That was the voice she began to hear on her memory, while the clock thicks louder on the wall as a sign of ire. That morning , She has been deprived of her childhood apathy as an orphan living in the midst of burial singers, whose image had darkened her heart with the smoke of bareness. Her womb has been barren of children’s who will cry in the house when she asked for children who will not die young.
And then, she began to hear the voices of the dead, wailing and gnashing trying to come back to life as if God smiled to her, the second chance and wishing her the message of goodbye in a journey of anomie.
But, the beauty of her waning eyes could not behold the tears of her ravening clouds as an angelic child is born into the shackled home with inscription of love. This love was making her a beauty of the dead.
These make her a cherished and a child asset amidst a tragedy that befell the barren home where they have to sacrifice to the god’s for child bearing.
And the child came into their world; they couldn’t remember their days of crying for a child. She could not say condolence to the kisses of the graveyard beyond her imagination of being a stillbirth who couldn’t remember her days of anarchy.
So, the dreadlock on her hair signify the beauty and mystery of a person abandoned as an orphan. Her tears could not hold the fallen mourning of a ghost mother who comes like an incarcerated soul that never sleeps in the grave as a sign of cruelty of dying young.
Now, she went to school with a deep thought of speaking to the dead and being labeled as a monster among the ghost, but her ritual was that he hears the evil voices of the dead whenever she sleep walks in her famished road .
These dramas of these make her to be weird in the night and avoided amidst her tradition of seclusion of a corrupted village life. Each time, she sleeps walk, her supernatural instinct makes her to be dejected as a stillborn child by her friends that never knows how she was born like a beloved immortal child in a drought season masquerading as an old woman.
The cloud of the misery surrounded her peasant lifestyle by scribbling notes to the wizard of the villages as her game of strange war, with the deities had annihilated her from the other children’s who are isolated with the vulnerable behavior as she lived in a patriarchal society that glorifies cultism and madness of a child who’s picture is yet to be unveiled as a magical broken hearted-a cry of the whores of a famished road.
These roads had made her a ghetto that hides in the cupboard of cockroaches which is her place of abode which she hide’s in a fierce battle of knowing her barbaric identity as a witch that witch-hunt the wretched family in their diabolical protégé of worshipping the deities.
These sacrilege makes her dance naked before the drunkards whose song appease the shrine deities whose life is a shallow of the dungeons ,as the centre cannot hold the anarchy that fell on the war-drums that engulf their sprawling but forgotten family hut. The orgy of killings had covered the fallen heroes of their ancestors that ravages the ghost-like children’s, bewildered with hunger of the battle cry. She was a child that does not smile at any strange jokes that could hurt her magical prowess.
But the other kids knew her bereavement with madness and scary sickness with unusual touching benevolence of being an eccentric damsel. Her eccentric nature made her to be fearful by the still-born friends.
The wounds of her affliction on her head scar made her blind to the gory tales of the village throne which has been abused by the drunkard’s chief whose tongue were coated with sugar. They had sold their heart to the missionary’s men who stole their land with the bible making them slaves. Now, her separatism world makes her sacrifice to the walking corpse of the memorial of the demise.
The anxiety of the curfew that her hopes may dry the tears of loneliness and funeral’s remembrance was her whispering skies of felony.
“If my mother can wake up again, then I will rejoice on a cloud nine .That was her thought in her real life posture that could not separate her ecstasy of speaking in horrendous tongue of eulogizing her sadistic memoirs of her chained cirrus girl .
Despite the abject poverty, she could not say goodbye to the covenant ties that bind them in a shadowy hysteria of a convicted tales of her horror mind as tears rolled down on her cheeks.
She enjoyed more famine than feast in her turbulent season of the singing trees. She was forced by the circumstance to become an itinerant person where dark history comes back to life, by offering kola nut and gin to the ground as a prayer of those murdered in the war between them and the neighboring village.
She nursed a deep revolution of a pleasant tale about the concubine house she inherited as she recalled the nostalgia of constant bickering of suffering mental renaissance with the uncle who batters her whenever she calls the name of her lost mother when the room was arrested with burgeoning, dark lonely roads of confusing damage of insurgency and ancestral curse of broken lineage that refused to dance to the tune of myopic celebrations.
She was avoided at every scene of festival as a sacred child that reminds them of a distant nightmare of being withdrawn to the vociferous scars of being abandoned to the farewell of her restless homage mother.
