Young Writers Society

Tears no longer trickled from my eyes. I had finished up my reservoir of tears. I laid there on the ground, with my face in the soil, and my hands tearing up the grass from their roots. The ants crawled over me, and I lifted up my face to watch them scatter at the sight of my mutilated face...the face of a widow in mourning.

I wasn't mourning because my husband had just died. I was mourning because I had been accused of killing him. They had shaved all my hair. My fine, silky dark hair...they shaved it all.

I was a witch, was what they said. My husband's family called me a witch to my face.

The whole dilemma started when we got married and I could not bear a child for him. One year later, I became the topic of village gossips. In the soceity I lived in, my inability to get pregnant earned me the title of an 'Ira' which means 'the one who chases away infants'. At the orders of their parents, children of the village ran away from me. I became the equivalent of a monster from the forest.

After much persuasion by his mother to marry another wife, my husband agreed. He was to get married the week after he developed a sudden illness and passed on to the realm of the spirits.

My life then became a bed of terror. I was insulted, beaten, maltreated and humiliated based on the accusation that I killed my husband out of jealousy of his impending second marriage. The villagers went as far as to bring back the old traditions just to see me suffer.

My husband's corpse was bathed, and the water from the bath was given to me to drink. They said it was to prove my innocence. But even after drinking and staying alive, they did not halt their persecutions. They chased me out of my house and threw me into the bushes to fend for myself in the wild.

Ah! God! So this is how it ends. Years ago I was happy, beautiful, loved and wanted by all. Now I am an outcast. God why?! Why did you not give me a child? Why did you let my husband die? Why did you let me suffer all this?

It wouldall be over soon. Even the ants did not console me. They kept stinging my suffered skin with their mandibles. It was painful, but why should I have thrown them off? My life was already one excruciating pain. I laid there on the ground with the dagger beside me. I turned my body over on my back and stared at the sky. Even the sun hid from me behind the clouds. It could not bear to see my wounds and my pain.

I grabbed the dagger and lifted it up above my chest. That was the only pleasure I had in a long time. Seeing the end to my pain right in front of my eyes caused me to cry.

A short scream was the last thing my mouth produced before I slid away from life.

Now I am a spirit. But I regret taking my life and taking the life of the child that was in my womb. As a spirit I can now see everything. I can see the little hand of my baby boy, lifeless, without support. He hadn't the chance to see the offerings of life.

Now my wailing has passed on to the afterlife.