Читать книгу Hannah’s Hope - Paul H Boge - Страница 11

CHAPTER

four

Having a twin is like having a second version of yourself. Leah and I often found ourselves thinking the same thoughts at the same time. So many times we shared emotions, thoughts, and reactions. When I was happy, she was happy. When I was sick, she was sick. We were the same in so many ways.

As similar as we were, I was able to attend school more often than she was. We ate the same amount of food, slept the same amount of time, and did the same activities. But Leah became more and more tired. She would stay home while I went to school.

I felt a sharp pain in my stomach as I walked to school one day. What used to be a short walk now felt like a long journey. The hot sun beat down on me as I lifted each foot. Each step felt like incredible effort, like the way an exhausted runner might feel nearing the end of a marathon if she hasn’t had enough water or training.

I reached the schoolyard. It should have been a time for playing games. Instead, I felt like collapsing. I wanted to reach the classroom, but not finding the energy I simply sat down, waited for the announcement that class would start, and watched the other children.

I often enjoyed observing people. But in recent times I found myself becoming preoccupied with thinking about other people’s lives and, increasingly, my own life. What was once a positive reflection on life now became dominated by an ongoing fight to remain hopeful. Things that did not used to bother me now consumed my thoughts. I had no defence against the onslaught of negative thinking. It was as if a voice inside my head suddenly had free range to attack me, and I was sapped of any energy to fight against it.

These children have food to eat. You don’t. You don’t even have parents. They do.

And try as I might, I just could not find it within me to be rid of this voice.

Your grandparents are poor. You will end up just like them. Your life will be poverty and hunger. You don’t even have the illusion of a brighter future because even the most optimistic person on earth would see that you are a starving orphan.

It all seemed so logical. So factual. Who was I kidding? Who were any of us kidding? No food. No parents. No money. No future.

Of the many difficulties in African life, giving in to the realization that life cannot improve is among the hardest.

I made it to class. I was last. The others had run in ahead of me. I sat down at my desk. The teacher told us to open our books. The others flipped the pages and got to the right place, but it seemed like my mind was in a deep fog, like I knew what to do but lacked the power to do it. I looked at my hand and thought, Okay, pick up the book and get on with it. But it took all my effort to move my hand to the cover and flip the pages. As the teacher spoke I fought to concentrate on her. I found my mind drifting, like a leaf on the river that goes wherever the rushing water takes it.

Will there be enough food at lunch? Will there be any food? Can we grow more crops? Can I find food in the—

“Hannah, what do you think?” the teacher asked.

I had no idea. She had taken me in because I was poor, and the least I could do was concentrate. And I was. As best as I knew how.

“I …” I said as my eyes tried to focus on her. I raised my eyebrows to get the teacher to become one image instead of the three I was seeing. “I am not sure.” It was a safe response. Hard to give the right reply when all you feel like doing is falling into a deep sleep.

I went home for lunch. On the way, I wondered what the point of that was. Would I get enough food to even warrant the trip there and back to school? Wasn’t I better off just staying at school, resting, and then coming home and having what little I would have had at lunch for supper instead?

I managed to make it home that day.

Unfortunately.

Leah had stayed back from school. That was nothing new. What was new was the crowd of people around our hut. We didn’t have crowds of people around our hut. Not at normal times.

I came closer and heard people crying. I began to cry. I knew what had happened. I did not need to be told. Twins always know. Somehow we just do.

I felt so empty all of a sudden. Like I was there but at the same time in a completely different world. People moved about me as if in slow motion. For a moment, I felt like backing up and walking off the property as if doing so could undo what had happened. I wished that maybe I could avoid all of this and pick a different path to follow, one where my twin and I could walk through life together.

But the realization of her passing began to work its way through my dark skin and into my heart. I felt a sting of tears begin to well up around my eyes, which then streamed down my face. This was not how life was supposed to work. It just wasn’t.

My grandmother saw me, ran to me, and hugged me. My grandfather came out and wrapped me in his arms as well. I tried to look past them for my younger sister, Zemira. And when I saw her sitting outside I felt the strangest sense of wanting to grab on to her. She saw me through the haze of people, and in that moment before she got up and came over to me our eyes connected in a way that we had not experienced before.

How strange that we were once seven, and now we were down to four.

• • •

That night, I lay down on the ground next to my only remaining sister. We looked into each other’s brown eyes. There was a knowing with her as well. Not the same as I had with Leah, of course, but we understood each other. It was deep, yet different. She fell asleep first. I was glad for that. It is better when the younger ones fall asleep first. Somehow, young children believe that the other person will remain up the whole night, keeping a watchful eye over them.

Heaven knew we needed someone looking out for us.

