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An Eye That Listens
11/06/2019
Story: KWASI 'SEI
She throws her hands wildly about as she does when she
is angrily speaking to me, like an octopus thrashing in
the throes of death whilst drowning in its natural
habitat.
"Why are the clothes not dry?" She asks concerning the fresh laundry I hung on the line. I don't know? Am I the sun? "It's because you didn't wash the clothes early. You should do the clothes first thing in the morning before anything else." As I will have done every day but for your numerous whims. Dɔŋkɔ, come and do this...Dɔŋkɔ, come and do that. So many this/that, this/that, this/that.
"Ah! Now the clothes will smell." Cut off your nose. It won't be that bad then.
"I hate this. It should never happen again." Tell that to the confused weather...Rain. Shine. Rain. Shine. Rain. Shine. I don't talk back. I only nod. I can't talk back. You can't bite the hand that feeds you. You lick it like a faithful dog. Me, I lick with my tongue, but I don't follow with my mind. I can be a dog, but I can't be faithful. I get to keep my mind. In there, I can be real because I occupy it alone.
"What are you waiting for? Take the clothes off the line and make sure you spread them out on the chairs in the corridor." Try not to look like a big tomato. Her lips are painted red. Her eyelids as well. She's also powdered red blushes onto her cheek bones. She's in a red dress. The dress alone is beautiful, but the dress on her body is an eyesore. She's the shape of a bag of American rice. But she already has a boyfriend so her fat doesn't matter to her anymore. After all, she's found what she is looking for. She can afford to have a loud mouth and look down on everyone. Even worse, she supports all her weight on heels with tips like pencils. I make myself busy with taking down the clothes and folding them neatly into a basket.
Queen Bee moves towards the kitchen. Each clop of her heels sends vibrations across the ground through my feet and up my body. Her walking assaults the earth. I half imagine the ground swallow her whole for burdening it with so much weight. The other half of my mind actually sees it happening or wills it into being, for she lifts her right foot a little too low at the threshold of the kitchen and stumbles. In the breath-stealing space of a second, her arms flail as she struggles to grab anything in reach as support to restore her balance. She only manages to secure a tuft of air.
She does a wobbly dance and seems to find a steady footing at last. But she, unfortunately, loses to the unhealthy mass of her upper body and crashes to the floor. The resultant effect is like that of an elephant falling to the ground. I have to spread out my feet to keep myself balanced as the shockwaves spread through the earth like the beginnings of an earthquake. She remains on the floor. I don't move to help. I just watch her. My heart thumps hard in my chest with the excitement of seeing my enemy fall by her own weight. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three heartbeats. That's all it takes for her to recover from her shame.
She waves me over to help her rise. I drop the blouse in my hand into the basket. Walking over to the unsightly mass of her body, I take her right hand gently and pull her up. I can't contain my glee. I don't realise my lips are spread apart in a soundless laugh. She hits me across the face and yells curses at me, globules of spittle flying at me like well-aimed missiles. I don't hear much of what she says. I am able to at least pick up 'Kwasia' and 'Aboa fooŋ'. She calls me a fool and a carcass. Not too bad: she's called me worse things. I don't move. I don't talk back. I am an appropriate-sized vent for her anger. She blows as much steam as she finds satisfying through me.
Then I return the stream of her steam back at her. Ugly. Witch. Pig. Good-for-nothing. I can only scream these in my mind, though. I wish they can come out of my lips. But they can't. Up until the last ten years, they might have erupted from my lips like hot lava from a volcano on an unrestrained path to destruction. I don't however have that ability now. I am silence, both to myself and to others.
She turns to leave into the main house. My eyes travel to her shoes. She takes two ungainly steps. She should take that as a cue to take off the pointy heels, but whether out of pride or defiance, she doesn't. She is bent on proving that she can strut on high heels, even if her audience is only the house boy. She fails miserably at her performance. As sudden as the crack of thunder on a stormy night, the tip of the right stiletto snaps clean off, bringing her sprawling to the floor a second time. Her fall is so heavy this time, I am sure of two things: it would have sounded as loud as thunder, and, that right ankle has at least suffered a sprain. Both theories are confirmed in the next minute.
