A POISONED CHALICE (EPISODE 4)

in #fiction5 years ago (edited)

Fatima adjusted her gown and dusted specks of ash that had settled on her after swirling about in the half light of the early evening. Two candles flickered in the room, serving as the only illumination in the room.


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pixabay.com:RobinHiggins


She turned about studying where she had found herself that afternoon one more time and wrinkled her nose in distaste at the sight before her. The dust, the stink of unwashed bodies, old urine and old vomit was the least of her problems. The sweet smell of weed and the burning plastic smell of crack-cocaine made her head woozy and she felt like throwing up each time she was forced to take a deep breath. The two men watching her with hungry eyes made matters worse.

It had happened like a dream, her kidnap. She had gone to her hairdresser to fix her hair. She had wanted to look good that evening. Her husband was returning home after a two weeks business trip and she felt she had to be out in full force. She had finished the hair in record time and as she still had time before the early evening traffic rush hour started, she had decided to stop by the fruit market to get some fresh fruits to make fruit salad for the evening meal. She never sent her maids on such errands because they were never able to get fruits that satisfied her fussiness.

Fruits successfully purchased, she was opening her car door when the screech of car tires made her turn, only for her to come face to face with two masked men wielding shotguns and screaming for her to get into their car. She had turned around in panic seeking for help, but most persons were fleeing the scene. Nobody wants to be caught around that kind of environment when bullets start flying or if the police decide to show up. Either one was no good for anyone.

A slap had pushed her neck further back and she had staggered against the door of her car. As she tried to clear her vision, a big arm that smelt of stale cigarette smoke, had grabbed around her stomach and lifted her from the ground. She had screamed for help before a punch to her temple had sent her into oblivion. She had woken up to this stink and the chuckling and gibbering of broken men. She could see that she was in hell. She wondered why.


Several years ago...

“I will not marry Ahmed. He is a brute and has no human sympathy. Do you know how many times he had waylaid Obinna and me on our way back from school when we were in primary school? He used to force sand into how mouths and our lunch box.” She said, her voice hitching with tears of frustration.

“What! But you never said anything? Why?” her mother asked.

Alhaja Aminat was a soft spoken, gentle woman. She was known to be always calm and never raised her voice no matter how tempers flared about her. Her husband, Alhaji Bala, Fatima’s father, on the other hand, was a veritable storm. He was a loud, foul mouthed, temperamental man and all his wives feared him except Aminat. She was his first wife and the love of his life but she had no son, only daughters, so he had to marry again and then again.

“Mama, and what would you have done? Papa and Ahmed’s father are like two rats in a kitchen cabinet. He would never have seen reason with my fears. It is like he can’t seem to understand that I don’t love that boy.” Fatima replied, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

Her mother studied her for some minutes, and then she sighed and looked out through the window.

“You know I used to love a boy before I met your father?” she said softly.

Her words hung in the air between them for some seconds, then she chuckled and turned to face Fatima.

“He had the most beautiful eyebrows I have seen on any man and he loved to sing for me too but he was an orphan, who followed cattle from Kano to any part of the country he was told to go.

Whenever he came around, he told me stories of the world and he was a great storyteller but he was poor and my father did not like him. My father married me off to your father when I reached sixteen. I cried for weeks, I tried to run away, I tried to kill myself but in the end, I am here and I love your father.” Her mother said.

Fatima’s mouth hung open all through the time her mother spoke. She suddenly saw her mother with new eyes. Her mother smiled and patted the space beside her. Fatima walked to the seat and sat down, her eyes on her mother.

“Yes later, your father had a run of bad luck in his business and he was directed to meet with a merchant who also ran a small bank in town. Guess who the man was?” her mother asked.

Fatima gasped in surprise.

“The man whom you used to love?” she asked.

Her mother nodded her head and smiled sadly.

“He was willing to help your father and he asked nothing in return. He never tried to contact me but when I discovered who he was, I tried to contact him.” her mother replied.

“That is enough of the reminiscing. What I am trying to point out to you is that love comes in mysterious ways. Do not turn away from this without considering all the aspects of it. You are a Muslim and Hausa; your Obinna is Ibo and a Christian. Do you truly think both of you can have a stable relationship as husband and wife?” she asked.

“This is a different world from your time, mama. Things are different now. People are more accepting than before.” She replied.

“My daughter you are so naïve. Nothing really changes my dear. Yes there maybe exceptions to the rule but the rule always remains, always.” Her mother rejoined.

Fatima turned away and stared at the window, at the tree waving in the wind, and the bright yellow sun. She wished she were free.


Stay Tuned For Episode 5
See previous episodes here;

Episode 1
Episode 2
Episode 3


©warpedpoetic, 2018.

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