Bow to Enter Heaven and Other Stories

By Hadassah Louis

A collection of five stories explore the fragility of dreams. Prodding, oh so careful, just how far one must bend their back to catch a glimpse of heaven.

Bikuna has no womb – a woman with no belly button. [Zimbiro]

Chenda becomes Chanda – refugee hidden in plain sight. [Bow to Enter Heaven]

Umweo is a taloned god – judge of the world's sins. [Umweo's Talon]

Ntalwe feasts on flesh – gory dinners on a seabed of guilt.  [Secrets of the Sea]

Dane, king of rocks, longs for glittered valleys – fall he must, to know his place.[The Greylings Quest]

All must bow to enter heaven. The short fiction stories have elements of fantasy and some draw on real life experiences. The adventure is at least 100 pages in length.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hadassah Louis
• Release date: Dec 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393224037

Hadassah Louis

At the age of nine, inspired by adventures in the Odyssey of Homer, Hadasah Louis set out to write worlds inspired by gods and human fallacy. She graduated Summa Cum Laude in BA Journalism and is part of 2018 Femrite Regional Residency for African female writers and also the Mawazo ‘Write the Novel’ class.  She is founder of SAFIGI Foundation and Digital Grassroots, a Mozilla Open Leader, 2019 Internet Freedom Festival fellow, and an Atlantic Fellow for Social and Economic Equity. She is a ghostwriter who decided being a ghost is no fun at all. Tweet her @hadassahlouis

Book preview

PREFACE

Traveler. Let us go on a journey, shall we? On the way, we will meet five! Each has their adventure and some of them might kill you.

First in line is Chenda. A small dark girl in an oversized dress. She does not notice the porridge smeared on her uniform or that her kinky hair could use a comb. We go far away from the noise of guns to a boarding school hidden away from civilization. Here, Chenda becomes Chanda – refugee hidden in plain sight. [Bow to Enter Heaven]

Dane, king of rocks, longs for glittered valleys – fall he must, to know his place. He is the second we meet. Vain ambition and youth have led him astray. Will he ever find a way home, when he leaves the coarse mountain for the glitters of gold?   [The Greylings Quest]

Our third encounter is with Ntalwe. The table is set. There are familiar faces around the table and on the plate. Ntalwe feasts on flesh – gory dinners on a seabed of guilt.  [Secrets of the Sea]

The planet Venus has some secrets to tell us too. It is not certain whether all secrets should be believed, especially when they allow the oceans to float as sky. Umweo is a taloned god – judge of the world’s sins. Our fourth guest shall pay. [Umweo’s Talon]

Come along. Fast now, we cannot miss this. There is an angry woman you have to meet at last. She stands immersed in a livid river. On one side are the people whose love she vies for. They hate her. On the other shore is a pale man who always carries a red book. She hates him. Bikuna has no womb – a woman with no belly button has no friends.  [Zimbiro]

Each journey, oh traveler, is a self-examination. There are five stories, each exploring the fragility of dreams. Prodding, oh so careful, just how far one must bend their back to catch a glimpse of heaven.

Hadassah Louis

BOW TO ENTER HEAVEN

"I f I could ask why , would you answer?

You are still here, yet I cannot ask.

Why did we not get closer?

I was never a love child, oh I know.

I was born in a time of lack or you'd have me believe it was so.

Still, you carried me and swaddled me in warm clothes.

After a while, I refused your milk. I didn't deserve to fatten while you suffered.

Fatten I did, however.

We moved from land to land.

I spoke five languages by the age of five, none to perfection.

What was the need for perfection when bombs hailed from the sky?

When guns drove us from our planet of mangroves and coconuts?

The grenades fell. They distorted our birthright.

Blood was shed.

Many of whose names will never be etched on a plaque of remembrance.

Yet we survived, each of us, a family, together.

So mother, tell me, why aren't we close?

Father, answer, why do you take me to a place far away from you?"

