Akira
By Tamara Coleman
The man sat with blue cloth hunched over trying to birth a baby who didn’t seem to want to be born. She was a healthy baby, with lungs the size of sweet potatoes. They fueled her screams as she was slapped to life. When they laid her on her mother’s chest, they noticed the mark that covered her face. Her hair was light almost nonexistent, her eyes were big and green. She would have been a great beauty if it wasn’t for the shadow that covered half of her face.
Dima’s cries filled the room, not tears of joy that often came to a new mother, but heavy cries of fear. The sounds silenced by the storms that surrounded the city outside, Dima didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse that the baby was born during one of the few rainstorms of the desert. She caressed the face of the small babe whispering to Allah why her burdens had to be written for everyone to immediately notice. She herself was no great beauty, but she prayed that her daughter would be, her own scars hidden from wandering eyes.
“To be a girl in this world ,my aziza, is no easy task,. It is best if you are beautiful.,” she whispers between trickles of grief.
Dima wept for seven days after the birth. Her husband tried to console her. Her tears were fat and seemed to grow as they fell to the floor. The droplets filled the area surrounding her bed, but the man who birthed the baby wasn’t alarmed by this. He said that it was common for some mothers to weep after birth. She locked herself into her bedroom and didn’t let anyone in, unable to look at the babe. Her cries carried on through the days and nights, never ending as though she didn’t have time to breathe. She didn’t hold the baby during these days, unknowing if the creature that lay in the crib was human. On the seventh day, her husband pressed his ear to the door.
“Dima?” Asem asked;.
There was no response. He found the door unlocked and when it opened, a flood of water came pouring out. It covered the apartment and nearly put them all under. Asem, whose name means protector, went to save the unnamed baby who lay in her crib. It took hours and all the neighbors help to dispose of the water in the home. When it was all out, Asem left the child with his sister and went to find his wife. He found her on the bed, where she seemed to him like a dried fish. She had drowned in her own tears. He watched as the birthmark he’d never noticed on her arm faded.
He heard voices behind him and grabbed one of his wife’s scarves from the dresser and placed it over her hair, making sure every strand was covered before the men could see it.
Dima seemed to glow, her skin deathly pale but gleaming in the desert sun. The men fawned over her.
Their hearts drawn to the sight of her. Instead of burying her like tradition instructed, the men demanded that she be displayed in the town square. She stayed there for years with no signs of deterioration.
The baby, who remained nameless, was taken to see her mother every day. Her father never came with her on these visits, unable to bear looking at the woman he once called his wife. He gave up his nameless child to the care of his sister and went off to marry another woman only days after the men pinned Dima up like an idol. After a few years with no name, the people began to refer to her as 'Akhira'', meaning lost one.
Khala Manal would tell Akhira stories of her mother, embellishing great adventures to quiet the three-year-old’s squawks. Akhira would sit in front of her mother’s display and talk eagerly about the tales. The men, still drawn to Dima’s ethereal beauty, would come listen to the small toddler spin tales of magic carpets and Jinni. Soon it became a tradition of the town to reserve an hour each day to visit the corpse of the young mother.
Many began to pray to her. It had been years since she’d passed and they saw her lack of deterioration as a sign of Allah’s blessing. They revered her as a Saint or Kadees. Akhira would hide behind the corpse during the praying hour wanting to listen to the words the people would confide to her mother. She wept at the tragedies. Water was not in abundance in the village.
“My boy, Kadees, he is dying, his skin is so pale and dry. There is no more water. Please bring us the rain.” Akhira had heard one of the women say with tear-stained cheeks to her mother. That night the three-year-old sat in the cloak of night and willed for the drops to come.
The people rejoiced when the storm came the following day, many would stand under the water, as though the showers would purify them, washing away the death that hovered over their shoulders. Dima’s name meant ‘downpour’ from that day forward and for years to come, they credited the rainfall to her. Every time the crops would start to dry they would go to the shrine of Kadees Dima and pray. The rain would come unknowingly, by the will of the small creature hidden behind corpse limbs.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tamara Coleman is a senior at the University of Houston studying Creative Writing and Middle Eastern History. She dreams in magical realism and writes fairytales on scraps of paper and restaurant napkins. She is grateful for her studies in the humanities for giving her knowledge of the world and all its secrets for her inspiration.
