The Weed Amongst the New Growth

Uncle Lou was dead. “Oh so sad…sigh.” We thought amongst ourselves. Sarah, Beatie, Macy, and I stood in the midst of a gloomy atmosphere and nothing flew from our eyes. I believe Sarah wanted to cry but the seven-year-old anger she sustained towards our uncle held her back. When she was 7, Uncle Lou took her Christmas money that she had saved to buy her what she wanted: a bag of fine toffee. He returned home drunk and when Sarah’s little eyes saw no toffee in his hands, she knew Uncle Lou had liquefied her savings. She was so angry that she made a promise not to cry as she would be paying him back. Crying at the death of a family member is extremely important and significant in the Ghanaian culture. It is required of the family members to cry over their lost ones. The more one cries over the dead, the more people notice how benevolent the dead was when he or she was alive. I guess Sarah was avenging then.
~~~
The oldest among us was Macy, who stopped talking when she turned 15. She suddenly ceased to use her tongue for sounds other than chewing. Our mothers always deemed my cousin as the promiscuous one. My mother used to warn me to distance myself from her or pull her skirt down when it was up. Her skirts were always down to her knees, showing no thighs so I did not know how further down I could pull them. She was also the smartest and the wittiest in the three and it had nothing to do with her age. We worshipped her a bit. At least I did. One morning, I woke up to find her being severely beaten by her mother. She was being whipped with one of the canes that were soaked in kerosene to prevent breakage. Marks were all over her body. Thank God, she was dark skinned; consequently, the marks from the wounds would be hidden in her skin. I started screaming and immediately ran forcibly towards her. I grabbed hold of her with my back towards the cane. You imagine the rest. My skin tone was lighter so the marks show.
“Move away from your cousin, Mary!” My mother yelled as she entered the scenery.
“You are such a disobedient child.” She roared again.
“And you and your sister are murderers!” I replied.
All of a sudden, the heavy flow of caning stopped. I did not know what I had said, but it froze Macy’s mother. “Are they really murderers?” I thought to myself. Then I turned my head to check on my cousin. Her white eyes had red streaks in them. For some reason, I knew they weren’t from the beating and I, the inquisitive and impulsive one, was terrified for her. I pulled her away and we both ran outside. I asked her what happened; why her mother was beating her but she said nothing. She sat there quiet, in a sheer sense of worthlessness that I could no longer bear to witness; therefore, I went back into the house to find out what had happened. My mother informed me that her sister found a small stain of blood in Macy’s panties, concluding that she had been having sex. She grilled me if I had been experimenting too and I replied “no.”
“You better not be having sex, you are too young and if you get pregnancy, I will sack you to live with your grandmother in the village.” My mom warned me. I vaguely looked at her.
“Okay.” I replied like I cared.
Two months later, Macy was vomiting. She had become pregnant at the tender age of 14. Everyone said it was Bobby: her friend who always taught her how to read and write. Some thought it was our older cousin Kusi, whom she was very close to also. Our assumptions developed with no confirmation as Macy became a mute. Her mother tried immensely to beat it out of her but her mission remained unaccomplished. All the adults expected us to know and therefore subjected us to the occasional beatings ourselves. Beatie, the youngest among us, was lost in transition. All she knew was that she had been indicted into the gang of girls who were against their mothers. Our mothers were similarly close too. They had supported each other through the loss of our fathers whether it was by divorce, death, or a “left and never came back” scenario. We shared common prospect about our mothers: their senseless beatings.
~~~
Uncle Lou was their only brother and they hailed him as the king of the house; mainly because he was the only man there. His wife left him in their first year of marriage due to conjugal issues – it was the talk of the town and everyone was alarmed to it. Since then, he felt incompetent towards other women and never attempted to marry again; leaving him childless. He was also quite injudicious for a mechanic; though he provided the income for all three sisters. We treated him as the tail of everything. He was nothing but a weak link who tried to dim everyone’s light so his can flicker. He was a flop back in the day until his boss of his own replica died, leaving him with the business. When our mothers proposed the idea of sending us to school to him like all the other children were doing, he informed them that women are products of men, whose main purposes are to attend to the house by means of cleaning, cooking and procreating. He then insulted everyone who was “wasting money and time” educating their daughters by referring to them as “stupid and out of touch”. With the list of his wickedness, was also a drinking problem; though astonishingly, there weren’t any distinctions between the drunk and the “caring” Uncle Lou. At least Sarah, Macy and I didn’t see any or we were just blinded by our disgust for him. There was always this evil look in his eyes…especially when he looked at me. He would gaze at me with scorching eyes like a wolf ready to devour and I would reciprocate with the better look—a fierce retaliation—the “ I hate you; I wish your phony ass would die in a serious car crash” look. He would immediately subside. It was Sarah he was always terrifying. Macy and I never bowed to him.
