Page 65 of Tangled at the Root
“I love you,” I whisper, the words coming out choked. “I love you so fucking much.”
“I love you, omemi,” she whispers, her voice just as thick.
I’m choosing her right back, come hell or high water. If I die, I’m going to crawl right back out of the grave. I will tear through heaven and hell to get back to her. I don’t care what it takes. I’d sacrifice a million souls to a dagbato just to stay by her side. I’dkilla dagbato. I’d kill a god.
I press my forehead against hers. The rain does nothing to hide that her eyes are filmed over with tears. I don’t have to speak; she’s reading everything I want to say in my gaze, her eyes dancing back and forth between mine, shining, filled with a mixture of hope and fear and love and disbelief.
I gently press our lips together. Her hands wrap around my neck, holding me close. The rain presses in around us like a blanket, gentle and cool.
“Besides, there’s only one way to know for sure.”
“Oh yeah?” Her eyes dance.
“You’re just going to have to spend the rest of your life with me.”
“Is that a proposal, omemi?” she breathes against my mouth.
“Yes, Rosemary,” I whisper, my eyelids growing heavy. “Stay with me for the rest of my life. Please.”
“All right, Genevieve,” she whispers in that lovely, indulgent tone. My heart dances against my ribs as our eyes fall shut, and we seal the vow with a kiss.
She tastes like the rain, like the promise of something clean and bright, washing away all the dark to make room for something brand new.
17: MADE TO BE LOVED
“I’m sorry,” Genevieve says. “I know it’s inadequate, and you probably can’t even hear me, but I’m so fucking sorry.”
We’re back in the underground room. Genevieve had insisted on giving my ancestor a proper send-off. She’d destroyed the stand, and placed the slab flat on the ground. The mound of strange flowers look like the perfect resting place.
“Teach me the rite,” she whispers.
I do. In Maraya, we have a specific ritual performed for late oerhwu elders. She’s so intent on doing this right that she learns the song and dance in less than fifteen minutes.
We’re supposed to be dressed in white, in a place in Maraya Forest selected for the late oerhwu by the other elders. Our palms and the bottoms of our feet should’ve been dipped in a reddish-brown dye obtained from the leaves of one of the greattrees, our wrists and ankles covered in swathes of cowrie beads. There’s supposed to be a procession carrying her body through the village, the rest of the townsfolk joining in as the elders make their way to the forest, new voices swelling with theirs in song.
But Genevieve and I will have to do. At least we’re barefoot, and I know the steps. I have a feeling all my ancestor wants is to finally rest.
My heart blooms as Genevieve and I perform the rite, our voices blending beautifully—her tenor to my alto. Outside, the rain has stopped, and the sun is slowly rising. The underground room seems—and feels—brighter.
I feel the flow of the eshé as we dance, moving happily along our limbs. The weight that had been there before—the pollution borne from the oerhwu’s suffering is dispelling, fading slowly away as the current goes back to being clear. Neutral.
We’re breathing heavily when we’re done.
Genevieve takes a breath. At the foot of the slab, we’d placed some offerings, all of them handpicked by Genevieve.
Honey, for something sweet. Palm wine, to soothe the nerves and tease out the laughter. Fancy slippers, because her feet had been bare. A brand new silk and lace blouse with two velvet wrappers that Genevieve had never worn. And finally, blood spilled from Genevieve’s palm, the cut made from her grandmother’s dagger, for penance and reparations.
She joins her bloody hand with my clean one when she’s done, then recites the four short sentences she’d memorised in Ibiiom, using the rhythmic cadence I’d taught her.
An acknowledgment that the oerhwu had been born, and she’d lived.
A recognition that as she’d come to this earth, she’d left behind an impression, one the earth will never forget.
A wish that her journey through the otherworld will be good, and easy, and safe.
And should she be reborn, a prayer for good tidings in her next life.
Genevieve adds an extra sentence, acknowledging the wrong her family had done and making a sincere apology. She doesn’t ask for forgiveness.
