The Death of Sandra | Basit Soliu
She kept fighting and struggling until there was no more strength left in her.
I came over to your house last week, and I met your mum. She looked like a roughened angel. Her skin, which used to glow bright, was dimming fast. Her smile sat at the far corner of her face; even when she tried to summon it, it barely emerged. Her eyeballs were like lifeless coal, and her eyes were dark from tears, which I noticed the very moment I saw her. But I didn’t ask about it. She held me in her arms when she saw me, and she smelled of tea and something warm. Her grip on me had a different meaning because she had never held me that way, but I kept quiet.
Then, she ushered me in. The living room was still the same as 10 years ago, no difference. Your 18-inch television sat gently on the wall but has accrued dust all over it. The familiar smell grazed my nose, and I knew I was back home. My leg hit the generator near the door, and I winced like a puppy. It reminded me of those days when we went miles to buy fuel to power the whole house. The dining brought memories I had long forgotten, and I smiled. Then, she told me to sit. She went in for a while and came out with her favorite tea. She had smelt of it earlier, and after 10 years, she still very much smelled like it.
She disappeared into the kitchen, and in no time, a sharp aroma hit my nose again; this time, it was inviting and welcoming. I was reclining on the chair as I soaked in the atmosphere in front of me. Then, I remembered your favorite spot when we were kids. That spot that you wanted no one to share with you. I stood up and moved closer to the spot. Then, she looked at me and flashed that heavenly smile. A smile that moved mountains of worries in my heart. Then she said, “You still remembered her seat?” How could I forget? We had a lot of fights over that seat back in the day.
The tea was ready, and she served. I looked as the steam rose up gently before I took a sip. I asked about you, but her reply was as cold as the floor beneath me. I didn’t probe further. She was here, but it felt like her mind was distant. I kept glancing at her every time as I sipped away the tea.
So, I decided to ask her about her black face and puffy eyebags. Then, she sighed. She looked at me, and I could feel her blood boiling. Her hands trembled, but not from fear but from restraint. She was a ticking time bomb. Then, she started…
“Two weeks ago, she was coming back from an errand, happy and running. But it was almost late, and I still regretted sending her out that late.” Tears trickled down her cheeks, and she picked up her handkerchief to wipe them. I think she had cried herself to a stupor, which is why she had a black face. She continued…
”So when she was almost halfway, she heard some legs walking behind her, slowly. As if they were trying not to arouse suspicion. She didn’t pay attention at first, because she was in high spirits. She continued walking home, singing out loud, but not enough to attract attention. When she walked further, she heard the legs getting closer, then she turned back and saw two guys in hoodies. She couldn’t see their faces, but they smelt like a forgotten sacrifice, and that was the only thing she could remember.”
“She continued walking but this time with caution. She scurried and looked back with each step. As she reached a lone path, they moved closer, and one of them double-crossed her while the other covered the way back. She stopped in her tracks, and that was when she knew she was in hot soup, but all she thought was, “They were there for the money.” But when they collected the money, the other began to touch her, and she didn’t like it. So, she pushed him away, and he retaliated by slapping her and roughing her up on the sand. She tried to fight back, but he was full of brute strength, and her strength was not enough to overpower him.”
“The other guy assisted him, and they fully overpowered her.” She paused, as if wanting to catch her breath. I assisted her with water and patted her back as she gulped gently. “You can stop here,” I said. But she said no. “The story needs to be told.” Then, she proceeded.
“One of them used his hand to tear her clothes… She stopped again and swallowed her saliva. It was tough on her talking about the unfortunate night. I tried to tell her not to talk about it anymore. She waved it away.
She continued. “Then, she lay there helplessly after she realized her fight was for nothing and watched him have his way. His breath stank, and it irritated her the way he forced his lips on hers. But there was little that she could do. And when the bastards finished, they laughed, and it felt like a cut in her heart. She wished she could stand up and stab them right there, but she was out of energy. She lay there, staring at the stars and looking at the moon with disgust. She began to question God about why such a thing could happen to her. Tears rolled from her eyes, and her nose was red hot. She clenched her fist until the knuckles went white and banged the sand repeatedly until blood started rushing out, but the pain in her hand was incomparable to what she felt in her heart.”
“She didn’t understand why she still lived and what she lived for. Then, after several hours of lying there in the dark. She stood up and dragged herself slowly to the river near the place. As she was about to jump inside, someone passing by came to her rescue, and she almost wrestled with him to leave her alone to die. She kept asking where he was when what happened to her happened. She shouted at the top of her voice, but it was futile. The deed had been done.” She stopped a little and looked up in a bid to stop the tears from rolling
“He was the one who brought her home in his arms, even though she had designed his body with nails. When I saw her, my heart sank deep, and I fell to the floor, crying and wailing. She didn’t even spare me a look. She stood up and went straight to her room and bolted the door closed. You kept knocking, and she wouldn’t reply. The only response she gave me was the sobs, which contained the whole house.
“She wouldn’t come out of the room for days, and I also stayed there at her door, looking helpless. After a week, the door crept open, and I made my way in hurriedly before she changed her mind. The room was scattered. Books everywhere, torn. Blood on the floor, the bed, and the walls. I sat down near her and asked what happened, but she couldn’t talk. Then, I changed her mind and decided to give her a bath because she smelt like a rotten animal. When I was bathing her, I saw scars, but I couldn’t see the one in her heart. And I wished I could see the one her heart harbours.”
“So we both continue to allow silence to reign. I went to cook her favorite food, but she didn’t take more than three spoons before she said she was okay. I packed it and left her alone to battle with her demons.”
“Those days were the hardest of her life. She said, “I wish I could have saved her from the torments that prolonged her suffering.” She kept sulking in, and that once brilliant and bright lady became a blunt and harsh lady. It was unbearable, but I didn’t have any choice other than to die inside.
“And when I thought she had almost recovered, you found her body hanging in her room. No letter, no remorse, only pain in those little eyes.
“Whenever I enter that room, all I see is the rope and the draping body.”
That was what your mother told me about the hell you went through, Sandra, and now, I remember you in a tiny little voice when you said some years ago, “My life is so precious to me; nothing could make me stop it.”