~~~
Our mothers cried vigorously. He had placed his workshop with four cars in Macy’s mother’s name so we were still financially set. They did not really know what killed him. The night before, he came to the house, ate, sat, and chatted with our moms. He went to sleep and he did not wake up the next day. He was in his early forties but they regarded it as natural death. My mom said there was white foam in his mouth, with his chest pumped up. His eyes were wide opened with terror and he was naked with his hand around his penis. I figured this kind of death beats a serious car crash any day.
After the announcement, Sarah went on to water the farm and spread weed killer on the new growth of corn. She always did that without gloves and her mother would say, “That witch, if I die, it will be because she poisoned me.” Then later, she would make her cook. Sarah was a very good cook. She would cook for the whole family at the age of 13. I would wash the entire house dishes while Macy swept the house. Our house was the biggest in the neighborhood due to the huge recreational space in the middle, which made sweeping the heaviest duty. Beatie just picked up things off the floor. What did our mothers do? Nothing. They concurred that the good thing about having daughters is that you get to take a break. We didn’t mind working though; it gave us a sense of control and authority.
After the announcement, I followed Macy to the mid-wife’s house. She had grown to love the baby and did anything possible to take care of it. I loved her so I did anything possible to take care of her. The midwife said that the baby was a boy – she knew this from the way the baby kicked. The whole journey amazed me; from the way her belly stretched from muscles to a balloon to her breast blowing up like a cocoon. I would always look at her stomach and watch it carefully to check if it was not bursting. Everything was stretching forcefully and too fast. She was 15 and out of time. I talked to her all the time and she would smile but still wouldn’t utter a word. The one-way conversations became ordinary and it no longer bothered me. The red streaks in her eyes began to simmer. After the midwife visit, we hiked back to the house. Sarah had returned from the farm so her, Macy and I decided to unwind on the balcony where we usually discussed our daily routines. The discussions were always stagnant because we worked dutifully; besides the only one with something new and refreshing wouldn’t talk. It gave Sarah and I the opportunity to know each other. She was the distant one and always quiet. On Saturdays, she woke up with the earliest birds to attend to the farm. She was always fascinated with the new growths and protected them like they were her own offsprings. She would patiently stroll through the five-acre farm to pull out all the weeds while she sprayed weed killer on their roots to exterminate them. Then she would commence on watering the farm, making sure that each plant whether big or small drank at least a sprinkle of water. After that, she would sit in the midst of them with her head raised to the sky, inevitably waiting for the sun to rise, and shine — on the farm and her. When she was missing from the house, it was mostly because she was somewhere lost in the bright green farm or as she would say “my home”. She always said it was the healthiest place to be and we always thought she was a bit crazy. Macy and I thought of her as the weakest among the three; not counting Beatie. Sarah was always frightened about something in the house; whether it was Uncle Lou or some mouse in the kitchen. Plus, she cried the most when we were being whipped. But when she told me a story about beheading a snake in her “home”; I started thinking twice about labeling her inferior. I nicknamed her Little Davida after the shepherd David from the Bible.
~~~
It had been a week since Uncle Lou’s death and we were preparing to bury him. Our mothers had been conversing on who his successor would be and since our fathers were gone; his work, which was also our source of income, was heading into a stranger’s hands. They also wanted to get us out of their hair and send us to school. We felt it was too late because Macy’s pregnancy automatically disqualified her as a student. I personally felt I was learning too much already and didn’t need anybody standing in my face teaching redundant things to me. Sarah wouldn’t leave her farm for school and Beatie won’t do anything we won’t do. They told us to wear white and black to present as the children at the burial and the funeral. Then Macy’s mother warned us to find means and ways to cry or she would subject the canes to create tears for us. However, my mother, who is second to Macy’s mother, refuted her sister’s idea of beatings in the midst of a funeral.