In her unspoken body language, one could tell that she secretly mourn her mother. She remembers how her mother always embraced her in the night as a lovely one.
“There’s a day, I will commit suicide to protest my inhumane tradition” she said to her serene friends.
“Why”, they asked to why she wants to commit suicide and take her precious life.
“Yes, my uncle treats me like a dog ‘’She said in her knees approach, pointing to the seventh heaven.
Her voice made illustration to the marked scar on her forehead. “Is this good for humans she protested”. But her friend wanted to lure her to the brothel to become a harlot in her wild ambition of escaping the treatment of an animal.
Her friend hated her uncle with passion and soberly issued a fatwa – an Islamic declaration of Jihad. She pondered in her heart that she could ran away to the forest where she could walk to freedom by eating with the gods. But there was curiosity that her superstitious beliefs could make her not to return back alive. So, she could endure her crazy tortured moment of inflicted injuries.
And she went home soberly; thinking of dangerously eating the remnant of the food prepared for dogs “I asked for food that could make me human. My uncle gave me dog” She murmured to her throat, as she was haunted for stillness of the dead.
She could not settle for less of the ugly and pleasure of remaking her defiled moment with her widowed parent. She could be beaten up by her kinsmen for not washing the dirty dishes’ of the left-over meal as she was treated like an imprisoned convict.
Once the rosary fell, she would foretell that she was in hot romance with the stigma of her isolation of blaming the ancestral gods for her horrific experience.
Her mother was the best thing that happens to her, in the whole world, cuddling the photo that was plastered on the wall as an unforgettable personality. The photo was plastered to remind them about the dead and their sacrifice.
The remedy of those gone but not forgotten departed soul was her evil wedlock as she remembers those jealous of her dead mother. She took solace that she was resting in peace in the bosom of the lord .So; she thought her mother could return as a re-incarnated soul to wipe away her punishment with iron rod so, she was excited, conscious of walking on the precipice of seeing the wandering graveyard.
At night, his uncle would sleep with prostitute with the mere change in his inner pocket, so that thief’s would not break into his rural hole. It was an odd exposure in their drinking joint where they danced to the tune of silent enjoyment of relaxation after a hectic day’s work at the farm.
At school, she had become a tin goddess that should be worshipped by her mates, like a forbidden child as he shattered her life like a disappearing act as a sign. The sign of perdition shows her brilliancy of a bookworm, intermingled with the midnight whispers of the wind, as she felt the scent of a beloved mother‘s affection.
“Oh mother, why’d leave me to this cruel man” she said quietly, lying to the pillow of her bed. She was conscious of the mirage and guilt of bastardization of the dreaded relative who spares no rod of iron hand. She knew her mother was crying for separation and a better abode where she could call his uncle a small devil that crosses the vicious circle of endangered species. She had found homage in the wrong place and this makes her primitive as she looks tattered and un-kept with the string of the bed making noise of crinkling frightened noise of damaged bed.
And she cried with a cloudless morning of a devilish strain, as the temperament of a brotherhood held her beliefs “Will you go and meet your ghost mother”, he said with a harsh tone of anger and refusal to forget the dead whom she couldn’t forget.
The drama of talking to the dead was usually done at night when no one was around to arrest her carnage
“why has my mother not come back the second life” she always thought in her mind .She had had not cared of resting her solemn attitude of strange mood that makes her hate her next of kin for treating like her a slave and a second class citizen.
This image of being a serial rapist was the shadow as he could not avoid anything under the skirt as the uncle always romance her legs in then night ,raping her alive.
”Who’s the orphan?” she always asked her dejected uncle the question. The ritual of death may have taken her away as she was bereft of the presence of the milk of motherhood of fond memories and private recollection that mingle her tears with laughter.
These are trophies that cannot be cart away as she was caught in a web of misery of tough abysmal treatment and this makes her ashamed. Her shame was a best kept secret of the abomination.
And she was fond of the demon of her past weeping kindergarten and danger of a hardened mind. The sinister of being foretold with sympathy of a sardonic casualty odyssey was her tortured history as a victim of circumstance.
The only glutton punishment of an insane sour relationship of self attribution was that his uncle was arrogantly enriching himself in the face of the deceased havoc and ignorance. His life was that his uncle was dancing on the grave of her love-bird of unfortunate mad dog that barks each time she cuddles her mother’s portrait. She’s yet to come to term of the atrocious brainwashing burden of renaissance, signaled by a dying child who wants to stay alive by the wire’s tragedy. Her heart bled and screamed of a waster in her perilous times.
