Germination – Tiah Beautement

My womb bled, leaving a weeping trail down my legs. Fatigue clung to my bones, clouding my head. In this numb, fogged brained state, I could not decide how I should feel about the latest expulsion of blood and bone. The years of my life taught me many lessons. But despite all that I had experienced, I’d yet to conclude which pain I preferred: to lose the seed of life before it could breathe, or hearing my offspring call me “mama” before the young soul faded away, never to be held again. Back into the stardust my children went, which we all sprang forth from, once upon a time, thanks to an event now known as The Big Bang.

Because living means dying a little each day. We feed each other with each other. Cells slough off the body during everyday moments: from a kiss to the cheek, along the sweat trickling from armpits, to departing on an exhaled breath. Pieces of every living creature float in the air alongside the remains of the dead. This collection of particles from the present and the past are drawn into our lungs, settling into the dust, clumping together in the soil, as we try to grow anew, all over again, wanting, craving, needing, to survive.

There were days when it felt as if all I did was nourish those that surround me, as other bodies took, took, took with their need, need, need. Somehow, I kept going, giving, giving, giving, feeling selfish each time I took a moment to myself, to reclaim myself.

And now my very self was bleeding once again, an expulsion of the dead.

I should have known this would occur the moment I realized I was late. Yet the years of my existence had caused me to wonder. Perhaps this was it, the change, I’d thought. Instead it was a seed, from a man I had met who claimed to be from Bolivia but was actually born in Belarus.

The story goes that one day, bored of his landlocked life, he followed the roads until he reached the Baltic Sea. There, he stepped into the water, allowing the currents to sweep him away, until he was spat out onto African soil. In his confusion, he claimed to be from a different land, until the sea gradually returned his memories with the rising tides. He’d remained on the southern shores of the mother continent, finding work on fishing vessels, taking from the water that had given him new life. And new life was planted inside me, again, and again, and again.

            Not a single one of these children managed to live long enough to take a single step.

*

My body had borne witness to forty-five summers. Over the years, I had picked myself up and tried to carry on, regardless of whether the seed flourished into a life with ten fingers and toes, or died in its watery home, lower half still curled like the tail of a seahorse. This time, however, I found myself studying the earth beneath my feet, gradually becoming stained by my blood. It was a rich soil, fed routinely daily with the compost from my kitchen, and the excrement of my chickens, in addition to the remains from those I had loved and lost.

In those moments, as my body bled, I opened myself to the exhaustion of the daily demands of carrying on under the weight of never-ending sorrows. A sense of bleak acceptance filtered through my lungs, entering the capillaries, where it worked its way through my tissues and finally settled into the marrow of my bones.

In reply, the ground sprouted teeth and fingers, and began tugging, dragging my being towards the place where I once planted sweet potatoes, beetroot, kale, and mealies. It was a land hungering to feed, to flourish, a land eager to accept the gift of myself. Its dark musky teeth and fingers extended, taking hold of my tired flesh, and drew me deeper and deeper, until I dwelt amongst the roots where it was warm, dark, and comforting. In this constricted lightness of being, my body began to spread, interacting with the remains of the blood and bones I’d made and lost.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

What was lost is reborn, anew.

*

The first shoot came forth from my battered womb. An aloe ferox that lifted its rosette face towards the sunlight, exposing its sharp spines like tiny milk teeth. In winter it would bloom fiery red candles, beacons that lured the sunbirds, weavers, starlings, and baboons.

How great this plant helped me when I, in my young womanhood, found myself in the company of an entrepreneur who appeared to spend far more than he ever made. The gel from the thick green leaves was an antiseptic to my cuts, it soothed my bruises, and its bitter juice, mixed into the perfect recipe, could leave the man evacuating his bowels all night long, granting me a brief reprieve. I had spread its cream onto my growing belly, rubbing it in the places where my skin stretched so taut, it left blackish-blue claw marks, as if I’d tangled with a lion. Before we buried our first, I rubbed each tiny limb down with aloe, all the way to the miniscule fingers and toes, before swaddling the child one final time.

*

My hair was the next to sprout. In great abundance, each twist radiated outwards from my scalp, growing forth until together they created a forest of cannabis and varieties of wild dagga. From my mother I had learned the ways of the various strands and species – from the beautiful orange blossoms of the Klip Dagga to the roots of the cannabis­ – how one could ease a fever, another dampened a headache, and which aided in treating a snakebite, dysentery, or malaria. When my mother found the lump, we boiled entire plants down, until all that remained was a thick, sticky, black tar that left shadows of green on anything it touched.