At the burial, Macy began to cry and for the first time, I was angry at her because I felt she had broken the secret code. “It is probably her baby kicking her.” I thought to myself. The cemetery men, before laying him down opened his coffin for a last look at him – inspecting to see if it was really him they were burying. He was so stiff, rugged and withered. He was only in the freezer for a week but the transformation spoke otherwise. His chest was down and empty – I wondered where his heart went – into a gutter or into a fire. The anger in me for him channeled into pity, and it went from pity to nothing. I could have starred at his dead body for hours and still wouldn’t cry. I wondered if it was because I knew he was partially responsible for my father leaving but that wasn’t it. At the age of thirteen, I realized my father left simply because he wanted to – Uncle Lou couldn’t drive me away with his devilish stares, let alone my father.
They finally closed the coffin and dropped him six feet under but unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of our Uncle Lou. As we were walking back to the house to organize for the funeral, Macy suspended her steps and began to shake. For a second I thought she was having the baby – she was sweating profusely as she held her belly and began to scream. She screamed as if she was being choked with her other hand around her neck. Our mothers were far in front and we couldn’t reach them. In fact, we were the last four people to leave the cemetery. I braised her and told her to relax and it would be okay. What would be okay? I had no clue what was going on. Then Sarah stood there frozen with tears down her face like she knew what was happening to Macy. Beatie began to cry because everyone was crying. For the first time, I felt dismissed by the gang of girls. After she calmed down, I pleaded with Macy to talk to me because I couldn’t help her if I didn’t know what was befalling. She paused for a minute and dragged my hand to sit down. We all sat down still among the dead with no other living beings but us. I looked in her eyes and the red streaks were reappearing. Then Sarah yelled in tears,
“I saw it! I saw it! I saw everything!”
“You saw what?” I asked but wasn’t sure if I wanted to know.
“It isn’t your story to tell so shut up!” Macy interrupted.
“What is going on?” I yelled
“Uncle Lou…” Macy whispered silently and continued.
“I had just returned home from Bobby’s house that afternoon. I was coming home to eat because I was hungry and there was nobody but Uncle Lou at the house. When I went into the kitchen, he followed me there. He asked me where you were at and I told him you were with Sarah at the farm. He said he was hungry too so I should fix him food and bring to his room. I told them that there was only one plate left and I was hungry but he didn’t care so I warmed it and took to his room.”
Her voice began to break like glass shuttering on the floor—into pieces. I began to shake. I frankly did not want to know the rest. The anger that channeled to pity shot straight back up to rage and Macy saw it in my eyes. As I began to build courage to stop her, she continued.
“I placed the food on the floor and as I headed for the door, he grabbed my hand. I told him I wanted to go, but he wouldn’t let me. Then he asked me how much do I love you and I said a lot. And he asked what I am willing to do to protect you from anything bad from happening to you and I said anything. Then he grabbed me and laid me on his bed and told me to shut up and be quiet or else he will take you away like he did with my daddy.”
She began to burst into tears again. My head was spinning. I could not believe my ears—I wanted to cut them off. I felt a portion of my hair turning gray because I too was out of time. The anger was raping and ripping me apart like Lou did her. And for what? Because of me? Because of me, he raped her? I knew he had found a way to win our starring contest. I touched Macy’s belly, bowed my head and wept uncontrollably. A quarter of me was now angry that he is dead because I wasn’t the one to kill him. As I ended that thought, Sarah touched me
“Don’t worry Mary, the weed is gone now.” Sarah said.
“No he is not gone! We didn’t kill him. He is not gone!” I replied.
“Mary, shut up and listen! I said he is gone!” Sarah started to profess.
“After the farm, I came to the house to cook. When I was entering the house, I saw Macy entering Uncle Lou’s room. I decided to wait for her to come out so she can help me cook. Then I heard his door quaking as if there was a struggle. I walked silently to the door when the noise had stopped. I slightly opened it and saw him on top of her, crushing her.”
She intermitted as her tears began to drown her but quickly recovered to finish talking.
“I realized then that there was a weed in my home all along; a weed amongst the new growth. It needed to be uprooted and exterminated.”
“He is gone, Mary…he is gone.”

We sat there in our little bodies with now a bigger picture of life weighing us down. Beatie was lying on Macy’s lap asleep. I got up, walked back to Lou’s grave and spat on it. He hadn’t won. We were going to raise his son in a reverse depiction of him so he hadn’t won. He was dead with no one to succeed him. As I stood there thinking, it began to rain. I ran back to the girls and we stood in the rain to rinse the dead and all the unwanted away. We skipped the funeral and went to the farm; where we sat patiently among the corn, waiting for the sun to dry us.