We had just settled into bed when we heard you climbing up the wall.
Our beds were soft, and the covers, pulled up to our chins. Grandma, after telling us a bedtime story – the one about the time Ijapa went up to heaven and ate all the food – had gone to her room, eager to retire. We smelled the death approaching her body, and sadness crept onto us as we watched her limp her way to the door. Grandma was always convinced that we could not see her in the darkness.
You were struggling to pull yourself over the fence when we saw you. Taiye went first, to stand by the large window in the room we all share, then the rest of us (Kehinde and Idowu) followed. We stood together by the window, pulled the heavy blue drapes apart and watched as you struggled to cross over.
The fence that surrounds our small house is high, but the part that you managed to scale is lower, brought low by others like you who had tried to do the same thing, but failed, quite painfully. Did you not know? We are treasured, cherished. So treasured that our parents, just last month, gave their lives so that we would not be caught by another, who, like you, had been in search of our golden mat. We were born with it, this mat made of shimmering links of gold and worth a small country’s decade-long budget. Our mother pushed it out with our placenta, and without it, we will cease to exist.
Grandma did not bother to fix the fence because she thought the wall on that part of the house was high enough, coupled with the extra security. So, we let her believe we were safe. What she did not know would not hurt her.
While we watched you eventually climb down the fence, sticking your feet into the grooves left by your compatriots, we smiled because we knew what was to come. You made it into the compound as we knew you would. Several others had. We watched as you made your way closer to the house.
The small pink house, with its large windows, which looked like a cottage home, must have been the least of your worries when you thought of all the ways you could take what you came for. Tales of our mat have travelled across seas and deserts, and we have seen many others such as you who have tried to steal it. Others like us, who lacked protection like ours, have had their mats stolen. We dreamt of their deaths when it happened, watched them writhing in pain, burning in a fire that no one else could see.
We watched as you picked your way through the tall grasses and navigated the grave markers. We watched as you stepped on the homes of our relatives – including the long dead and recently buried. We felt nothing for them.
Our eyes must have called you when you were close enough, our purple eyes that we have been told make people feel like they are looking into purple glass. Our eyes which unsettle people, sending them as far away from us as they can get. Our eyes must have called you because you looked up. It was sudden; you raised your right leg, trying to avoid the barbed wires scattered around the grave markers, and you met our eyes. We looked at you too, all three of us, our hands linked, and we saw into your mind.
We saw that you really didn’t want our mat. Under the light of the sun, you were a civil servant, slaving away for long hours and receiving a paltry salary in return. We saw your mother, lying in bed from an illness she would never recover from, and we felt pity for you. We saw the fear in your eyes, raw, naked, unfettered. We could see that you didn’t really want to do this, but what could we do? We were merely threads in fate’s spool.
You stepped on the barbed wire anyway – it was inevitable, you would have stepped on something. You really shouldn’t have shouted, as that’s what wakes them up, every time.
Grandpa stood first, dug out of the earth like an earthworm in search of water. He shook the sand from his body and looked in the direction of the sound; your direction. Others followed slowly – they were not quite as hungry as Grandpa. We have a lot of dead relatives and it had been a while for him. They all unearthed themselves, some of them stuffing eyes back in their sockets, others fixing joints that had come loose. Through it all, we watched.
We knew Idowu thought you were quite handsome. We could see why she would think so. You were dark-skinned, the kind of man we liked, and you had a strong jaw. It was easy to think you were handsome, but we were only twelve and grandma would not approve of such thoughts, so Idowu banished them. She held her breath instead, and allowed the grief of your impending end to settle beneath her collarbones while we continued to watch.
The look on your face as you registered what was happening hollowed out our bellies. Usually, we would be amused at what was to come, but this time, we were not. We wished we could go down and help you, but we could not. We could never leave the house, ever. So, we watched as grandpa towered over you and looked you over – you were still crumpled on the floor and your leg was bleeding, poor you. Without saying anything, he grabbed you under your arms, and he raised you from the ground. His joints creaked as he did this. You shouted, begged, and did everything you could, we could do nothing but watch, and listen. You looked at us as you begged, and then we saw, you did not regret this. For your mother, you would have done it over and over again. We turned away and wiped our tears, and we were surprised – we did not cry for people like you.
We could not continue to watch after this. We heard you struggle against grandpa’s hold, begging, with the other dead relatives witnessing – there to make sure grandpa got his turn, that you did not escape.
When grandpa squeezed you to his chest and entered into the ground again, we did not watch. We were too busy sobbing into our palms, collecting our tears, and wishing we could destroy the mat, and ourselves along with it.
END
