Inkdrops

I am in one of those art gallery shows where people chatter with their mouths closed. Speaking sluggish paragraphs, then pausing, waiting for you to applause their kindness with pieces of intellect. They are sipping coffee fashionably from unimaginably small cups. And  I am standing alone, close to the painting  at the door, waiting for one of the waiters to walk in with a mishkaki.

I do not know how to stare at paintings, their details confuse me. They make me feel shallow-unable to connect with art. I am looking at the painting of a meeting of the woman’s inner thighs. For some reason, I am repulsed by it. It makes me feel unclothed, exposed. Objectified, commoditised.

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By Claudette Oduor

The sun is exhausted. It staggers across the sky, before finally collapsing into the hills. I wonder if it hits its head behind the hills. Does it crack its skull, spill its blood on the ground? Do the hills have to press pillows to their ears to smother the sun’s groans, like I smother the women’s groans all night?

I cross the footpath. The grass is tall, brushing against my elbow. I scratch my elbow with the cap of the mwarubaini jar in my fist. The Galsheet gate creaks as I push it with my knee.

The two women at the doorstep wave weakly at me. They aren’t greeting, more like saying, Rosalia, we are here! As if I can’t see them. They keep forgetting that they are the blind ones, not me.

The women peer with silly useless eyes that see me only through memory, like an infinite roll of Kodak moments. Their eyes are a dark room. They are done taking pictures. Now all they do is hang up the wet square paper, watch the images sprout behind them.

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I choose to give this child away on Christmas day; on his birthday. I have carefully planned it all out. I have taken time to count, and I know that he will be born on Christmas day… At 4. 56 pm. Mama does not know what I have decided yet. Mama is illiterate. She accepts everything that I tell her because I am in my Second year in the University. Even when my smaller sister and I are having a fight, mama always tells her to listen to me, because I have gone to the university.

I have chosen Christmas day because it is the only day I will be alone. On that day, I will wake up and sweep the compound like I always do. I will prepare breakfast and fight with my sister over who will serve. I will then go and lock myself in the bedroom and read a paragraph or two of Chimamanda Andichie’s ‘The thing Around My Neck’. Mama will understand why I will not have to go to church for this year’s Christmas. I am heavy with the first grandchild. She will say that I need enough rest. My sister will definitely take longer to prepare for church. She has been bought for a new dress. My cousin from USA was around and has given her money, so I know her excitement in the morning will piss mama off.

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