Over the next six months the lump gradually reduced, until one day, even a modern medical scan could not find a trace of it. Five contented years followed, until the morning she found herself suffering from an unusual bout of indigestion. As we prepared the normal remedies, she felt a squeezing along her spine, reaching up and up, until it gripped her jaw. An ambulance was called, but the men would not listen to my pleas to rush her to the hospital. Instead, they gave my mother antacids and aspirin, while admonishing us for wasting their time. As they climbed back into their mechanical box, she collapsed, dead from a heart attack.

            Insulted by her ordinary death, her spirit threw off the stardust that contained her form, rising higher and higher as it transformed, until the sky was filled with fireflies. They flickered and danced throughout the night, in a magnificent display of beauty and tenacity. By morning, all that remained of her body was water, which began to pool and sink as the sun rose. It pushed the soil to the sides, drilling deeper and deeper until it joined the hidden spring that dwelled below our garden. The new well she created was as pure and sweet as her voice, which she had lifted into song while she worked each and every day.

*

            Sour figs sprouted from my breasts. Yellow and pink blooms that opened in the morning, and shut tight at night, resting before the sun returned. Its juices were mostly used to treat mouth, throat, and fungal infections. But it also helped soothe the skin, from sunburns to bee stings to insect bites.

Before I met the Bolivian from Belarus, who emerged from the Indian Ocean, I had been living with a woman who carried the scent of mango on her skin. Her hair was softer than the silver-green leaves of Impheho, which was now emerging from my right hand, like a bed for those who wandered without fixed homes. The mango-scented woman and I lived as lovers for three years, a reprieve to my bruised womb. Until the day her skirt caught fire while making a batch of umqombothi. She ran around screaming, like a hen who’d been liberated from her head. I had to tackle my love, rolling us over and over, until we ended up beside the pot of traditional beer, still bubbling away as if nothing was amiss. Perhaps my love would have survived the trauma had she been wearing cotton, but her clothes were of synthetic fibers, and had melted to her flesh. The traditional remedies could not combat such damage, and I had to take her to the hospital. She soon caught an infection, and her spirit left this world on the wings of a harrier.  

*

Devil’s claw proceeded to pull itself from my left hand, turning my fingers into large tuberous roots. The plant’s anti-inflammatory properties made it particularly useful, and my mother administered it to many. But no matter how I processed it – from powders, to tinctures, to teas – it could not ease the pains that dwelt in my heart. The first loss left a hole, and with each consecutive death, the hole in my heart expanded. By the time the soil took me, a trunk of a pepper-bark tree could have easily slid through my gaping chest. Yet, even here, in the ground, away from the noise and pressures of everyday life, my wounded organ continued to beat on, bringing nourishment to both the human flesh and the vegetation that now made up my body.

I felt the spirits of my lost seeds amongst the ashes of the soil around me. They whispered and giggled, like mischievous toddlers, as they packed seeds around my throat. Soon a pelargonium was shooting up, up, up until it reached a meter high. The pinkish blossoms, splashed with purple, reminded me of butterfly wings.

Pelargonium flowers are a common remedy for sore throat. Yet, one year my mother placed the beautiful flowers in a circle on my birthday cake. It was the first year I’d needed to wear a bra. I remember it clearly, as Uncle was there.

“Yes, Uncle,” I’d say, to whatever he asked.

This is how we were raised.

“Yes, Uncle,” if he wanted coffee. “Yes, Uncle,” if he needed another beer. “Yes, Uncle,” if he wanted the TV remote. “Yes, Uncle,” if he wanted me to remove my shirt. My skirt. My underwear. Then, “Yes, Uncle,” when he said not to tell.

That birthday, we ate the cake my mother made after dinner was done. Coated in pale yellow icing, composed of rich cream and lemon. A blossom, bright and cheery, sat on each piece. As I swallowed the flower, my throat opened, and the stories spilled out. Each word fell into Uncle’s windpipe, like bricks being laid across a brackish well. By the time my tales were done, Uncle had choked. Weeks later, after the burial, my mother emptied her bowels onto his grave.

*

Time wore on, and more plants sprouted from my being: a pineapple lily from a knee, rooibos from an elbow, damask rose from one cheek, cape rose geranium from the other, wild garlic from my groin, African ginger from my ears, buchu from one calf, and false buchu from the other.

The last to spring forth was the African potato, streaming out from my toes. Its yellow flowers had often brought hope to those with TB, HIV, cancer, and infertility. But hope does not always heal. I once had hope. Many, many, times. In each instance, the hope would rise like the sun, only to collapse like a dying star, due to the weight of its iron core, leaving the burning orb with no means to support its own mass.

            Gravity became too much for my burdened bones. Down here, in the soil, my entire self was accepted, with non-judgmental support. As my body continued to release blood and tears, the earth absorbed my disappointments, my pain, my history, and, like stardust, transformed it all into life. In this new state of vegetative being, I was left with a feeling of immense relief.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

What was lost is reborn, anew.

End