You know what I see when I try to recall you? It’s not the gaping maw that was your mouth as you lay on the dusty road. Not your necklace of blood, not the bits of flesh clinging to the hot sand, not even the scattered teeth gleaming under the sun. No, all I remember is that smile. The one that chased away the shyness in me the first time I saw you. The one that made me blurt, can I buy you a drink?
And every day after, I coveted the gift of that smile. I agreed to adopting Milo, though we could hardly afford dogfood; he kept the smile on your face. I ate boiled beans and bread, though it felt like shoving sunbaked plastic down my throat, because you laughed at the face I made after every swallow. I didn’t mind the bug-infested studio; it meant being near you all day.
My memory of D-Day keeps blurring. You said only old people do that when I wore my seatbelt. I didn’t mind the teasing; you were smiling as you said it. I can’t remember who tilted their face towards the other first. I don’t remember who screamed first. But the sight of your body hurtling out the window, the shudder of the car as it collided with the herd, and afterwards, trying to separate cow-flesh from human-flesh, those I clearly remember.
Later, as you lay dying on the hospital bed, even though the bandages around your jaw hid your face, I knew you were smiling. Your eyes had that twinkle they get whenever you smiled. And I smiled back, even as I prayed for an afterlife, so I could worship you again.
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Read – Emancipation – A Flash Fiction by Isirima Grace, Nigeria