Chenda's Diary, 28 Jan 1994 -

The song of the river bird reminded me of a place. It was a place far gone in the depths of my darkest memories. My short fingers tingled at the cold feel of the brown murky water against my murkier skin. A crocodile basked in the sun, its mouth wide open and inviting, just enough to snuggle my young body there. Our overcrowded canoe was far enough not to worry. Even if we toppled over, I was not the fattest aboard. Still, I nudged at my tight cornrows in concern; the young are the juiciest to be had when it came to crocodiles and war. I gazed ahead. Those were days past. Those were songs to be forgotten.

That night, we docked by a fisherman village. There was no fish for us. Encamped around a blazing brazier in a shallow mud hut, my mother fried plantains on a flattened cola tin. The fried bananas would have to go with sweetened maize pulp though the two are not normally eaten together as a meal. None the matter, the heavy food would fill our hungry bellies. My father was gone for the night – most likely gutting fresh fish somewhere. He had to pay for our temporal stay and passage tomorrow. He had to pay to provide. I was uncertain he had eaten at all in a day.

Chenda. Chenda. My mother called me in a hushed punitive voice.

I lifted my head in response. My hands were sleek with pulp to the elbow; a black pot caked with burnt maize-meal residue lay assaulted at my feet. She tossed three cooked plantains onto my open palms. Though scalding hot, I wolfed them down. They singed my tongue and I was happier for it. It had been a long time since I'd felt fire in my veins - even longer before natural sweetness had blessed my taste-buds.

Chenda, tomorrow things will be different. In the gloom, only the white of my mother's eyes showed. When she spoke, her teeth glowed in the firelight. Do you understand?

Yes, mother. My voice was squirmy. I was not afraid. Fear never helped in the face of imminent danger. ‘If you're afraid, the crocodiles will knock you off the boat,' my aunt had warned me while in the canoe. She had gone ahead with my siblings, and my mother will be meeting up with them on the morrow. Not me. Still, I knew, crocodiles also existed outside the water. I should not be afraid or they would devour me.

We have prepared everything. You will have to remember one thing-

My name is Che—Chanda. Chanda. My name is Chanda.

Good. She hugged me lightly. Take care, now.

I felt her embrace withdraw from me like fire put out. Thereafter, I cleaned up by smearing the excess porridge on my hands onto the sweater, snuck out into the darkness to pee in the bananas, and scampered back half-dressed when a stray leaf touched my thigh. Back in the hut, I retired to a dark corner and rested next to the one who birthed me. Latent on a bed of palm leaves, under a blanket of sacks, I attempted a smile and faltered. My mother was already snoring loudly. I nudged her. She stopped for a minute and then snored even louder than before. I exhaled deeply. Irritating noise at night was far better than eternal silence.

Sleep did not come easy. The night chill seized my bones and thoughts plagued my mind. Discomfiture had me tossing and turning. The sack chaffed my skin. I did not know when I shut my eyes but when I opened them, it was morning. For all my restlessness, I did not chance to see my mother leave. I would not see her in a while. My father was in her place instead, clad in a polished suit. It was cheap, judging by the cuffs but it was the best I'd seen him wear in a long time. The clacking of his shoes was what woke me up. Otherwise, his presence was gentle and demeanor silent. His knuckles were white from lack of moisturizing lotion, and his eyes droopy from a night without sleep. He was inspecting our meager belongings when he noticed I was awake.

Twenty minutes, Chende. We're off, he said in greeting. Twenty. Twenty.

My feet were moving before my brain. I rushed outside, only to be swallowed by the stench of the river. It hit me with a pang. The contents of my stomach threatened to revolt. I reminded myself I did not have the luxury to throw up food already hard to come by. I scanned the area. The village was stirring and fishermen were everywhere, towing their nets onto canoes, washing in the brown water, and preparing for the days catch. The fishmongers were not out yet. In a few hours perhaps.

The bright line on the horizon told me it was shy past five. The morning gloom did little to reassure me. My bladder wasn't quite full and I couldn't get myself to wash in the dirty water. I returned to the hut. My father was not in it so I quickly changed. It was not like there was a need to take off my clothes. I simply put the long grey frock over my sweater and skirt. The square headwrap, which was a deep grey and cotton white, went over my cornrows. I did not see it at the time but I appeared unkempt. My face was white from dryness, I had sleep discharge at the corner of my eyes and