Queen Bee's younger sister rushes into the kitchen with worry finding a snug home on her face to find out what is going on. This proves that the fall might have been as loud as I thought. Queen Bee grips her right ankle, wincing in pain. The sprain certainly didn't decline the invitation either. Queen Bee's sister takes a look at the ankle. She massages it gently. Queen Bee cries frankly now. I can't help but feel a stab of pity for her. I try to shrink the puncture pity has made in my heart. I don't want to feel pity for her. I don't love her. She reminds me every day that I am not part of her family. I never wanted to be part anyway. But...life makes its own choices for our lives.
Theirs is a family of four. Father passed away four years ago. Mother is still alive. She still grieves. Eldest daughter is Agyeiwaa. I call her Queen Bee. She's conceited and rude. She despises everyone even though she has nothing but fat to boast of. The second daughter is Pɔmaah. She was the sweetest some years back. Now she's locked herself up in her room refusing to see anyone. She opens her door once every three days to my knocks to receive her food. The black of her eyes are deep pits filling up slowly with sadness. I call her Sad Snail.
The last daughter is the one fussing over Bee's ankle this moment. She's smallish and cute, with a face as round as an orange. She looks innocent and naïve, just sixteen, and she treats me like a brother. I love her most. She's adorable. She's Sɛɛwaa, my Fluffy Rabbit. Sɛɛwaa speaks soothingly to her sister. We support her to the living room, where we leave her resting in an armchair. Sɛɛwaa props up the ailing foot with two pillows. I find some ice cubes from the freezer which I wrap in a napkin and hand over to Agyeiwaa. Ice presses will do her pain much good. Sɛɛwaa encourages her to relax. Then she clutches my right hand and leads me out. We have to go to Ernest Chemist to get something for her ankle, at least a topical pain killer and a bandage, anything that will be good for the healing. We walk out together, closing the gate behind us.
Agyeiwaa is crying, not only because of the pain in her ankle; she's crying more because it happened on her birthday. She had woken up today announcing to the whole world that it was her birthday. She had even stood at the balcony, clad in nothing but her morning gown, and screamed a reminder of her birthday to the impatient streets of Adabraka. She had asked her mother Auntie Aggie, who had left early to the hairdresser's (because she was getting slim braids which could possibly take the whole day), not to return without a gift for her. And she had been sitting out the day waiting for her boyfriend, who she was hundred per cent sure would arrive to surprise her. Whoever expects a surprise? The only surprises she has received so far are birthday wishes from the floor.
That's why she has been in a red dress and heels. She has to look good for her boyfriend. I have seen her boyfriend before. He's the kind of man you get when you've turned thirty-four and you still don't have a ring on your finger. I call him Loose-tooth Agbɛko. He has an incisor which sticks out so that he's never able to close his mouth completely. The tooth, on a casual look, seems to be falling from its socket. I bet it will one day fall into her mouth when they are kissing. Maybe when the pastor announces "You may kiss the bride" at their wedding. It will be an interesting sight to see. Thinking through, I don't think their lips will even touch. Agbɛko's nose is so big, it will take a lot of manoeuvring to get it out of the way to allow their lips to touch.
Sɛɛwaa and I get into a taxi, the kind that works like trɔtrɔ. We take the back seat. There's one more space available for a passenger. An elderly man has the front seat. The next pharmacy is at least four more stops away. Sɛɛwaa speaks to me. Normally, I listen by reading. My eyes work far better than my ears. I do that best when I am facing the speaker. I read lips, emotions and gestures and put them together to form the statements I should be hearing. I usually get them right. Sɛɛwaa is sitting to my side. I won't get much from her. So I take to nodding intermittently to give her the impression that I am listening to her talk and rather simulate a mock conversation with her in my mind.
"Why do you talk to me?"
"Because you listen."
"I do? My ears stick out for nothing. They don't pick any sound."
"But we don't listen with our ears, we listen with our attention. And you are the only one who gives that to me."
"I am your houseboy. You feed me to give you my attention."
"Besides, you don't talk back. You don't rebuke me, or advise me, or judge me. I am safe with you."
"I don't talk back because I can't talk. If I had a functioning mouth, I will have rebuked you and advised you and judged you. I will have told you that you are wasting your life. You talk to me only because I am a listening wall."
At home she is innocent and naïve. At school, in the boarding house, she's the devil. Her father was a teetotaller, her mother same, and yet she's learnt to master the art of overdrinking. She can quaff gallons. She doesn't study at school because she was forced to choose General Science by her parents, and she hates it. She broke her virginity as a birthday gift for her fifteenth birthday. Since then, she's allowed more boys in. She tells me virginity is only broken once. So once the passage down there is open you might as well allow more cars to go through. It doesn't make any difference because it's already opened anyway.
