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Fiction, LiteratureDecember 2, 2016

On the Wings of Dreams

4

Your hands are wrapped in a fist, ready to knock. You take another deep breath. Then you knock once, twice, until you start raining your fists against the door. The lashing stops. He barks from inside. You know the bark is directed at you, but you keep knocking, punching, hammering on the door. You should be scared but you are not. When the door fails to budge, you slam your shoulders against it. One. Two—

The door bursts open. You stumble to the floor. Or maybe he opens it from the inside.

 

“Good afternoon Corper.” She opens the door. The faint aroma of fried fish hits your nose. Your belly growls. You hope she does not hear it. There is a big smile on her face. She has that same oblong face like a much older Blessing.

You greet her in their language.

“Corper, Corper, you are already learning this our language, small, small o. Come inside, come inside.” The top of her head ends beneath your chin, causing her to look up as she speaks.

The yellow of their wall is without any smear, as if it has just been freshly painted. A black-and-white photograph of a younger Blessing smiling between her parents hangs on the wall. Beside it is a frame bearing the quotation, ‘Jesus is the only Lord of this house.’ You have not been to any other native’s house, but a flat screen television pinned to the wall is something you did not expect to see. You settle softly into the comfort of one of the leather couches.

Blessing’s mother offers you fish, fried plantain, and palm wine. You refuse the latter. While eating, you ask after Blessing, and request to see her. She says she is fine, but Blessing cannot see any man apart from family because she is about to get married.

“And do you want that?” You ask.

She keeps quiet and avoid your gaze.

Then you say you are here to see her husband. She asks if there is no problem. You know only her father can give a binding decision, so you say no, it is a man-to-man conversation. She says he went for a meeting and would soon return.

Her father returns. He sits facing you. He has the usual physique of men around here: muscular with a soft round belly that sags over the waist. The mother introduces you to her husband as the Corper. He says he knows. She adds you are Blessing’s teacher. Then he says ‘Oh’ in recognition. All these are being said in their language. You just put on a goofy smile, trying to decipher what they say through the expression on their faces. She leaves, and you are alone with him. You greet him. He does not respond. Or maybe he didn’t hear. Maybe you did not speak loud. Then you go straight to your point.

“Sir, I came to ask about Blessing.”

His brows converge, “What happen to her?”

“She has not been coming to class, so I want to know if all is well.”

She catches her breath, and looks around furtively. Surprising yourself, you hug her. After the hug, she asks about the test. You tell her you have postponed it. She smiles, a brief one. She looks at her feet, curling her toes into the ground.

He smiles, and readjusts himself on the couch. His belly jiggles. “Haven’t you heard Corper? Blessing is getting ready for marriage.”

“That is the problem sir.”

“What do you mean by problem?”

“The thing is Blessing is very, very smart. She has a good brain.” You point to your temple. “And if she continues schooling, she can get—” You pause, thinking of a synonym for scholarship. “She can be taken to school in abroad for free.”

Her father looks at the ceiling and rubs his jaw, like he is considering your words. “But she will be far away. If she marries Chief, she will be here. And again Chief will give us plenty money.” He looks back at you. “Can’t you see how the house his changing already?” The grin on his face is hard to miss.

“But she won’t be going to school again.”

“Yes now. Chief cannot let other people to be near his wife like that.”

“But sir is she not too young to marry?”

“Look at this Corper. You are talking like this because you are not from here. Do you know how old her mother was when I married her? Or how old my own mother got married?”

“That was a long time ago. Now things are changing. Let her finish school, and then she can think of marriage.”

“Are you now telling me I do not know how to train my child? The child I planted in her mother by my own self.” He rises from the chair, so also his voice.

“No sir. That is not what I am—”

“Corper, leave my house. I did not know you have come here to insult me.” A shadow appears behind the curtain leading to the inner passage.

“I am only trying to help sir.”

“Get out now. And don’t come back!” He points his finger to the front door.

In another scenario, his trembling belly would have made for a good laugh.

 

The wind ruffles the trees as yellow leaves spiral to the soft earth; it breezes past you and raises goose bumps on your skin. The sky is thick with grey clouds. Behind you is the patter of running feet. You turn. Blessing is running after you wearing a blue gown with a scarf wrapped around her head.

She catches her breath, and looks around furtively. Surprising yourself, you hug her. After the hug, she asks about the test. You tell her you have postponed it. She smiles, a brief one. She looks at her feet, curling her toes into the ground. You hold her chin up. Her eyes are like basins of water, and at its bottom are two black pearls. The basin outpours. You wipe the tears from her eyes, telling her she can confide in you. She looks around, monitoring her surroundings, and finally blurts it out. Then she pleads with you, to do all you can to help her. You say you will. She tells you to promise. You say you do, that you will do all you can to stop the marriage. She thanks you.

You look at her. She searches your eyes. You heart is pregnant like the clouds above. But it is the clouds that first put to bed, drenching you both with rain. She runs back to her house, her feet splattering mud to her calves.

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One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at [email protected].

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

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