Lloyd Lutara
Francine packs her things; frantically, teary-eyed, her hands shaking. She has to leave, she can’t wait, she has to breathe. Smoke creeps in from under the door, the flames will soon follow. This house, this house that’s no longer a home, is burning, burning down.
A little girl sits in the corner watching her: kaweke hair, yellow dress with red flowers and a pair of dirty Bata shoes.
“Make sure your shoes are always polished,” Mummy said but Francine always forgot and got two canes whenever she did. “But why do I need to polish them if they’re only going to get dirty?” She asked one day and collected two more canes for asking too many questions, for being too big-headed, for being too damn stubborn.
Francine stares down at her wedding ring; what’s the point of this anymore, is there one besides trying to prove her mother wrong? She set out to break cycles and wound up with a broken heart instead.
Mummy had told her to think twice, that love doesn’t pay the rent, that marriage was hard enough without starting off in the red but Francine didn’t want to listen – “Just because your marriage failed doesn’t mean mine will too.”
And now see where she was: big-headed Francine heading back home to collect her two more canes.
Google how many marriages end in divorce and it’s a pandemic.
Google how many marriages are ended by women and we need a vaccine.
Google why women end marriages and it’s because they’re unhappy.
Google what makes women unhappy and it’s finances, fidelity and an overall feeling of “What the fuck man, this isn’t what I signed up for.”
Though not necessarily in that order.
Lying on her stomach, Little Francine reaches under the bed for a shoe brush. She doesn’t care much about the dust, she’s already spilt kwencha across its front and her dress was due for a wash anyway. She plucks one shoe off a stockinged foot and starts to brush.
Shush-shush-shush-shush-shush-shush-shush.
The sound of the brush gets Francine’s attention. So studious, so determined:
Imma brush these shoes until they shine like the sun. Imma brush away the dirt, Imma brush away the pain… Yeah, ladies is pimps too so imma go and brush ma shoulders off.
A grim smile.
God she loved that dress. She wore it everywhere until it was stained and threadbare. Until her mother couldn’t stand the sight of it until she had to throw it out. Francine had screamed bloody murder the day she couldn’t find it. She had been a hissing hell cat, it didn’t matter her mother had gotten her a brand new one – powder blue with frills – that rag of a dress was the last thing Daddy gave her before Mummy left him.
Shush-shush-shush-shush-shush-shush-shush.
Did she owe it another try? Not to prove her mother wrong but to prove her heart right. But what about all the broken pieces of said crystal heart? She could brush those up too. There’s nothing a bottle of glue can’t do. But what about the fire? It was tearing through the house and would blast through the door any second. Love might not be able to pay the rent but maybe it can put out a fire.
Shush-shush-shush-shush-shu —
Francine stops the little girl from brushing. Silently puts her shoe back on. Pulls her to her feet and takes her by her little hand. Little Francine looks up at her, questioning.
Seeing the question, Francine makes one last decision and squeezing the little girl’s hand, drags her toward the window.
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