Innocent Unheard by Rachael Asikpo

Innocents Unheard

“Witch!” “Rot in hell!” Scowling faces glared down in disgust amidst the drumming and chanting from village maidens. Their faces, a bright orange in the glaring firelight from the burning torches. She raised her hands to shield her face from the glaring beams and tucked her head to elude lashing hands. They pulled at her clothes, tearing her already ragged linen, ravaging her like wild dogs, tossing her from side to side. Her head jerked forward as a hard slap caught it!

Blurb

The perils of a woman’s scream in the deep of night. Read a haunting story of hate crimes fueled by superstition and allowed in the most remote of places. Innocents Unheard is an eye-opener drawn from the recount of an eye-witness.

Story

Her Scream jolted me from sleep.

In a sweaty heap, I lay, panting, my eyes searching the dark.

She screamed again.

It pierced the still night, splitting the atmosphere and ringing far into the dark. Her blood-curdling wail rattled the entwined palm fronds that roofed our small hut and resonated in the bamboo reinforcing the mud walls.

Her cry, affluent with pain and dread. I had heard it before… Ten nights ago when her husband died. As suddenly as it had come, it stopped, and serenity returned.

I bolted upright and listened. My guts knotted in fear and my body caked in sweat. The ram fur under me, damp with my fluid. The only light that shone into the room came from the small window to my right.

“Obi, sleep,” my wife whispered nervously.

I turned to her and held her gaze. Her eyes were wide with fear, wordlessly begging me to stay but they both knew I would not.

“It has started,” I gasped.

The words were heavy in my mouth before slowly crushing me. They would kill my brother’s wife tonight. I sprung to my feet, girding my loincloth. I groped my way to the doormat. I found it and stepped out into the night despite my wife’s weary call.

The familiar hooting of the village warriors and the sounding of the gong in the village square rented the air, the loud metallic sound chiming with radiance, adept fingers concocting body enticing tunes into the night. One would think it was a call for festivity. My heart groaned in my chest as I broke into a run…

There was no one in sight and the tunes in the air climaxed as I ran through the village. I knew the cryptic message being passed in percussed sounds. I knew what every stroke against the gong implied. Fear sat heavily on my chest, smothering me and invigorating my steps, forcing me to pump my legs harder, ignoring the burn in my chest or the pain lancing up my legs.

Doormats hung over arched ways indicating their habitants had gone out. There were no warrior patrols as far as I could see until the ghastly sight brought me to my knees.

Mawella’s hut had been pulled down! They had come for her. The realization shook me. I broke into a run again, headed for the Village Square…

*******

“Witch!”

“Rot in hell!”

Scowling faces glared down in disgust amidst the drumming and chanting from village maidens. Their faces, a bright orange in the glaring firelight from the burning torches. She raised her hands to shield her face from the glaring beams and tucked her head to elude lashing hands. They pulled at her clothes, tearing her already ragged linen, ravaging her like wild dogs, tossing her from side to side. Her head jerked forward as a hard slap caught it!

She screamed!

Another hand yanked her hair, causing her head to jerk backwards, straining her neck at an awkward angle. She screamed again and a slap to her face blinded her as another woman cursed, “Husband Killer!”

Her heart wailed. She knew that voice all too well. That same voice had cracked jokes with her once on her way to the village stream. That same voice had kept her company on the farms, where she would go weeding on weekends. Her bosom childhood friend, Mama Iya.

“I…did…not…kill–” the words slipped from her swollen lips before another slap silenced her and another spat in her face. She clasped her face with her hands, feeling the sticky mess rub into her skin.

She screamed again.

“Cut all her hair!” angry voices chanted before manly hands grabbed and wrestled her down. She saw the silvery glint of the blade in the moonlight and began to thrash but firm hands held her down and pressed her face into the red sand. The stirred dust crammed her nostrils. She gagged and choked. She tried to scream but tasted dirt.

Then she felt the rough scraping of the blade. Felt it bruise and leave a trail of sores in its wake, before she could see her hair falling around her. She tried to cry but her well had run dry. The women had begun to sing a dirge, heralding her imminent death.

“Bind her!” a man ordered and rough hands manhandled her, binding her feet and her hands. The thin ropes fastened tight to her skin, its frayed fibers bruising her. She winced and tried to scream again, but all that emerged was a low tired sob, a rusty undertone that could not be heard more than a meter away.

“Burn the witch!” they screamed in unison as the men fastened her to a bamboo pole and lifted her, leaving her splayed like a trophy in the center of the square. Excitement swept through the crowd of villagers, they hooted and jumped, pleased with her judgement.

The younger boys had begun to gather dried shrubbery and wood beneath her and a bent old man, disheveled and clad in tattered rags, holding an ancient staff stood by watching with hooded eyes.

“No!” a man screamed amidst the crowd and from the corner of her eyes she saw him. She knew him. Her husband’s brother. His tear-stained face also gleamed a bright orange in the firelight. His face contorted with agony as he struggled with the warriors that held him back. She smiled, noting how much he resembled her Ejor, her deceased husband. The man, whose fall had brought this upon her, this dread.

“Burn the witch!” the chants merged with the dirge sung by the maidens. Her sad eyes roamed the bobbing heads and angry familiar faces. Faces that were once friends of hers, neighbors she had called by name.

The warrior stepped forth with his torch and her guts knotted. The watching crowd fell silent, as instructed. The serenity forebode dread. Her brother-in-law had been bound and gagged, squelched by the warriors.

She shut her eyes tight and trembled, bracing to feel the first throes of death…and it wasn’t long before the searing flames began to lick her feet and devour her flesh. Her throat was sore and voiceless but somehow screams made their way out of her mouth, impaling the silence as the fire ate her alive and the acrid smell of roasting flesh diffused the air…

You will also enjoy:

Author’s note on ‘Innocents Unheard’

Innocents Unheard is actually based on some heinous norms being upheld in some rural areas of Africa. Yearly, innocents, old women and children face unjust deaths in regards to these absurd beliefs.

This particular story is based on a testimonial shared by a friend and is no different from most of the incidents occurring in rural areas of Africa. When a woman’s husband dies, the eyes of treachery are directed at his wife. Sometimes, children are labelled witches because they are born with defects that differentiate them from others. These differences could also be behavioral.

This piece is meant to stir what’s left of our humanity and bring a stop to jungle justice or any rudimentary coalition meant to serve out justice in place of the legal system. Please share…

If you felt this read, don’t forget to share!

Let’s stay connected!

My name is Racheal Asikpo. I can take the creative weight of completing your stories. I can also give you 70% distance from the writing and research. I offer ghostwriting, developmental editing and copyediting services. How about you allow a fresh pair of eyes give you a fresh breath of air?

You can follow me on:

Linkedin or Facebook to know when I post.

I also write episodic shorts on Medium!

You can also reach out to me after perusing my profiles on my Linktree.

I look forward to hearing from you.