Awakening.

Photo by willBlackify on Pinterest.

The flickering high-wall torches cast an eerie glow on the bare-chested priest as he trudges out of the cavern temple. Abby, wherever she is in the afterlife, would be amazed that I’ve finally decided to attend the ritual. But why shouldn’t I? Tonight is the day of the Awakening, after all, when the lines branching the dead from the undead blur once every three years, through which our lost beloved could reach out to us. And damn, I do miss her. So very much. I have often wondered why the gods bestowed upon us such grace. Do they, too, know the ache of loss? Do they understand the depths of our longing? Their gift, the Awakening, suggests a profound empathy, a recognition of a shared humanity.

Wait, these are lies. . . What am I thinking? We share nothing in common with the gods. They ask, and they take, take, and take. Until you have nothing else to give. But f*ck them, wherever they cower from plain sight. Fuck them very much! For if they truly cared for us, they’d know when they’re asking for too much. And by too much, I mean, the demand that my Abby trudge into the river and fill her lungs with water, as tradition demands of all firstborn twins. . . . Well, it’s too late now. At least this time, the gods had left her twin sister, Kabby, alone. The woman who sells salt at the market-road hadn’t been that lucky with her sons. The river goddess took them both.

The priest’s voice echoes in my ears, as if to quench my sacrilegious thoughts. I dart my gaze across his lanky frame, swathed in a knee-length raffia skirt. Cowries, intricately patterned, adorn his dense, matted locks. A couple of times, Abby had dragged me to the village square to watch him amuse the children by levitating off the ground, or conjure sweet berries from nowhere, or make dogs bleat like goats. I remember how her eyes glowed with admiration. The priest is not a man, she had told me. Not in the way men are expected to be. Men have wives. Men own farmlands and build huts. Men don’t deny themselves the pleasures of life. These types of men, or sometimes women, because they’ve chosen a purpose greater than themselves and now think with a mind not of this world, command insurmountable power.

In honor of today’s ceremony, thirty nights have passed since the priest’s belly held food, yet his strides remain staunch. As if suddenly possessed by a preternatural force, the priest breaks into a spirited dance before us, worshippers of the gods—men, women, and children. We have pitched our tents at the summit of the hill and have kept vigil for three long nights, waiting on the moment when the gods shall grant the priest the power to unleash the souls of the one we’ve lost and wish to see again.

Outside the temple, my vision is reduced to the wooden statue of the river goddess carved in the image of a mermaid from the waist down. I imagine my beloved Abby with sparkling green-colored tail in a realm where only sea creatures dwell, drifting through the vast sea, the rushing wind slapping against her face.

The ceremony continues deep into the night. Thick, pale fog is beginning to ooze out from a corner beyond my line of sight, boiling over the ground in waves. From where I stand, I can see the priest’s chest throb to a tempo, the kind that suggests a greater being settling inside him. And this tempo is an incantation on our lips, we the worshippers. “Reach out your hands, great gods, and pull forth our beloved!” we chorus, circling our hands over our heads.

With a shrug that accentuates the twist of our shoulders, we snap our fingers in reverence to the overwhelming presence rippling through the air.

The priest halts on his track, his sunken eyes suddenly aglow with a message. “When infants crawl out of their mothers’ womb, do they come out silent?” He speaks at last, not waiting for a response, plops down to his knees, looking about himself, eyes screwed, and utters some parables about death I don’t fully understand, then bids us to say the name of our deceased three times.

Over the cacophony of summoning voices, I say the name. “Abby. Abby. Abby.”

I think of Abby, of her soft, dark lips and bright smile. Of her smooth tan skin and mud-brown hair. I think of the afternoon I saw her for the very first time, bathing naked in the river. I think of the effort it took me to woo her weeks later. Of the morning I slid between her thighs in our favorite spot inside the forest. Every moment with her I have tucked in the farthest reach of my subconscious, where time and age cannot corrupt.

I still go to the stream where she’d walked the witches road and fill them up with tears, sometimes with Kabby, other times alone. I’m sure they now taste of salt. And pain. On the days when moonbeams paint the earth a sickly shade of blue, I’d stare into the clear waters till they bear a reflection of her.

Tonight, I find myself wandering back to the moon-drenched shore, where the gentle lapping of waves against the sand is a poignant reminder of her sacrifice. I gaze into the silvery surface, and her reflection, etched in my mind, gazes back. I see her asymmetrical jaw bone resting atop firm neck. Her uniquely contoured nose puffed up by fluffy cheeks. The mere imagination of her beauty locks my gaze in place, and a tear drools down my cheek at the awareness that, in the next life, I’ll love her in whatever form or shape she’ll take. More fiercely than I did in this one.

The priest’s voice shatters my train of thought again. And as I regain consciousness, I shudder at the realization that he’s standing afront me with a calabash in his outstretched hand. “Take. Drink, child,” he says.

I scan the villagers’ faces, and I’m puzzled by the crimson stains on their lips. I suspect it is blood, so I take a deep breath, lift the calabash to my lips, and gobble down barely a sip. My brows furrow at the tartness on my tongue. The substance tastes no different from the absinthian herb, whose extract the priest uses to cure malaria. Back into his open, scarred palm, I settle the gurgling vessel. Scanning my surroundings, I notice the earlier drinkers forming a slow, purposeful procession toward the temple’s entrance, their faces gleaming with anticipation.

