Shackles

Kate hated the idea of marriage. She had seen marriage for what she thought it was; hell. For her, marriage was synonymous with ceramic plates. They get shattered into shreds when they fall from a height. She also knew this about marriage – it always started like a sweet gentle breeze, but in no time, grow bitter like a lemon.

As she sat on the cemented floor, her heart filled with sadness, she knew that the hull of her marriage had hit an iceberg. In her muffled cries, she could still feel the draft, slipping through the windows. She paid little or no attention to the cold since it couldn't be helped. With her hands and legs tied, she couldn't possibly have done anything. She thought of ways to escape, but in the end, her mind sank into despair; stark empty as the room itself, with a musky scent of abandonment. 

A shuffle in the hallway broke the long silence. Her pupils dilated, as she struggled furiously her screams muffled by the thick gag around her mouth. She felt a pang of fear rising in her heart and her ribs rose and fell in quick successions. She knew it was about to happen. Death was just some centimetres away from the door.

She knew how it would all end. Her husband would march in with men dressed in red robes. On his order, they would carry her to an unknown location. They would slit her throat on their secret altar. After that, they would heave a sigh of relief because the eyes that have seen and the tongue that would have exposed their secret would be no more. She would cease to be a threat to them.

Kate cringed at this thought. She regretted the fateful night –when she had unknowingly let out a terrified scream upon discovering the dark secret. It was indeed a night she would never forget. It was the night she was scrubbing the room he forbade her to enter. That night, she saw a lifeless woman in the wardrobe. The woman stood erect like an effigy. She was dressed in a white robe and red, blood streaks coursed the insides of the wardrobe. The dead woman's hollow eyes stared blankly at Kate and the skin on her cheek sunk deep into the bones. Kate had screamed some more and her had husband appeared.  

A chubby man whose upper lips bore a dense moustache. His head nearly went bald, save for the thin line of hair that spanned the edges. 

She shook her head with the intention to stifle the thought, but it was only replaced with another. Her mother's voice came alive to her ears. It broke through the deathly silence that reigned in the room.  

“A man like that is every woman's dream,” her mother’s voice rang, “God forbid. You will not bring shame to this family,” she continued, a designer lace fabric Kate’s suitor had bought for her swung across her left shoulder. 

Kate sneered as she sprang from the small wooden bench to stand akimbo. 

Her mother’s hand rose to face her, brandishing a fat black key. “Just to ask your hand in marriage and we own a Prado SUV already,” she paused a bit as if she was choosing her words “you have rejected a good number of suitors and that's enough. I will not allow it this time,” an edge of anger in her voice.  

What started as a shuffle birthed tons of thumping steps. They knocked Kate off her thoughts. The louder the thumping steps, the clearer Kate could picture her death. She was married off to a ritualist. It would have been better if she was married to a wife batterer. Her parent's house would have beckoned and she would have answered. More tears rolled down her cheeks.  

She gazed at the greasy walls with a frown. How she wished the walls had a mouth to swallow her and at least hide her from the impending doom. Her fear grew once again. She sought invisibility. She wished for nothing, but to stay alive. She could feel the cold hands of death. Her transition to the other side of life was just a stone throw. 

With the jangling of keys and the fitting of one into its hole, the door creaked open. She felt her heart jump into her stomach. With what her eyes met, a crease of confusion formed on her face. The men that trooped in were not on red robes but a khaki uniform. She recognized the man that appeared to be apprehended as her husband. Lines of blood trickled from his head into his black pants. His bare chest displayed dense hair which had been forced to lay down by the caked blood.  

Her eyes swelled with hope as her hands and legs got loosened. 

A huge man offered a hand and she rose to her feet. She was going to say thank you, but heard her tongue asked, “Please, how did you find me?” 

Her question was met with silence, but a gentle smile appeared on her face on seeing Ikay; the gateman. He was smiling sheepishly in the green T-shirt Kate had bought for him some days back. The small device in his hand had triggered Kate’s smile. It was a voice recorder Kate had once gifted him.

By Chukwuebuka Harrison

Hush!

 

 Chimezie’s eyes were devoid of emotion, reminding Ify an experience buried in her little mind. Still holding Ify’s gaze, he sprang from the king-sized bed and dashed towards the door. 

 Her folded arms became more tightened, her body twisting in a manner suggestive of disapproval while her back still leaned against the closed wooden door. 

Recoiling with fear as she rolled her 10 yr old body into a ball defensively, she pleaded with Chimezie; the next door neighbor. 

“Please don't hurt me,” she sobbed, “You told me you will not do it again,” she continued, a stream of tears coursed down her cheeks. Dragging her up, he loosened her folded arms and held her hands.

 

“Okay listen, this will be the last,” he said, lowering his voice into a whisper. “And I promise you, it won’t hurt this time.” The stony grip she felt, reminded her of her resolution to grow 

 

into adulthood as soon as possible so that her soft and tender hand would grow stronger.  

She knew that if she could fill the drum in her mother’s kitchen with water every morning, scrub her father’s Volvo car to sparkling white, read and write on her own, then Chimezie’s feet would have no reason whatsoever to stand in her parent’s room begging her, on behalf of his penis, to walk into her panties. 

