Staring at the Chinese lanterns hanging over my head, I wonder to myself; with all this beauty hanging above me, what could possibly go wrong?
Chipping, crackling and crowing, the birds sing pride for the day. Rays of the sun pierce through my bedroom installing an orange hue that rests on the triptych wall painting, giving the geisha staring at me a twinkle in her eyes. Really, with such a stare; what could possibly go wrong?
At the sound of the mirth from downstairs I carry my kimono to have Cheryl dress me up.
#
Cheryl is wearing a skin-tight garish dress that exposes too much of her décolletage. Although she has a chutzpah that I detest, I had no choice but to hire her because she is the only cosmetologist capable of turning me into a geisha for my maternity photoshoot happening by noon. She is an expert oshiroi make-up artist and she can style African braided hair with the kanzashi to perfection.
The décor in the lounge also ensues a Japanese theme. I have boarded the place with shoji walls and as a center piece I rented an archway covered in sukuras and fairy lights. With a set of candlelit lanterns kneeling before the archway, the whole setting looks like a holy shrine.
As Cheryl works on my hair, I wistfully sink into the day when I met Mondli, the father of my unborn child whom I have since broken-up with due to his love affairs. We met in Japan. He was there on business and I was there for work. I was dressed as a geisha; one looks at me and he was amused. He said he never saw an African geisha before. Ours was a love at first sight and from that day, Japan became my second love.
#
During breakfast a cracking erupts and sparks fly!
After investigating the scene, it seems that the fairy lights had a cable fault.
Qhawekazi makes a call requesting the person on the other line to bring Christmas lights. After the call, she tells everyone to calm down and that everything will be sorted.
#
Someone knocks at the door, Qhawekazi’s daughter runs to open and she excitedly shouts, “Malume!”
I feel a twinge in my heart. He looked lovely of course but I did not want to see him, especially not today, or ever again!
Mondli walks in carrying a box of his Christmas lights. He greets everybody and looks at me. “Zalira, may we please have a talk?” He demands.
I look at Qhawekazi and tearfully ask, “Why would you betray me like this?”
I grab my car keys and run out the door into the garage and I pull out my car while everybody rushes outside to stop me.
Qhawekazi shouts, “Oh wow; so now you are going to run away. That’s so typical of you!”
I yelp back at her, “I should have known. Betrayal runs in the family!”
Cheryl intervenes, “Zalira, it’s not safe for you to drive in such a state. Please come out of the car. I will ask Mondli to leave; you don’t have to be so dramatically puerile!”
Out of anger I decide to take an unplanned therapeutic trip and see where the road leads me as long as it is far away from baby daddy confrontational drama. Mondli runs after me but loses the strength to keep up and I drive away.
#
In the middle of nowhere my car gets a flat tire. I try to call insurance but there is no signal and my phone’s battery is flat. At this nadir, I am filled with regret. Maybe Cheryl was right. With no sign for help around; I grab my car keys and handbag, and I start walking. I have to find help at its nearest.
#
At an entrance, it’s written; ‘Welcome to Amara’s Village. I walk through. There are beautiful trees and branches on either side of the rocky aisle. Observing the place, it seems like I have landed at a Nature Reserve. A part of me is frightened about the sight of loose wildlife on a chase.
As a travel journalist, I have traveled a million miles to African Nature Reserves in the course of my career and I have since developed a disliking for the service because it’s a cliché and marketed towards colonial interests. After all colonialism was in its pinnacle sense the commodification of the Western culture. I want Africans to decolonize the tourism industry by selling an authentic African cultural experience that gives travelers a self-realization journey like the one I feel when I visit Japan.
#
A branch of trumpet shaped like flowers releases an irresistible fragrance. I pull out a few and bury them in my handbag for indulgence. There was a caution board by the entrance asking tourists not to tamper with the plants; but oh well, who cares!
Suddenly, I feel faint and a headache weakens my knees. I fall to the ground. A viper, a gigantic viper in the nightfall slithers towards me! And its fangs so large towards me. I feel terrible and afraid. What is this place, why do they keep such a terrible beast? I scream and I shout but the more I scream, the darker it gets and the fangs enlarge. I can’t help but scream louder as it gets darker. Although I cannot see it, I know the viper is there, growing larger than life with all my screams.
#
Chipping, crackling and crowing, the birds sing pride for the day. The sunbeams gush through the sash window and an orange hue rests on the emulsion painted women in their khanga carrying calabashes above the head.
A young lady sitting on the bedside holding a mortar smile at me and introduces herself, “My name is Samantha, I am an herbalist nurse; the doctor will address you shortly. For now, please take a spoonful of this mixture.” She says putting the mixture in the mortar on the satin sheets.
“What is this?” I ask.
She seems irked, “The doctor will see you shortly, if you have any questions, please read the broacher on your right.” And then she walks away.
#
Shortly, a six-foot tall man walks in wearing khaki scrubs, “Hello, I am Doctor Qophelo, please call me Doctor Q for short. We found you lying unconscious. Fortunately, for you and the baby I could help. I run this institution, it’s a Nature Reserve that only reserves plants and livestock. Amara’s Village is also a health retreat where people receive naturopathic medicine for treatment of various sicknesses. We also provide expeditions and ethno-medical research on our herbal products and services. Last night you administrated a noxious plant with neurotoxic side effects, so we had to keep you at our facility without your consent for treatment; and now that you are aware of your condition, do you consent for further evaluation?”
All of a sudden, I remember, the dreadful snake growing above the tree in the nightfall.
“Yes, I do consent.” I reply. “But why do you keep such a dangerous snake at your village?” I ask out of concern.
“You saw a snake?” He curiously asks.
“Yes, I saw a snake, a larger-than-life snake.”
“Ah, I see. You were hallucinating.” He says, his eyes wide open.
“The plant you stole from my forest is called an Angele’s Trumpet. The flower is known for inducing terrible hallucinations and it’s also fatal. However, I often find that what you see in those hallucinations has a meaningful message.” He looks at me with a mild concern.
While looking at the heath from afar through the sash window, he continues, “The snake symbolises a poison that you are carrying inside off you. You have so much anger. You must let go and forgive. You are putting the child’s life and yourself in danger. However, as an antidote, I see that you are also capable of removing that poison yourself because I also see that you traveled with the spirit of the Black-Eyed Susan plant.”
The more he speaks, I can’t help but sense an aura of an African Sensei or a Guru of some sort about him.
“To help you heal, I will give you the plant so that you can heal from this anger because on this journey, you have become the Black-Eyed Susan. Although, its seeds are poisonous, the stems and the petals have healing properties. Native Americans are known to have used the plant as an antidote to snakebites. Pick up your ears and make this journey count. Anger is as poisonous as the snake you saw on this journey.”
I have travelled on this journey to get away from the bitter poison of the anger I felt towards Mondli and his sister and I found myself healing through this African self-realization journey not as a geisha but as Black-Eyed Susan.
The End
Read – Places Become Feelings and Memories – A Short Story by Olabode Oluwabukola, Nigeria
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