Greater than the excitement clawing underneath my skin at the thought of seeing Abby, is the gnawing feeling that she’s somewhere much deserving of her and I’m only a long, forgotten lover distant by realms. Two years is enough time to move on.

The faint stench of burning leaves and vinegar clogs my nostrils as I trudge into the temple. I blow out my nose and take a deep breath before proceeding to sit on the fog-filled ground like the others have done, not minding the breeds of crippling insects inconspicuous to my eyes. Our gaze lock onto the priest as his hand closes around a razor-shape cutting stone, tearing open his palm. A faint cry escapes his lips. He breaks into a frantic run, sprinkling his blood on the imposing statues of the gods encircling the sacred altar.

Tendrils of fog erupt from the mass churning over the ground as though to affirm that the gods approve of the priest’s offering. I’m swept up in the collective gasp as, with eerie fluidity, the strands weave together, crafting what looks like human parts suspended above the altars. With a mixture of terror and amazement, I watch a few strands drift to where I sit. Unlike the rest, who’re probably accustomed to the awakening or have been here before, my breath lags at the uncertainty of what is to come. Because grief isn’t an emotion, I knew all too well until the news of Abby’s transition reached me.

Even now, as the tendrils of fog merge and translate gradually into the face I recognize with a sinking feeling of. . . of want, the muscles of my stomach clenches at the thought of what I should—no, must—say. Soon enough, Abby’s smoky frame completely forms in front of me. There’s a smudgy smile pressed on her lips, the kind that reminds me of the days we made love and everything seemed so perfect. I wish to reach out my hand and feel her like I’d done when she was flesh and blood; to somehow express the regrets that words cannot at the moment.

“Dele!” Her soft, ghostly voice cuts through me like the wind does to falling leaves. A stutter rips out of my trembling lips as I prepare to, once and for all, ease the guilt crushing me within. “I forgive you,” she says, and I immediately crumble at the incertitude of how she could’ve possibly known.

“I’m—I’m so sorry!” The words slip off my tongue, heavy as the pressure builds up around my crunched knees. Much worse, within this place, I feel naked. Like, if you stare at me long enough, you’ll dig up the ruins of my past. Because of this, I empty myself of pride, and I confess. I tell her that the first time I f*cked Kabby, I had thought it was her in the pearl-patterned dress. It was easy to be fooled because they both have the same uniquely contoured nose, same asymmetric jaw bone. And those eyes, I swear, glimmered like they were hers.

A shiver runs through me at the abrupt consciousness that I still give excuses for what I’d regrettably done. Even in the presence of the one whose heart I’d shattered. This realization forces me to my knees, pulling tears down my eyes. They feel acrid and mucky on my cheeks, as though it comes from a source tears shouldn’t. Most of Abby’s smoky form fuses with the foggy mass on the ground, so that only her upper body is visible to my teary eyes.

Spittle rattles up my throat at the chilly sound of her ghostly voice. “Although the sight of you making love to Kabby stung, it freed me to make the choice to serve a greater purpose,” she says, and a certainty dawns on me. It stirs the memories of the times we tried to make babies but couldn’t. True, those who belong to the gods, like the priest and my beloved Abby, aren’t human in the way they ought to be.

Wailing voices spring up around me, knocking me off my reverie. I dash my gaze about to inspect why, and I’m saddened at the realization that the forms of the villagers’ beloved are beginning to retreat to the altars where they’d separately come. In the corner, the priest’s struggle is palpable; each drop of his blood sustains the fragile connections, now dwindling. The awakening appears to exact a cruel toll on him. It’s in the way his knees knock uncontrollably, as though they’ll rip off their joints any moment now. I’m torn between empathy and frustration, for unlike those present, I’ve come seeking more than a reunion.

Back into Abby’s drifting eyes, I hurriedly stare. “We made babies, your sister and I.” With a quick sideways glance, my voice stretched to a whisper. I added, “Two boys. Like you are with Kabby.”

Her retreating figure wobbles at the exposition. Just as it’d worried me since the day I spilt my seed into Kabby and we made twins, I know beyond doubt that she’s terrified my eldest son will, one day, walk the witch’s road. But I don’t stop there. I gobble in as many air my parch lungs can accommodate and scream atop my voice: speak to the gods on your nephews’ behalf. This tradition, it has to stop. They, too, deserve to love, grow grey and die. As you once did.

My outburst attracts the stabbing glares of the villagers. I pay them no mind, but rather imagine my boys playing with their mother at the front yard of our hut with endless shrubs of vegetables, white and red balls onion plants. This anguish that constricts my chest and sets my heart aflame at the idea of losing a child, is it not rightly called love? No instant have I been more certain of what to do than tonight.

***

It is dawn the next morning. Soft, golden light seeps through the forest canopy, casting a weak glow across the landscape. The air, sweet with the fragrance of blooming wildflowers and the earthy scent of damp soil, wheezes gently across the horizon. Through leaves and shrubs, we move, our footsteps quiet on the dew-kissed earth. Only the rustle of foliage and snapping of twigs beneath our hurrying feet disturb the tempered resonance of nature. Kabby’s elbow brushes against mine, a touch that conveys her anxiety. Her eyes, filled with questions, meet mine. But the weight of my twin sons on both my shoulders dispels the fear of what the future holds. So I listen to the faint birdcall echoing through the forest, ushering us toward the unknown.