In one move, he swept her feet off the ground and swooped her up with his sturdy arms. The room rang with her scream but most of it got swallowed by the squeaky spinning ceiling fan. Hurriedly, he threw her into the squashed mattress, sprawling. In milliseconds, her eyes wandered off from the sleek ceiling to the gigantic photograph of her parent’s hung on the greasy walls and then to the clock. 

The clock said it was 11:30am. Whatever that means, she knew that her mother would only be home when the short hand points to 5 and the long arm with a range of 3 to 6.Leering at her, he pulled off his yellow shirt and his three-quarter jean. His appearance on his birthday suit caused her to coil her legs and then turned her back on him. The thing in-between his legs wasn’t same as Emmy’s –his own, she had seen those times they played in the rain. But what she saw was big; with size and shape of a hot dog sausage.

Viciously, he forced her into a spread-eagle position, after he had pulled up her white gown. Pinning down her arms with his left hand; with his right, he fastened his monstrosity into the narrow passage, and gradually forced himself into her. 

His thrusts, gentle at first but paced up with a renewed surge of desire to satiate. And each thrust caused her more heart throb, more whimper and more tears. 

Her weary eyes wandered off the door when she heard a slight creak. Her eyes lit up with joy when she saw her mother tiptoeing towards the bed, wielding a pestle. The room was still ringing with his moans when the pestle danced through the air to deck his head. 

Without a sound, he fell from his back to the marble floor with a thud. Pulling her daughter off the bed, with her face and her chest covered in blood, Ifeoma wrapped her arms around her child burying her tiny body into her warm embrace. 

“Don’t cry my child, mum is here,” she said, sobbing.  Ify stared at Chimezie's body, as blood quickly pooled around his head. She then turned to her mother, 

 

 

“Is he dead?”                                                 

Staring into Ify’s eyes, she replied                                                                                   

 “No. He is not dead,” then her eyes strayed to the body lying very still on the floor, almost lifeless, “But he will not forget today in a hurry.”                                                         by Aninze Chukwuebuka Harrison                                                                         #CHA_writes xx

 

 

 

 

The Confession.

Appearing at the confessional every Saturday became a norm the moment I joined the altar servers. Bro Ikenna, the president of the altar servers in his husky voice would say,

"You have to appear before the Lord unblemished and sinless like the spotless lamb if you are to serve at his altar", so we would line-up to make our confessions before the Priest.

Fr Silas, with whom confession is always short and simple is our favorite. In our usual manner we would start with

"Bless me Father,  for I have sinned" and then rush our sins as though we're speaking in tongues. Fr Silas who is of Ijebu origin and doesn't understand Igbo will ask that, as penance, we say The Lord's Prayer 3 times, Hail Mary 3 times and the doxology (Glory Be To The Father) 3 times, while he says the prayers of absolution. With Fr Silas, I haven't stayed more than three minutes at the confessional. As with him, confession ends in a jiffy. 

Mother would always remind me on Friday night about the confession for Saturday morning, and she would always say,

"You have to be contrite for offending our Lord who is ever ready to forgive you".

I never really appeared remorseful maybe because I go to confessions without knowing what to confess.

The morning mass of this Saturday became unusual as Fr Silas was celebrating the mass with another priest. Just before the final blessing Fr Silas said

"The Provincial superior has deemed it necessary to give us an associate Priest to help in the pastoral duties of this parish".  So immediately after the mass, Fr Jude was at the confessional . 

My friend Kenechukwu, whom I always cherished our discussion of the penance given after confession, was to clear the streak as the first person to attend confession from the new priest

Kenechukwu had stayed beyond our normal 3 minutes and it was already ten minutes.  I was confused.  I tried to think of any other sin Kenechukwu would have committed, apart from lying, fighting and insulting people . I was still in this state when he came out sweating and looking so confused. I rushed to him and in teary eyes he said

"Is it not the same thing I usually say to Fr Silas and he will ask me to say, The Lord's Prayer 3 times, Hail Mary 3 times and the doxology (Glory Be To The Father) 3 times as penance, I said to the new Priest and he asked that I do the Stations of the Cross for seven days and it must be inside the church". 

That was how, with sweaty palms, I left the church to be blemished and full of sin on Sunday.

By Ozor Onyebuchi
buchizzhenry@gmail.com

The 90-Word Story

A meeting.

A smile.

A date.

Another date.

A relationship.

A year.

Another year.

A proposal.

A wedding.

A year.

Another year.

And another.

A doctor’s appointment.

A year.

Another year.

A total of ten years.

A shiver.

A headache.

A fainting spell.

Another doctor’s appointment.

A great news.

A month

Another month

And another.

A bright day.

An accident.

A miscarriage.

A tear.

A disappointment.

A break up.

A glass of water.

A sachet of sleeping pills.

An overdose

A suicide.

A tragedy

And it ends.

"To anyone out there who feels like all hope is lost. Be strong. Give it time. It gets better." - Pinkette Dawn