Under the baobab tree

Under the baobab tree

12 January 2016

They loved each other dearly and met under the baobab tree, just a few meters away from marshes that ended the land belonging to his family. She was dark, he was white. She was a native and he had all the rights. They did not belong together, this they knew was their social plight. Their hearts spoke a different law though. It was under the bough rich of leaves and sunshine that they carved their love in stolen letters. It was under the moon silent and blue that they met at the feet of the baobab tree.

 

One day his mother saw him sneak out. She figured what that was all about and soon there would be no rendez-vous. She gave him and other members of the family a piece of mind or two. Bewitched he must be, was their conclusion. She surely used sorcery some powerful infusion for she was black and small while he was tall, strong and white and their love, really, was not quite right. The county decided it was time this should stop and never again another lad to quit crop.

 

They say she screamed and begged for her life but they knew better. Her mouth sewn the cries shut would let them go about their holy task unfettered. She burnt brightly and though her flesh cringed and peeled not a tear nor a sigh eye and mouth revealed. When he heard he hastened broke all chains threw himself on the pyre embracing her remains. They tugged and tugged at his free arm but his body remained locked to hers by a charm. He died arm extended head flung to the skies and it was then that she released those cavernous sighs. Fire caught the baobab tree that hung near and ashes breathed into the night once the fire had cleared.

 

Years later at that very spot a curious couple of baobab trees grew tight as in a pot. When you look closely you can still see the stitches on her mouth and his arm extended his head flung back to shout. The blue skies shine bright and nourish them with light for now they are together and will remain so forever. On moonlit nights, you can hear her sighs plaintive and low like a baby’s cries.

Courtesy hystericalminds.com

 

Written for Friday Fiction with Ronovan writes prompt challenge. Rules and prompt here

Reading of the short story:  

Wind of Change – Scorpions

More than words – Extreme