I wish I could exhort her. I love her like a sister. She's losing herself to bad choices. If I could speak, would she listen? Would my voice make any meaning? In this world, people are dumb, not by virtue of disease, but by virtue of class. If a poor person screams, it's only heard as a whimper. A rich man need only whisper, and his views are heard. Our opinions after all are only as powerful as our place in the society.
The taxi stops to pick up a passenger. A man in an oversized coat with a head the shape of a bicycle seat squeezes into the back seat such that I am pushed closest to the left door, and Sɛɛwaa is in between us. The passenger is visibly excited. He murmurs what seems to be a greeting to which only the elderly man in the front seat responds. He doesn't mind at all. His glee resembles that of a man who has just received a 'yes' from a girl he's proposed to. He whisks out a phone and a scratch card with ten cedis worth of airtime. He takes out a coin as well and meticulously scratches it, smiling all throughout. As he does that, Sɛɛwaa smiles mischievously at me and brings out her phone as well. It takes me a moment to realise what she is doing. Bringing her phone closer to her and turning it at an angle so that the screen is in the blind spot of the man, she begins to type in the digits on the scratch card as it is slowly revealed by the man's scratching coin. I watch in silence as she presses 'Enter', loading the stranger's credit.
The man now taps the digits on his phone, gingerly copying the scratch code. He double-checks to make sure he's gotten the code right. Then he licks his lips and hits enter.
Sɛɛwaa chats casually on her phone. I wait for the automated response. It arrives, 'The Recharge Voucher entered has already been used.' The man is taken aback. He keys in the recharge digits again. Then again and again till we reach our stop and alight. Sɛɛwaa...
I wait by the roadside as Sɛɛwaa enters Ernest. It's the largest and most patronized in Adabraka. Cars race past. A couple crosses the road from the side opposite me, arm-in-arm, giggling excitedly. A silver-haired elderly woman follows, supported by a walking stick and a young boy whom I presume to be her grandson. Meanwhile, a middle-aged man dressed smartly in a suit like a banker remains on the shoulder of the road. It's as though he's teetering on the border of a decision between crossing and not crossing. He walks towards the road and then retraces his steps. He does that about three times. He has the unmistakable hollow face of a person who has had his soul sucked out by sadness, just like Pɔmaah's; sweet Pɔmaah who lost her beautiful personality and all her happiness when she miscarried her second child, just like she did her first. Her husband brought her back home, with the hope that she will find joy again. He got her a doctor who comes to see her fortnightly. She's not been the same again.
A Caterpillar grows into view, charging towards us. For its size, it's coming really fast. The banker's gloomy gaze finds me. His eyes suddenly grow bigger like he's just seen a cartoon character come to life. The Caterpillar is very near. The man shuts his eyes and without warning, leaps into the street. I only have a moment to scream a soundless 'STOP!' as the truck smashes him and continues on. The driver must have been unaware that he had just been the facilitator of a suicide.
Sɛɛwaa touches my hand and breaks up my thoughts into meaningless fragments. She has returned from the pharmacy. I wonder whether she witnessed the accident. As a small crowd gathers around the mashed-up body, she guides me away from the gory scene. We flag a south-bound taxi and head home.
We arrive at the gate of the house that has been my home for the past ten years. I wasn't raised in Adabraka. I was raised in the small town of Kibi. I was a boy like every other. I was a truant at heart who would gladly choose chaskele over school. I'd throw stones at ripe mangoes and earn a handsome quantity for dessert. And I was the best at climbing coconut trees. The ringing in my ears started when I repeated Class Five. It was like a curse that was laid upon me as punishment for my naughtiness. First, it was in my left ear. It could ring so clearly, I would run out thinking it was break time. But I soon realised that I was the only one hearing the sounds. Soon my right ear had ringing sounds too. The sounds grew louder and louder till I realised my hearing was diminishing with the increasing ringing. My father was alarmed and frantic. We sought help from the hospital. The doctors at Kibi said we had to come to the city; there were special doctors who knew the ear better than anyone. Uncle Amaŋkwaah, in the city, agreed to help. He took me in and promised my parents he would find me the best health care. He tried, but my hearing gradually took leave of me and never returned. I lost confidence in my voice too. I could never determine whether I was speaking too loudly or too softly because I couldn't hear myself speak. I spoke less and less till I spoke no more.
