Catherine Mark-Beasant

        

                                     Blessing


From the veranda I observe my uncle carrying a shadow of a woman in his arms. He holds her
in the manner a soldier supports a fallen comrade. His movements are steady, delicate – as if she
is made of glass; except she is all skin and bones. There is a rigour in his jaw line and he walks
as if, with the span of his shoulders, he is holding up the weight of the gods. Not an ounce of
flesh pads out her ribbon-thin body. Limp, she looks like a malnourished grasshopper. Her gaunt
limbs dangle. And as he walks through the yard, from the front gates past the main house, all I
hear is the crunch of the pebbles beneath his feet. I call out to him: Uncle Okoro, good evening.
He stops and turns momentarily, his expression blank as if he doesn’t recognise me.  The
woman sees me and raises her head; it is a whisper of a motion.  As our gazes meet, I catch
sight of the watery film of sickness glazed over her bulging eyes. Suddenly, her head flops again
and falls back to its resting place on my uncle’s chest. It is now he returns my greeting: Ada,
good evening. He walks on.  I follow his path through the compound from the comfort of the
main house. Now in the kitchen, I peek through the slits of the Louvre window, and I glimpse
the ramrod extension of my uncle’s spine – regal in the manner of a Masai warrior. His head
never bows nor does it move to the left or to the right. He walks at a snail's pace as if buying
time with each measured step. He is heading towards one of the rooms in the Boys Quarters –
her final resting place.

It isn’t the first time I have seen death. Here, death is never far. Predictable and indiscriminate,
many die. Instead of air, death fills our lungs through the stench of sickness. My grandfather
says that the Great Spirit of the red soil has been in control for a very long time. He collects
many lives through disease. Dust to dust. And soon he will call for Uncle Okoro’s daughter. My
mother says I mustn’t go near her. She says she is contaminated, cursed. Only I am curious. So
when Uncle Okoro asks me to run an errand for him I agree.

Even though I know death circles the space on the other side of the forbidden door I am drawn
to the woman at the centre of its clasp. Gently, I knock on the battered wood, and when there is
no response I open the door. A steady stream of sunlight flows through the gaps of the closed
shutters. But the room is still quite dim.  It contains a narrow iron bed with a thin mattress and
beside it is a stool. On my entering the room, she stirs. The only indication of life is the frail
ripple of her fingers. She knows I am there. I move to place the jug of water and tin mug that I
have been holding down on the stool. It tilts to one side. Looking around, I notice an old
newspaper under the bed. I tear a section and fold it four times, creating a wad. Then, carefully,
I place it underneath the front stool leg.  Standing very close to her, I find myself staring. I have
never been this close to the precipice; where life and death kiss, or are separated by a wisp. Her
once brown skin is bluish-charcoal. Her lashes flicker as if trying to find the strength to force
her eyes open. She surrenders. Her lips are parched and crusty. I hear the distant cry of a goat
and I remember my errand. I pour out some water for her. I take out the hanky Uncle Okoro
gave me when he’d handed out his instructions and dip it in the tin mug. I turn: lean forward: and
squeeze the square cloth through the slim crack between her lips. Watching her stillness, I recall
the photograph Uncle Okoro had shown me of his daughter at sixteen, my age now. Blessing –
that is her name – looked like any other teenager. She had a bursting smile and her face brimmed
with enthusiasm; a very different picture from the hollow spectre lying here begging for water. I
can only think of the beggar in the Bible who, from the pit of Hades, pleaded with Abraham to
send Lazarus to wet the tip of his finger in water to cool his tongue. Except this was a different
kind of hell. And I have become Lazarus.

I visit her again. This time I come with a book, a collection of poetry that we are studying at the
private school I attend, and a crate. I told my uncle that I will read to her for a few minutes each
day. He didn’t say anything but I could tell from the way he squinted that he thought it was a
foolish idea, a waste of time. He shrugged. And I went undeterred. Now: in her absent presence,
I sit and begin to read: Daffodils by William Wordsworth. I wondered lonely as a cloud that
floats on high o’er vales and hills... They stretched in never-ending line... I gazed and gazed but
little thought... which is the bliss of solitude; and when my heart with pleasure fills... and dances
with the daffodils. I read through the entire poem, pronouncing each word as if her life depends
on it.  I repeat the final line then look at her. There is no change in her fixed and vacant
demeanour. Rising, I pull the scanty sheet up to her chin, wondering how much she has taken in.
She says nothing: does nothing.

The next day it is Frost that I share with Blessing. I say, the poem is titled "Spring Pools": These
pools that, though in forests, still reflect... The total sky almost without defect...  Will like the
flowers beside them soon be gone... She wheezes – a muffled gasping sound – and I hurry out of
my seat and gently rub her chest. It is a strange feeling the skeletal texture of her shell against
my fingertips. When she settles I return to the poem. The trees that have it in their pent-up
buds... to darken nature and be summer woods... My voice rises and falls with the rhythm and
melody of the poem’s magic. To blot out and drink up and sweep away... from snow that melted
only yesterday... If only we had the magic of snow to cleanse this sickness away, I think. All we
have is the dream of snow and its figment in poetry. Her hand has strayed from under the cover
and is hanging like a willow, like the mangled bark of a dying tree. I am afraid to touch her skin.
It looks ugly. I do not want to be polluted or poisoned. So I leave her as she is.

It is later than usual when I come to her on the third day. I arrive late because I had to help my
mother with the laundry. Settled on the crate, I open up the book to the poem I’d decided earlier
that day. I think you’ll enjoy this one, I begin, The Angel by William Blake. I dreamt a dream,
what can it mean?... And that I was a maiden queen guarded by an Angel mild... witless woe,
was never beguiled... As soon as I start reading she looks at me. For the first time since my
visits started her eyes are open. Her scleras are stained with grey spots and a web of crimson.
She blinks several times and fixes her stare on me. I take refuge in the poem and continue. And I
wept both night and day... And he wiped my tears away... And I wept both day and night... And
hid from him my hearts delight. I feel the burning sensation of my welling tears as I read the
following verse. I dare not look at her so I will myself to carry on. But: she mutters something
inaudible. I am compelled to glance at her. She is saying something; mumbling. I stand up, and
lean forward, placing an ear close to her mouth. Do you believe in angels? I think I hear her
murmur through the hoarseness of her  breath. What did you say, I want to ask her. But I don’t.
Instead, using the rag I wet her lips and wipe her forehead.  While I am doing this she closes her
eyelids. And in my mind, I think, tomorrow I will read the last verse of the poem and open up
the shutters to let in some air.  

Blessing never arrives with the blessed dawn.  That morning, Uncle Okoro informs us, with his
head bowed down, that she slipped away in the night. She’d gone by the time I came to give her
morning meal, he says. My mother orders me to go and make him a cup of tea. I am glad to
have something to do. As the kettle boils, I peer through the window – staring at the shut door,
imagining the absolute silence behind it.  
Catherine Mark-Beasant is a current second year student at
Manchester Metropolitan University where she is completing an
MA in Creative Writing. Although she holds degrees in Finance,
Law and an MBA, she trained as a secondary school teacher in
2006. She has worked in an eclectic range of jobs such as: a
Minister’s Lay Assistant for an Anglican Church, in various PA
and administrative roles, and more recently as an English
Teacher. She has published a short story called "James' Mojo" at
Unmadeup and an article called "Obama's Odyssey" at African
Writing Online. She blogs here.