I remained quiet that evening, and many evenings thereafter. I would stare up at the blank ceiling or out at the stars. Every day I felt like I was carrying heavy pails of water on my shoulders. The world around me felt like it was spinning so fast, and I was no longer able to keep up. I understood nothing of what was happening in my life.

• • •

The students at school would not mention Leah’s name. Not to me. There was a strange silence that seemed to envelop me. They thought that if they talked to me about my sister’s passing, something bad would happen to me as well. As if the malnutrition that had taken her life could somehow be transferred into my body just by the mention of her name. Walking in that odd quiet among the students made me feel as though I was not really there, like I was invisible and unable to interact with people who were close enough to touch.

I sat at my desk and tried to focus on the chalkboard. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the empty spot where Leah had sat. I tried to listen to the teacher. I don’t know how much sank in. Probably not much; grief and hunger make it difficult to concentrate.

When class ended, I felt my pulse quicken. Children stood and hurried for the door. But a sudden panic gripped me. I felt like crawling under the desk and staying there.

Come on. You have to stand up. You can do it. Just go to the door.

I cannot.

But you can. It’s all right.

I am just going to wait here.

For how long? School is over. Come, you need to go.

I … I don’t know what to do. I just want to sit here.

The teacher said something to me. I didn’t hear the words, but the tone was kind. I slid one of my bare feet into the aisle and managed to stand. I walked to the door, and despite the bright, sunny day, I had the feeling it would be safer to stay inside. Even though there was no evidence for it, there seemed to be a large storm brewing for no one else but me, and I should remain at my desk, just to be sure.

I forced myself to step outside. The children played football and jump rope. Some looked like they were laughing and singing, but I could not hear their voices. It was as if the sound of life had been turned off.

I did not want to walk home. Not alone. It was a long way back. Wasn’t it? How far was it exactly between school and home? It seemed a lifetime ago when I could walk there and back without a thought about the distance. Now it consumed me.

I managed to make it to our hut and sat down on a small stool. There was homework to do. There were chores. There were games to be played.

Yet I sat there and sat there, thinking to myself that the only safe thing in the world was for me to stay right there.

Grandmother sat down next to me. She put her arm around me and did not say anything for a while. She did not need to. Some people understand with words. Others just by being there. I felt relieved she was at my side, even though I was not sure how to communicate my gratitude to her. It seemed to me our hut was all that was left of my world. I did not want to go outside again. Not ever. I simply wanted to stay there. The world outside my front door that I once knew and loved had become a distant planet I would never again be able to reach.

She gently rocked me side to side. It was so gradual, so still, that if you were looking from a distance you would not be able to tell that we were moving.

“God loves you,” she said.

I had heard this before many times during our visits to church each Sunday. Hearing about God’s love is one thing when life is going well, but it seemed to mean something different when things had fallen apart. It was as if someone were trying to build a connection inside me between a loving God and a life of difficulty.

“He has a good plan for your life,” she continued. In my heart, I sensed that what she was saying was right. But any kind of life other than this just felt so impossible in my mind that I wondered how any of what she was saying could come to pass.

“It is not easy to understand when people die. Yet God has made it possible for you to live.” She stopped and waited for me to look up. “You can trust God, Hannah. Even in this.”

Was that really possible? Was the God I heard about in church a real God I could trust despite so many difficulties in my life? And if I were to trust Him, what was I trusting Him for? Was I waiting on Him for a life of only good things and comfort? Or was there something more … something deeper?

“I want to encourage you to let your worries go. To give it all to Him. To leave it all in His hands.”

There was not much I could leave in God’s hands. I had nothing to give. Not any good things anyways. My life was all that I had. And it surprised me to know He wanted it.

“I love you,” she said. “And you should not feel alone.”

She stayed beside me until she sensed it was okay to go. I am not sure how she knew that exactly. But when she stood to go, the timing felt right. She walked out the door. I admired that—her ability to stand up and turn the door handle and to go out into the world.

I reflected on her words—what she said about God and His love for me. I thought about putting my trust in God. I thought about how I did not have many other options. I did not have the strength to do anything on my own. I had no idea how life was supposed to go on.

I was at the end.

In our little hut, on our little property, I folded my small hands. I did not have the energy to ask God for anything. I was not entirely sure that I should. So, I prayed the best I could from my confused heart and worried mind. “Let Your will be done, God,” I said. “Anything that happens, I just let You take control.”

The room felt different in that moment. Fuller. Like there were suddenly many people inside that empty place. I was done with wishing my life could be different. I was powerless to change anything, and yet somehow it seemed like a faint glimmer of hope had returned, like the small sliver of light that had managed to make its way through the crack at the bottom of the door had now filled the room with light.

I stood up. I walked to the door. I reached out my hand. I touched the handle. I took in a breath. I opened the door. A gust of wind blew past me. I felt the sunshine on my face.

And heard my sister Zemira calling out for me to join her in a game of skipping.