Now, I am not sure whether I can speak or not. Uncle Amaŋkwaah took charge of my upkeep. I stayed here, in his house, and helped out with the housework and watched his children go to school. It wasn't a problem, I had a place to lay my head and food to eat. Even though he's dead now, I am okay. My aunt and cousins treat me more like a house boy than a relative, but that is not much of a problem. A deaf and dumb boy doesn't expect much from others. I have my mind to keep me company. I can always converse with myself, though it gets lonely sometimes in my head all alone.
We find Agyeiwaa in smiles. Her sprained foot lies across the laps of Agbɛko, her boyfriend. He gently massages it. He looks up when we walk into the living room. Laying Agyeiwaa's leg gently aside, he gets up to greet Sɛɛwaa with a hug and shakes my hand. He speaks to Sɛɛwaa. I can gather that he's talking about how much she's grown since the last time she saw her and a bit about school, the usual pleasantries.
"Now...here...I can cut the cake," Agyeiwaa says excitedly. She points to a large cake resting comfortably on the dining table, draped in pink icing with the message "Happy Birthday, Lovey".
"Get Pɔmaah," she says to me.
"Let's celebrate together." I look at Sɛɛwaa. She catches my eye and nods. I run upstairs and knock on Pɔmaah's door. Normally, I knock thrice on the door of any room I have to enter. I usually don't hear the response, but my hope is that by the third knock, whoever is in the room will be ready for my entry. My method has not always been fool-proof. Once, I walked in on Agyeiwaa when she was fastening her bra and she screamed so loud, I was almost accused of rape. On my third knock, I open the door gently to see Pɔmaah sitting still on the window sill, her back facing me. She does not turn to see who has entered. She just allows herself to fall. I scream. This time, I am sure sound escaped from my hitherto silent throat. I run to the window and look two floors down at the mess of hair, clothes, flesh and blood that is Pɔmaah. Sad Snail has hastened to her death.
I also see Aunt Aggie, hurrying in through the gate, returning from the hairdresser's. She drops her bag on the ground and moves in a half-run-half-leap manner to her daughter. She doesn't seem to mind that her wrapper is unravelling and falling off her waist. She shakes her awake, she shakes hard, but Pɔmaah remains dead. Then Aunt Aggie's eyes travel from her daughter's body to the window from which she fell. She looks at me. I look back at her. She has tears in her eyes, but I see something else - an accusation. She didn't see a suicide, she saw a murder.
*
The trial is swift and decisive. My guilt is decided upon. I read the judge's lips as he pronounces 'deaf' while sticking out a tongue in between his teeth at the 'f', forming rather 'death and dumb'. I laugh in my head. At least there's a reason to smile. Only God knows how my interpreter presented the defence I made to him through sign language. I didn't get to hear what he relayed. My lawyer, lent to me by the state, smiles when the guilty verdict is given as though that's what he had been fighting for. I have been pronounced guilty in a trial whose proceedings I only experienced by sight.
As I am handcuffed and walked down the aisle, I can see Aunt Aggie staring stolidly, her face an iron mask to hide her grief. Agbɛko's arms are around Agyeiwaa whose head is buried in his chest. It's not clear whether she is crying into his chest or hiding her mirth at ridding herself off me. Tears fall down the face of Sɛɛwaa. I know they are real tears. She was my only friend. I look through the court audience to see whether I can spot my family. They've been conspicuously missing throughout the trial period. I miss them dearly.
A woman sitting close to the aisle grips her newspaper tightly as I walk past. The headline reads 'DEAF MAN KILLS DEPRESSED WOMAN', as if the word 'deaf' puts me into another species of man that are killers by default. And depressed? My lawyer had told me that depression was tantamount to suicide. The truth about my innocence stares at everyone in that caption. No one, however, stares back. They believe what they want to believe.
As I am led to the waiting police van, a scene creeps to the fore of my mind; a wisp of memory from a consulting room. It's the last proper conversation I had before I became permanently deaf. I wonder how such a memory finds its way to my mind at a time as this. I guess I understand. My mind is the only friend I have to cheer me up.
"When did you begin to lose your 'earing?" the ear specialist had asked. "I have never worn ear rings," I had replied.