But the confusion in the house was alarming and unspeakable misty sacrifice performed as a rite of the deceased. This was a prayer of atonement of remedy of hope that her sorrowful companion will rekindle the bonding romance of childhood back to earth.
“It is said that the dead does not forget his suckling one’s in her sleep in heaven”, he said, with a glimpse of forgone evil dreams of poignant of a disillusioned mind. She couldn’t wish her goodnight, ominously bleeding of rivalry amidst her clan. The clans always remind her of the departed one’s who needs to be appeased.
The clan wanted to sell the child to a white-man who would care for her but the uncle refused, saying it was her blood relation which cannot be enveloped with woe of the risk involved in his syndrome of poverty.
He took advantage of the sweet and seductive memoir of those things that are looked upon as a taboo and he invited his kinsmen to debate it in the market place.
The terrestrial powers are battling against her vague background of disorder with his adverse trial of abandoning the deities who are angry with those who are annihilated from them. They were famished and wanted to ask for sacrifice to be able to sleep in their burial ground.
But the atrocities committed could not be overlooked by his kinsmen who are out to remit his sins with a hunger strike.
Each time he opens his mouth wide open within the clan, the chiefs always misfire him as a bad relative that divides the family with a trouble heart. But he had swore an oath to the personal and fearless root that led to his bondage of being barren, grieving his mind.
He had learnt from the disaster of the village oracle that strikes every disobedient servant as a bitter and jealous prayer of the darkness of an imagery weapon of destruction.
The conversation with the oracle was to set the oracle free from the imagination of life without happiness.
”When will this maltreatment stop?” She always asked her mind that incantation.
The embarrassment caused the family, a disturbing phobia of the affair with sore wound of being a harlot.
The infliction ensued the nightmare of midnight whisper and unbearable circumstance with abortion, complicating the evil disgrace ordeal. The trauma of this wicked spirit only misled him to a frightening outrage of the child.
But no one love’s her deceased like she does, as she adores her in a class with rebellious attitude of love at first sight. She took pride in loving her deceased mother.
Her reputation of nothing that unites her withers guarnation of being bewitched with sinister of a vampire relative. The irony of the disarray of the funeral celebration gave her a monstrous union with fecundity mind remembrance and the raging war with last wishes of a bereaved doggedness charmed circle.
It is a new dawn as she was endangered with merchants of murder, bewildered with ascendancy of mayhem and stories of escaping the thunderbolt of a storm in a tea cup as she used to go to bed angry. It inside a bedroom is where her tears and accusation fly, as one spouse talks to the other into a woozy stupor until night s meets the fatherhood .The damage of the painful tears was that his kinsmen knew that he doesn’t care about children by nagging and making the hut miserable .
“Do you want to kill me”, he said shockingly to her as she was brainwashed of her wife’s who carries a miscarriage each time she gets pregnant. The main sign is a vaginal bleeding of a stillbirth but the herbalist was apprehensive of the luck of having an orphanage in the house which he calls for her hand in marriage break-up.
The little girl used to play music for people for the fun of it by defying his warning without his consent by discriminating her to a spiritual evacuation of hearing her beautiful voice. This song makes his wife conception to end in a still-birth. After the last evacuation, his uncle was discouraged like a plague and didn’t want her to try again because he felt it was too risky and didn’t want her misconception. During this period, she was unknowingly stressed and abnormally communing with the painted walls of buried people which couldn’t unlock her womb. But she was imagining a child that appreciates the touch of her siblings that makes her possessed with witchcraft.
The charisma of their marriage was fallen apart as their stronghold had decayed. Then, he opted for divorce in his fascination –a kind of poor relationship with wretched people. He treats her wife like filth and often complained that the brothel home was more befitting than the animal’s hut he built for the peasant.
The wife pretended to ignore her female slime, but she couldn’t shut her hears away from the oblique looks of audacity of sexual escapades.
“How much is your vagina’s worth” he usually asked, whenever he was drunk to stupor, listening to the song of the land’s freedom and foreigners inspiration solace. He was suspicious of her, stealing his salary which he kept in the hole of her latte’s sister dark room and these makes him apprehensive of cowardly submitting to the ego of abomination and being banished from the community for not leaving money for daily soup.
