I frowned at Mrs. Rose Rod’s cart. What are you cleaning?
“Hello, Tee.” Mrs. Rod waved to me as if I was miles away from her. “Still hiding your eyes? It does nothing but tell that they’re swollen.”
I straightened my black goggles. “My eyes are only a bit irritated, which is why I’m here to get some greens. Fresh greens and vegetables.”
“Oh. I thought you’re here for more sacks of sweets. What happened to your drive to shrink your waistline?”
Pain.
I turned my back at the questioning look from another customer. Kruman’s Mini-Mart was a one-room store, and the gondola shelving was chest-high so everyone could see and hear everyone.
“You can restart,” Mrs. Rod said.
I went close to her and tapped the only items in her cart – gallons of detergent. “Must be very tough stains you tackling.”
“Some stains are like a bad relationship that requires intense effort to erase.”
“Whoa.”
The fine lady in the exquisite house on the hill was the predominant description of Mrs. Rod. It made me seek her out and introduce myself days after I moved here, two years ago. She was everything I expected her to be. But later, I heard about her temper. They said it was always there. It just worsened when her best friend betrayed her.
She went to the cashier.
I grabbed a bag of cheap candies and stood behind her. “Erasing isn’t as hard as filling in the blank page afterwards.”
“Put yourself on that page. It’s your life. I’m happy. Now. Because I like me again.”
The cashier chuckled.
Mrs. Rod paid for the detergents and my candies and pushed her cart with ease to the mini-mart’s exit. Her grey hair came alive when she stood in the sunlight. Her stiff off-white dress reminded me of a character I saw in a movie once about women who failed but, after much struggle, reinvented themselves.
“You said before that you didn’t like yourself? Ma’am?” I sighed. “You’re hard to talk to like they say.”
“I knew you would get sucked into all the gossip. But watching others’ lives does help. To some extent.”
She once asked me where I put my burdens when I’m tired of carrying it. I asked her where she kept hers. She rambled about her hill, how perfect its height was and so on. I wondered what she meant until I saw her standing behind her window, peering out at us.
She said, “Not keeping your word to yourself should offend, even sadden you.”
“I do–”
“You should’ve bought at least a carrot. By the way, if you don’t like Handsome anymore, stop entertaining him.”
My eyelids narrowed. “His name is Gray.”
“The instant I saw him I understood his gloom. Gradually he covered your sunny smile.”
I opened the bag of candies and tossed one in my mouth. “It’s been ten days since we broke up.”
“So, the ache has you poisoning yourself with sugar?”
Nosy.
“When will you invite me over for lunch?”
“You really need to know what I need this soap for?”
Uh huh. “I just want to know what your parlour looks like. Your doors are always shut.”
“I don’t like people touching my inside walls.”
“And seeing them too? Is that why your curtains are thick?”
“I intend to change them. You should also consider making changes. Sweets go better with tears of joy.” Mrs. Rod strolled off to her car.
I shouted, “When can I see your parlour?”
“Before I begin!”
“What?”
“Just come! Tomorrow! Tomorrow is good!”
2
I smoothed my blouse, picked a bit of torn flower off my jeans and pressed the clean doorbell.
Mrs. Rod appeared in another off-white dress. “Welcome.”
I entered her home and paled. The smell of soap scratched at my nostrils. Struggling not to sneeze, I took off my goggles. Except for a wall clock, the tiled walls were bare. And they were so clean they smarted. Faint, irregular lines showed where they were scrubbed too many times, as if something sinful splashed on them. The tiled floor, also stressed, cried clean. White curtains hung like starched sleeves off rigid arms. The arms, bronze beams, stuck out at either ends of the windows like swords. The chairs wanted no guests. Their poise said so. On them were extravagant, embroidered dollies, bald, wide-eyed dolls and stuffed, checkered cushions.
“Please sit,” Mrs. Rod said.
On your brittle brush?
“A good chair is like a good mind.” Mrs. Rod felt the back of her couch as if examining it for a fault she missed during other inspections. “Supports you well. Too many people ignore the importance of caring properly for their spines. With all the extra weight life programs us to carry, you would think they know not be so neglectful.”
“The mind is the most important.”
“How do you attend to yours?”
“I read. Motivational books. The Bible too.”
“Since your belief should be your first source of comfort and motivation, your Bible should be the first book you mention when questioned about how you care for your mind. I was sickly as a child, so my mother taught me to pray. I would sit on her laps and listen to her read a Psalm from the Good News Bible. When I finally enrolled in school, I already knew a whole bunch of words and one of them was ‘Pure’.”
