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Photo by Wellington Rodrigues on Unsplash

The Scarf

It was her favorite scarf. She got it from grandma after the funeral. A souvenir of sorts. It was inside a bunch of wax locks our great aunt kept hidden from everyone. The stingy, quiet witch.

No one thought she’d buried so much cash in her closet. Not even the adopted boys. Looks like the heavens made sure she’d live to her stingy DNA by not giving her progeny.

Her death came as a relief to everyone. Well, almost.

You see, our great Aunt hated humans. She spent a lot of time on her farm and sold her fruits to the first buyer. She’d inherited cocoa farms from her father as the only daughter of his favorite wife. He’d made sure she’d never lack anything.

Well, anything except children.

She didn’t take to courting well. She was extreme. Opinionated and daring. Always wanting more.

That’s why she loved my sister so much.

They were kindred spirits: brooding looks, mocking laughs. Never settling for dumb excuses or time-wasting activities. I could never tell her how much I admired her independence. I was too young to even have a conversation at home.

During the break, I’d go to Great Aunt’s house. She had three adopted boys. Quiet like her. Well, not exactly. They were deaf — and dumb. And she preferred her home quiet.

Her life, generally, was quiet.

The boys lacked nothing — she made sure of that. She’d spend silence on her fruit farm and kept to herself. Except for supper.

She kept her habits. Which is why the boys panicked and called the neighbors the only day she never came out for supper.

They found her with her back on the tree. From the distance, you would believe she was having a short nap, her sprawling scarf covering the toll of the years.

When I close my eyes and think hard, I still hear the echoes of the boys’ scream when they found it was her final nap.

Written by

Cameroonian writer and video creator. Featured in LEVEL and P.S. I Love You. I write about building relationships and personal transformation.

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