The illusion of a broken home stares him in the face and he could not face the stigma of loneliness and the evil voices that kept crying at her doorstep. The massacre in her mind makes her to be electrifying to the obsession of addiction to marijuana, and the inferno of ancestral curse.
The ruin in his eyes kept him in a magical encrypted utterance of worshipping a dumb idol. She was a damsel child that danced in a drinking joint and she swung her hips to the hip to the rhythm of the music. The ecstasy of her sacred adulation makes her a prey of easy virtue men who are out to pay a thousand pounds for the virgin’s dowry and settlement to her distant uncle.
The singing had become a religion to the people and she mastered the art of triumph, against her celebration of a girl destined for the throne. The kingmakers had made her a centre of attraction for the symbol of what everyone aspired to become in their unspoken embrace of her ecstatic jewel way of life. Her soul could not rest on the on the wilderness of locust of the oppressor and sufferings in the hand of a terror of a second life.
The feminism was a lost in a homely wild torture of lurching for a podium of scary role fondling for her late protégé .This makes her a second citizen to a scenario of cooking bad delicacy of a meal that befits dirt habit of a cruel scent .So, she traveled to many cities, volunteering to be a housemaid, starving of meditation of cobweb and returning with rubies meant for keeping her pocket warm.
She always tarried all night before the sunset, thereby making his uncle to inherit her small token as she was isolated from other kids environ. The terrifying nature of her withdrawal from the society which makes her hooked up with the crowd of the prestige of switching to the side of detained orphan kids.
“Ha-ha, why does my uncle treat’s me like a walking ghost” she usually says whenever he contemplate fleeing from the horror of her refuge reticence. How love could not be displayed in hard times, she always thought in her hardened heart.
The daylight robbery of sacrifice was always done to cleanse the community of corrupted individuals who raids in the night with machete weapon to scare away traders and visitors epitome. In her desperation for a better refuge, she could mingle with other inferior and strange children like hers. They were unaware of her mythical, hungry looking secluding damaging vows to prove her worth of wizardry.
The occulted powers make her to be reckoned with fetish feast of gangster and being worshipped like a tin goddess hooked up to the seventh heaven. The feelings bring troubled emotion, in a touch of her turbulent age and departure from depression.
She was always downcast her with a fever addiction and travesties of shadow of beggarly attitude of those suitors asking for her hand in marriage .Her mind was poisoned, with remote dearth of doomed and endangered specie of runaway fortune men .The dilemma that would stay with her in her trying times and pitiable moments of trepidation of crying for many night.
The cunning eat and run virtue hobby are not forthcoming with a good inheritance of a dowry and the dangerous, devious act of those fellow chasing her with emotional trauma of a rekindled pleasure of mocking her in silence without peace.
The controversy of her matriarch sexually abusing her was becoming superfluous with fears that he may be lynched by the angry mob who are out to banish her from the village as a punishment of the precious instinct that engulf his mentally-ill plethora of investiture .
This was emotional delusion of warning him to desist from maltreating the orphan in her hidden closet. The reflection of courting with her admires most exciting wretched drunkards who will pay for her dance step in the joint. Those guitarists always praise them to high heavens and pays tribute to the welcoming the weathered sunrise as they found out their authority is under threat.
The price of painting her future husband was depicted of romance-a tall, dark handsome and bearded person, “But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride” as she uncovered the mystery lamentation conspiracy of exiled eulogies. She longed for immortalizing the forever talking drum that speaks the heart of her bedfellows.
That was crime that passionately craves for dotting sanity of her uncanny grim tale-an all too clear personal tragedy of his uncle that spellbound of pragmatic decision to stop the carnage. But talking about victims of his sheer fecundity as the cloud of despair was lifted as the fraternity of enduring his discipleship of the destitute of orphan hood and perdition of adopting a sacrilegious reproach.
The desecration of their custom was abuse and the steadfast love was making him quiet and solemn with pensive look as they wanted to send him to a sojourn of unknown destination of being a wicked heroine wrestler.
In his bloodhound, the fading taboo of escape was convicted on him with the chiefs who made him to vent his anger on her and the god’s humiliated him by making him to walk away to exile where he could hung himself on a tree. But the child was sold to a missionary pastor who made her absolvent of re-uniting with the dead mother.