“I see that.”
“Do you? Well, I’m now careful to wash my rags quickly when they get filthy.”
“Repentance?”
“Smart girl. Do you want something to drink?”
I shuddered at the thought of touching her glass. “No. Um, please turn on the fan or open the windows.”
Mrs. Rod tuned on the white ceiling fan.
I breathed a little easier. “Nice curtains. Great contrast from the others. And the walls…”
Smiling, Mrs. Rod went to a small, polished table in a corner. On it were a stack of leatherback journals. “A long time ago, I saw a young man spray his pain all over a wall. That reminded me of my mother. She taught herself to read and write. Her first paper and pencil were her village’s dusty ground and a piece of stick. She told me, ‘Write any how you can, anywhere you can, for there’s something in this life, in us, like a thick coat of dark paint, that covers our memorable moments and leaves the painful ones exposed. So, if we’re not mindful, all we’ll think of is what we’ve suffered. But we must fight to remember our pleasures.”
“How?”
“Store your pleasures as you experience them.”
“Hmm.”
Mrs. Rod studied me. “What’s the status on Mr. Grayman?”
“He’s not coming back.”
“Then it’s time to fight off the fog he left behind and move into the light.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Write out your ache and erase it.”
“It’s too complex to simply –”
“Ache, born of anger, resentment, and regret? Complex indeed.” Mrs. Rod nodded at her walls. “My mother’s genesis with writing got me interested in pouring my thoughts on surfaces other than paper. When my best friend tried to seduce my husband and failed… and then came crawling back for mercy, I gave it to her and let her go. Afterwards, I beat myself up for putting my marriage in such a situation. No bowl was large enough to contain my tears. I vowed to keep away from people. Loneliness made my pain unbearable. I had to let it out, so, I took a crayon, went to my walls and drew out my pain. But I made a mistake. I kept the mess there and looked at it. Every day.”
“The mess must have been very unsightly, judging by the cleaning you’ve done.”
“You inspired the cleanup. Watching you stumble out of your door, going after a love that isn’t reciprocated helped me see it’s common for us all to trust and care about the wrong persons. I should forgive myself, trust me again and look out for fresh relationships. So, I stripped my walls. Now, I’ll write in here.” Mrs. Rod opened the journal. Its clean, crisp pages shone. “From today, I’ll begin keeping only my happy moments.”
“Beautiful.”
Mrs. Rod picked up another journal and extended it to me.
I shook my head. “I…”
“Why did Grayman leave you?”
“He didn’t say. But his new girlfriend is slim.”
“Take the book and pour out how this makes you feel on the first thirty pages.”
“And when I’m done?”
“Tear them up.”
I… can do that. I took the journal. “And after…?”
“Have you ever seen in the Psalms that you’re wonderfully made?”
“Yes. Psalm 139.”
“Find a good chair. Sit and write every verse of scripture you can find on how wonderful and beautiful you are. Write them until you believe them.”
“I will. It’s a promise I’ll keep. And when I’m done, I’ll move on to fresh pages and paint my pleasures on them.”
“Start with how much you enjoy greens and vegetables.”
I laughed.
“See your eyes can sparkle.”
—
Asatu Tete Halloh is a Liberian writer, an advocate of abstinence until marriage, and a witness to the transformative power of the love of Jesus Christ. Born in Liberia, West Africa, to a Liberian Christian mother and a Guinean Muslim father, Asatu learned early that love transcends differences. It is the bridge over the abyss of hate that seeks to present itself as the dominant force in our world.
After the loss of her parents to the Liberian civil wars, Asatu experienced God’s love as the balm that heals broken hearts, halts fear, and erases shame, grudges, and guilt. Now, she sees it turn scars into stars.
She is a certified beauty therapist; however, writing is her vocation. She draws inspiration from life, its events, love, and relationships. She has spent over a decade in active service to her church, Winners’ Chapel International Spintex, Accra, Ghana. In 2021, she was ordained a deaconess and is currently the secretary of the Deacons’ Board. She describes herself as a soul sold out to Christ. Meeting one person at a time through outreach, she shares His love and seizes opportunities to warn teenagers about the risks and responsibilities of casual sex.
Asatu is passionate about the plight of adolescent mothers, street children, and orphans. She believes every child should be born and raised in a secure, love-filled environment.
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