The Troubled Mrs Ann ( fiction)

I recalled the day I saw Mrs Ann cry for the first time. She sat by the hearth and looked away through the window. She sobbed as tears welled up in her eyes. She then could no longer suppress and wailed out loud. She wished the earth would open up and swallow her. The tears rolled on as if forever, like rivulets meandering through soft sands after a downpour. Her man had left her and gone away.

I stood dumbfounded. The mental faculty of a ten year old could not comprehend what is to be done in such an awkward moment. But I sure knew life would never be the same again for her from that moment on.

Mrs Ann never remained the same since that day. Being abandoned shakes your trust and faith, which never could be rebuilt again. Something snapped in her and it sometime seemed she hated herself. Her self worth had sunk. The shame and the stigma made her bitter and cold. She became so cold no sign of affection could I get from her since that day.

All the love she had metamorphosed into hate. The hate was all consuming. And the very reason for her existence was a steely resolve borne of bitterness, hate and self-loathing. It numbed her and could never again feel or relate her emotions to anything around her.

She became depressed and nothing existed for her besides her job, her garden and the fowls she kept. She looked after her children's education, food and shelter. She sent them to a school so that they could be far away from her. She wanted her children faraway from the hurt, the tears and the shame she had to confront everyday of her life.

From that day there was a part of her that I could never see, feel or understand anymore. There was a part of her that was out of bounds for all. A part where she kept all her emotions locked up.

Sometimes when she finds the shame too much to bear she would sob silently at night. She would hide away the trace of a tear if her children would wake up from their sleep and ask her what was wrong. On some days a dark cloud would hover over her and she would seem lost in some place where I never could reach her.

The problem with nurturing hurt is that it kills all capacity to care, love, be tender or empathise. It fills your heart with negative emotions that nothing else could exist besides that. It became a weed in the garden of emotion and feelings.

The well of her misery was filled to the brim with the mud and slush of human apathy and ridicule. The more she remembered her hurt the more she became embittered and devoid of the ability of showing any kind of compassion. The human touches of a Mrs Ann vanished forever.

Soon there was nothing left of Mrs Ann. One summer morning before school time, the bell of the church tolled. Everyone wondered who it would have been who had passed away. There in the courtyard of Mrs Ann, from the branch of a mango tree hung the lady in her finest bridal wear.


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