
Serafine lied, accusing a boy who had moved with his family to another state.
They pulled her out of school, phoned her parents, apologized profusely, and as further consolation offered to keep the child and raise it as their own.
Serafine’s mother declined: “No, the child will come back to Ukemby to be raised by her sister and her husband.”
Ismae had been married to Wasik for four years at that point, and had been unable to conceive. “God works in the most mysterious of ways!” Serafine’s mother exclaimed.
And so it was decided and then it was done.
Serafine had carried Abeo in her womb, pushed her out into the world, and given her a name, but Wasik and Ismae had done all of the rest.
Abeo was theirs.
* * *
The seasons changed and Thema still h
adn’t returned Serafine’s phone call. New York City was in the grip of winter and Serafine was standing at her bedroom window staring out at the falling snowflakes when Abeo’s voice sounded in her head as clear as cymbals: “Aunt Serafine!”
Serafine whirled around, fully expecting Abeo to be standing in the room. Her heart quickened, and right then and there she picked up the phone and dialed Thema’s number.
“Have you spoken to my sister?”
Thema hesitated. “They’ve gone to England. Wasik is on assignment there. A few months, I think. If all goes well, they might be there for a year,” she lied.
Silence.
“England? England?” Serafine echoed in disbelief. “I don’t understand why they wouldn’t tell me. England?” she repeated slowly. “It’s not like them not to say something. Do you have their number in . . . England?”
What was Thema to say? This was not her problem; her husband had made that quite clear.
I had the number, but misplaced it.
Last I heard they were doing quite fine.
I’m sure you will be hearing from them soon.
Serafine placed the phone back on its base, stumbled to the kitchen, and slung open every single cabinet door until she found the bottle of vodka she kept for company.
18
As Serafine poured herself into the bottom of the liquor bottle, Abeo was standing in her hut, poking her bloated stomach with the tip of her pinkie finger. Her swollen abdomen was the direct result of the steady diet of gari, which clogged her intestines and made it virtually impossible for her to defecate. When she did—which was rare—there was blood in her stool. Her arms and legs had become as thin as sapling limbs, her vision was weak, and there was a sizable cavity in her back left molar.
Darkwa entered the hut and pointed a cuticle-ravaged finger at Aymee. “You,” she said, “golden girl, come with me.”
Aymee was so called because of her fair skin and light-colored eyes. She gave the girls a fretful look and then obediently followed Darkwa out the door.
In the field, Abeo whispered to Nana, “Where did she take her?”
Praise Song for the Butterflies Page 7