Where lost souls go

"She waited for you, Zena. You failed her."

Cúcú's voice sounded like a ghostly echo in that white-walled hallway and her eyes cut through me like a poisoned spear.  I could not tell if it was due to my boredom but the corridors reeked of newborn babies' poo and damp cotton swabs. I had been in one of those maternal rooms before but today I could not gather the patience of entertaining a 2-hour long holdup.

"I know cùcù. Will you ever forgive me for it?"

"Do not ask for my forgiveness Zena. You know exactly where you should lay your pleas. Have you considered even for a moment how inhumane it was for you to..."

"What a relief! Here they come, cúcú."

I still had it in me. The motherly sensation when I held Monica's baby girl brought tears to my eyes. I felt the innocence of her fragile fingers. Her tongue was pure and her skin without blemish. Her eyes so still and calm and her little face beautiful and delicate. She was an Angel.

"We named her Zawadi. She's your daughter too, Zena."

"Wise choice, Monica. Your sister couldn't put that name to good use. You thought well."

"That was not the point cùcù." Monica said.

Cúcú had a great way of reminding me that I was a monster who was not fit to be a mother. She was so perfect at the art that it drove me crazy and made me permanently latch my womb so I would never again hurt any other soul by growing from it.

My husband had succumbed to liver cancer at just 33. We were five years apart in age, with a 2-year-old daughter to raise. Everything was perfect when life gave us the chance. Hearts beat and souls danced. 

We owned glory and happiness and all the good things in life were available for us for the taking then a severe stomach ache happened and we had to go through the dreadful journey of chemotherapy and radiotherapy and finally, we dug a grave and opened a chapter of grief and misery.

I was left helplessly worn out and with obligations which I had no energy to tackle. Larry's family seized his entire estates because well, we were never legally married to each other. I had lived in a man's house for seven years without a ring on my finger and I was never bothered by it. 

His death came too soon. Being left a widow at my age was a distasteful occurrence. I ranted and wept. Begged and prayed but my predicament persisted. I told my story to anyone willing to listen, family, friends and strangers alike. I had no restrictions, I let everybody in and then just when I was at the brink of collapse, I met Elias.

His eyes and defined hairline are what attracted me to him at first. I found myself swimming in his deep-sea blue eyes the moment he asked if he could occupy the empty seat in front of me at the bar. He had a strange accent but flaunted his limited knowledge of English with so much confidence. I found that captivating.

A couple of hours later, he had gotten to know that I was a single mum, an orphan, a miserable widow at 28 and jobless with no means of survival, ready to snap and end everything. In those two hours, he had siphoned the story of my life out of me. The most unsavoury story ever told yet I had known nothing apart from his first name, which I had not even verified if was real.

Amid the intoxication and emotional meltdown, as if saying all about me was not enough, I showed him my nudity. 

Elias was a desirable man. Friendly in his dealings and with a fierce streak of charm. I felt at home with him. Moved in with him in just three weeks of knowing each other and formed yet another illicit partnership. I hoped that my daughter was doing well with cúcú, my life was already a mess that I did not want her to get involved in.

One day he asked, in his muddled English, for me to go with him to Sweden. I trusted him enough to leave with him and also too excited to resist. I had met one friendly Swede woman before when I worked as a hairdresser. She had offered to walk to her car bare feet after I had made her hair and complimented her gorgeous shoes. I trusted that Elias was equally good-natured. 

"That's exciting, honey but won't it be too hard? especially now that you are leaving too soon. I doubt if two weeks will be enough for me to process a visa."

"You no need that min kärlek. I will do. One week only."

So with that statement and with a few connections here and there, he found me documents with the name Sophia Anders and off to Sweden we went, as husband and wife. I promised cúcú and Zawadi that I would be back in four months. Elias had promised to secure me a lucrative job, which I was certain would happen and I was willing to leave everything including my young daughter, behind.

The job was lucrative, alright. I earned a gross income of 20,000 Swedish Krona a month but only pocketed less than a quarter of it.

Four months elapsed and I raised the concern of leaving but Elias would not take any of that. He convinced me to stay. After all, the Icehotel, the posh lifestyle, the sex and the wild freedom breathed life into me and so I decided to stay a little longer.

Six more months passed and I found myself dealing in the substance. It was never about the money anymore, I decided to delve into the pleasures of heroin. The second year passed and I thought about quitting everything; Elias, drugs, money and my entire life in Sweden. 

Of course, he was not happy with my decision and planned to rat me out to the authorities if I insisted on leaving but I planned to beat him at his own game.

I left to the Migration Agency and turned myself in as an illegal immigrant and that led to my deportation.

I spent two years in a foreign land with a stranger whose real name I never got to know and still, I was not concerned about how it would affect my life.

Home was not inviting as I had pictured it two years before. Cúcú met me with a blank expression. She was silent and never even shook my hand.

She only asked me to follow her to the backyard where a fresh grave had been set up. My baby lay there, cold, silent and alone, underneath the heap of mud and a wooden cross.

My shock did not allow me to speak words or let a wail. I just stood there, stiff as wood and as lifeless as the atmosphere around me.

"Zawadi waited for you. She tried to be strong and mentioned you every single day but finally, she got tired of waiting. The doctors said it was malaria but I think you did this to her."

The guilt I lived with thereafter cut through my veins with every breath that I breathed. No one could fill the big void in my heart and today as I held another Zawadi, I promised that it would only be fair to let her live a life without me in it. So I decided to end it all and to avoid making her suffer, I figured that my decision to end my own life was sane enough. 

Image from Resplash by 

Edward Kucherenko