An african woman walking with high heels
Present-day

Akilah coiled herself on the raised soil which now housed Rabia, her only child. That soil has been her home as much as Rabias'. She held onto the sandal because she now slept on the soil with her daughter instead of the room they used to share. She was missing a lot of things; clean clothes, a bath... but she didn’t care. Her unkempt hair dipped into her face, but it was the least of her worries. All she wanted was for the ground to open, and she would give the sandal to Rabia or for God to take her where her daughter was.

Two women walked by, increasing their pace as they neared her. Yes, that’s what she has been deduced into. That’s what she has bought upon herself. Yet, she loved those people better than those wearing pity on their faces. No one wanted anything doing with her. Those who knew her story didn’t even want to spare her a glance lest they share in her misfortune. A misfortune she counted the money, time and energy to buy. But no one knew that part. No one knew her real story.

I

It has been a year. A year since she began the process, everything slipped from her fingers. First was her faith. She still remembered what she wore that day--A yellow T-shirt and a brown wrapper. Then she had donned a long black dress and told her husband she would greet her parents. It was half of the truth, but he didn’t have to know that.

She spent an hour at her parent’s house and left for his place, her first layer of clothes gone, discarded in her bag. She sat on the mat, legs crossed, dark eyes glued to the older man, local bells in his hand, shaking at his left ear, his other hand spreading cowries on the floor, lips moving crisply in chants.

She had sniffled a breath, sighting from her peripheral view where the stench was coming from- The many tiny clay pots decorating the room. She was ready to tolerate anything if it meant her one wish would be granted. Success in her trade was the only thing that brought her to the diviner’s place. She would have her friend Ani to thank when this works out well. She was the one who told her of Baba Wakigan, the diviner, the great man who helped her to conceive after twenty years of barrenness.

II

She lost her husband next. First, it was his trust. How could a person who couldn’t trust God trust man?

Her days became busy with her now having to travel across the four market days in Garrigu. Trade was booming. Everyone came to her to buy cereals, maize, millet, soybeans, beans…. Baba Wakigan was great indeed.

She loved her new life, a rich woman. Her husband’s complaints fell on deaf ears. “What was his problem?” Akilah snapped one day. Rabia, their eleven-year-old daughter, did everything in her absence. She cooked, cleaned and washed. She was a gem, and Akilah loved her to bits.

Her husbands’ words, actions and complaints smelled of jealousy, but she never gave him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. He missed when his words were law before providing for her and their family. He missed when she was so dependent on him. He missed her feminine touch on his onion farm but couldn’t say it. How could he? She occasionally went, so there wasn’t much of a case he could make of it. She was trying, couldn’t he see that? She still found time to check on his farms with all the markets she went to.

III

Three months after her first visit, Akilah's legs were folded on the same mat. She went to appreciate Baba's work.

“My daughter,” the old man called after a series of chants. “mm….mm...” he murmured incoherently, shaking his head like a plantain plant dancing to the tunes of a strong wind, lips paused in a twisted line, streaking like a crocodile ready to capture it’s prey. "You lost your sandals recently." His voice was firm.

‘Yes baba,” she choked, surprise dripping from her voice. How did he know? This man is great! He has proven that already but this was different.

He continued chanting for a few minutes, rose and walked round her, Sprinkling some concoction with a leaf on her before he said.

“My daughter, they hate to see you prosper.” He dragged a pot with a mixture inside between them, stared at it like he was willing to produce something before saying, “It is a woman. She is short, dark and beautiful more than you. She sent your sandal to one Bana asking him to make you so sick your business will collapse.” Before he finished his sentence, Akilah knew who it was. She never admitted it, but her sister wife was indeed beautiful more than she was.

Ah, ah, ahh, how dare she? Her riches was haunting her. She had seen the subtle glares when she took the money she borrowed from her. It used to be her doing the glaring, the borrowing.

She gave the old man enough money to get everything needed to reverse whatever harm her sister wife placed on her.

IV

She lost her.

Her death was a shock to everyone. Akilah couldn’t wrap her head around it. How does a healthy person fall sick and die within four hours? When they called, she was at the market to tell her she had a headache and was rushed to the hospital. By the time she got home, her body was cold. Too cold. She had collapsed and woke up when she was buried. “Oh God, what kind of fate is this?” she sobbed. Couldn’t She have allowed her some time to see her, to touch her?

How can God be so cruel?

What wrong did she commit for God to punish her like that? She never wished an innocent person harm. So how come the person who wished her harm got to live yet an innocent person was called?

Baba Wakigan. Baba would have to answer, but she couldn't even muster the courage to speak or do anything. How then would she go to see Baba? Besides, hasn’t he failed her?

V

It has been four months after her death, and she finally mustered the courage to sort out her things. She started with her 'Ghana must go' bag—a pink checkered bag housing most of Rabia's clothes. She held the base of the bag and poured out its content on their cemented floor. A black nylon bag fell from it. It couldn't be missed. She snapped the bag and undid the many knots securing the content.

An unbridled cry escaped her throat as her missing sandal shattered to the ground.

"I killed her. I killed my only daughter." The words left her lips like a running tap. The last words she uttered and the last thing she remembered was her sister wife dashing to hold her before her eyes shut down and she dropped unconscious.

I’m a fiction writer and special educator. I’m a graduate of the University of Education, Ghana. I write romance stories and a dash of family drama. When I’m not writing, I enjoy teaching sign language or watching Korean drama under the comfort of my duvet. I have work published on Spillwords and forthcoming on Ice Floe Press.

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