PART I: CONFLICT
There is a certain conflict which all men and women must be drawn against. And they only have a certain moment, gifted by providence, to face it. While for some these moments may occur more than once in a lifetime, mostly, for those who aren’t that lucky—or who perhaps might be the luckier of the two—they occur not more than once.
And it is only after such a moment vanishes, abruptly, as mostly it does, that an impasse is reached, and the full grasp of its significance becomes just as elusive. Which is why, towards the end of our own better understanding of them, these moments were defined—by some erudite minds—as the ineluctable conciliatory junctures for eons of violence which can never truly be placated.
This, then, is a story of such a moment.
It is night, and the crickets are engrossed in another of their maddening dirges. She had woken up at a moment to put a stop to this, but the crickets, as elusive as they’re committed, continues in their frustrating recitations, unbothered by her screams.
Earlier while she was asleep she had been dreaming, of a way by which she would escape her incongruous existence. In this dream she had been on her bed, and no cricket sang. She had washed the inks off her hands, and dried them on the bed-sheet. She had turned her attention to the painting itself, which laid on the bed. (It was that of a naked man, and a fully clothed lady.)
She had pondered its significance; its worth, because deep in her heart she felt she had betrayed the true purpose of an artist; she had robbed the painting of life (perhaps, she felt, because she herself had none?)
It was, as she herself was, a mere portrait of a thing which laid no claim to that which it purports to possess; a thing only to be used.
It was, she thought—taking a final glance at it—a sublime piece of crap. But she had the highest of hopes for it. She had to. It was her ticket. It would take her, surely, past her confinement, away from mediocrity. For she had finally perfected a way, she thought, after all these years, to give to life an illusion of art, and to art an illusion of life.
But to where exactly did she wish to be taken? She had no idea. Anywhere but here, she thought, she’ll go anywhere. Where there are no mosquitos to prick one’s flesh, and crickets, to pluck one from one’s dreams like an unripe mango.
By that unexplainable sophistry of dream, she found herself placing her painting under a mango tree, atop a wooden bench, with a multitude gathering around her, all with incredulity on their faces, an obvious product of their admiration.
“What a haunting piece of crap!”
They all shouted.
“Fifty million dollars for that piece of crap.”
“Going -------- Going ---------- Sold!”
The next day she was on the news. Seventeen Year Old African Artist, it read, Acclaimed For The Most Haunting Piece Of The Century.
The whole world fell at her feet.
Of course she had heard (she could not remember from whom) that it gets harder to move forward while the whole world lies at your feet. She did not care, anyway. They had all fallen for her farce. They, who earlier had shoved her around as they pleased. She had made them see. At last.
It was the best moment of her life, she thought, perhaps even, just a little too good to be true.
But what is that sound?
So the cricket sings her back to Reality.
Furiously she sprang from her wooden bed, waving a broom all over every visible crevice in the room, screaming atop her voice. And then for a moment there was silence. But only a moment.
Reality, she thought, is only a million dirges away from one’s Dreams. In Reality, after she has woken, her easel is empty; the ink is dry; her brush is broken; and the cricket sings.
In Reality, the next day her groom arrives, bearing gifts—her bride price.
She was to be given away, like a worthless slave, to a man whom she would not recognize in a room full of light. But she was not worthless, she was told. For eventually every woman has a price.
Officially the bride price was: Ten tubers of yam, two basketful of fruits, a keg of palm oil, a keg of palm wine, a bag of salt, a basket of Kola-nut, two bags of rice, two bags of beans.
Unofficially: Twelve bottles of red wine, two roasted—or fried—chickens, twelve plate of Chicken-and-chips, A lot of Cheese-Cakes, etc.
She could hear the voices all around her:
“Going -------Going --------Sold!”
But the bride wanted only to paint. And she told them. She cried to her own mother. “But it is the pride of an African woman”, her mother said, “to find a man, to whom, for the rest of her life, she must tend, and with whom she must make beautiful babies, and by so doing, not only fulfill the wish of the ancestors and make the land prosper, but also fulfils the Lord’s commandment and makes her family proud.”
She could hear the voices again:
“What an haunting piece of crap.”
She stands up from the bed, and sits now, with both palms beneath her chin, on the wooden stool which lay across the bed and which overlooked the empty easel towards which she stares contemplatively, as if into a dying cinder, and seeing vividly, as the glow begins to depart, the despair inside it; inside the ashes, inside a mirror, inside the painting, inside her own self— that her peace was gone.
But the cricket sings still. And the window is blown open by a gust of wind, which threatens also to blow her volition to acquiescence. It is a very cold night.
She could hear her mother’s voice. “A lot of young ladies would be excited by this. I knew I was when I was given to your father.”
She wanted only to paint. Perhaps paint omething peaceful for once; something true, natural, appealing. She wanted only, to make something different than piece of craps. She wanted, so to speak, to make peace off craps. She wanted a piece of peace.
But how dare she?
And perhaps she might find love between the stranger’s thighs. And perhaps she’ll paint him naked. But why was she clothed? And how does a lifeless one give life?
She walks over to the bathroom. It is a considerable distance. She bares her nakedness on the concrete floor. She opens the tap. There is no water. Her eyes threaten to make their own. She will not let them. She will not let them, win.
She walks back to the room, with not a single apparel on—not even her bra. She lies on the mattress again. The crickets now are silent. But where are they gone? And why will they not sing to her? She closes her eyes again, futility, as even sleep would not take her. “Go”, she could hear it say, “Go to thy haughty groom, for whom thou had been fitfully groomed, Go!”
Going ------ Going ------
PART II: PRSERVATION, YEARS AND TEARS LATER
The groom came, and with him, the moment:
She runs inside her room, barricading the door with a rusty chair. It is not enough. The door protests on its hinges. She opens up the topmost drawer beside the bed; she retrieves from it a package which she hides instantly in her left hand.
She walks to the bed and sits on it, facing the door, as it whimpers still like a dying light. She takes a wistful look at a painting which hangs directly over the door. It is an empty easel under an unripe mango tree.
Any moment now, she thinks.
But this is not just any moment.
He breaks the door.
The painting falls on her laps.
There is triumph in his face as the door hits the ground, but this triumph changes, almost instantly, to incredulity, as his eyes beholds her tremulous hands holding what appears to be a pistol.
Her laughter engulfs the room, engulfs her tears.
The groom pleads for his life. She lets out a laughter filled with scorn. His life was not hers to take, she knew. So in a second her laughter disappears. The groom closes his eyes, preparing to part with his brains. He’s surprised, however, as they do not bid him farewell. After he heard the sound he knew. He didn’t even have to open his eyes.
END