By Tamara Coleman
The man sat with blue cloth hunched over trying to birth a baby who didn’t seem to want to be born. She was a healthy baby, with lungs the size of sweet potatoes. They fueled her screams as she was slapped to life. When they laid her on her mother’s chest, they noticed the mark that covered her face. Her hair was light almost nonexistent, her eyes were big and green. She would have been a great beauty if it wasn’t for the shadow that covered half of her face.
Dima’s cries filled the room, not tears of joy that often came to a new mother, but heavy cries of fear. The sounds silenced by the storms that surrounded the city outside, Dima didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse that the baby was born during one of the few rainstorms of the desert. She caressed the face of the small babe whispering to Allah why her burdens had to be written for everyone to immediately notice. She herself was no great beauty, but she prayed that her daughter would be, her own scars hidden from wandering eyes.
“To be a girl in this world ,my aziza, is no easy task,. It is best if you are beautiful.,” she whispers between trickles of grief.
Dima wept for seven days after the birth. Her husband tried to console her. Her tears were fat and seemed to grow as they fell to the floor. The droplets filled the area surrounding her bed, but the man who birthed the baby wasn’t alarmed by this. He said that it was common for some mothers to weep after birth. She locked herself into her bedroom and didn’t let anyone in, unable to look at the babe. Her cries carried on through the days and nights, never ending as though she didn’t have time to breathe. She didn’t hold the baby during these days, unknowing if the creature that lay in the crib was human. On the seventh day, her husband pressed his ear to the door.
“Dima?” Asem asked;.
There was no response. He found the door unlocked and when it opened, a flood of water came pouring out. It covered the apartment and nearly put them all under. Asem, whose name means protector, went to save the unnamed baby who lay in her crib. It took hours and all the neighbors help to dispose of the water in the home. When it was all out, Asem left the child with his sister and went to find his wife. He found her on the bed, where she seemed to him like a dried fish. She had drowned in her own tears. He watched as the birthmark he’d never noticed on her arm faded.
He heard voices behind him and grabbed one of his wife’s scarves from the dresser and placed it over her hair, making sure every strand was covered before the men could see it.
Dima seemed to glow, her skin deathly pale but gleaming in the desert sun. The men fawned over her.
Their hearts drawn to the sight of her. Instead of burying her like tradition instructed, the men demanded that she be displayed in the town square. She stayed there for years with no signs of deterioration.
The baby, who remained nameless, was taken to see her mother every day. Her father never came with her on these visits, unable to bear looking at the woman he once called his wife. He gave up his nameless child to the care of his sister and went off to marry another woman only days after the men pinned Dima up like an idol. After a few years with no name, the people began to refer to her as 'Akhira'', meaning lost one.
Khala Manal would tell Akhira stories of her mother, embellishing great adventures to quiet the three-year-old’s squawks. Akhira would sit in front of her mother’s display and talk eagerly about the tales. The men, still drawn to Dima’s ethereal beauty, would come listen to the small toddler spin tales of magic carpets and Jinni. Soon it became a tradition of the town to reserve an hour each day to visit the corpse of the young mother.
Many began to pray to her. It had been years since she’d passed and they saw her lack of deterioration as a sign of Allah’s blessing. They revered her as a Saint or Kadees. Akhira would hide behind the corpse during the praying hour wanting to listen to the words the people would confide to her mother. She wept at the tragedies. Water was not in abundance in the village.
“My boy, Kadees, he is dying, his skin is so pale and dry. There is no more water. Please bring us the rain.” Akhira had heard one of the women say with tear-stained cheeks to her mother. That night the three-year-old sat in the cloak of night and willed for the drops to come.
The people rejoiced when the storm came the following day, many would stand under the water, as though the showers would purify them, washing away the death that hovered over their shoulders. Dima’s name meant ‘downpour’ from that day forward and for years to come, they credited the rainfall to her. Every time the crops would start to dry they would go to the shrine of Kadees Dima and pray. The rain would come unknowingly, by the will of the small creature hidden behind corpse limbs.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tamara Coleman is a senior at the University of Houston studying Creative Writing and Middle Eastern History. She dreams in magical realism and writes fairytales on scraps of paper and restaurant napkins. She is grateful for her studies in the humanities for giving her knowledge of the world and all its secrets for her inspiration.
