- The village calls her WoMan; mother of crows. All day she sleeps. Rumours about dreams in daylight circulate.
- When evening falls, crows in large numbers come to roost, in her kitchen. Perturbed attest; theirs is a favoured colour. Beaks point to her book of wisdom, and in chorus they beg, “Marauders need a primer.” Her laughter unrestrained travels beyond valleys. Rivers pause, mountains tremble for they know her laughter is loaded. The village listens. She soothes her children, “It’s about time for a primer.”
- All night awake. She weaves a shawl. A mother is about to bury a son.
- In the morn, village congregates. News about the primer; a heavy subject to broach. A fly buzzes past and perches on the wall. Congregation muffled; accusatory exchange for WoMan can transform into many different forms.
- All day she sleeps. Protest of men digging graves hypnotise her. Wind wailing, mothers clutching scars where an umbilical chord was once attached, fail to revive.
- Crows are late. Moon already shines. WoMan adorned; beads to elicit a response. She stands before the sizzling fire. Iconic three-legged pot brews ingredients. In unison villagers sing and clap, drums intense to wake up the dead. In a trance she endures, heels digging the ground, and she spits alphabets to douse hazy red dust.
Words might be last to inhale
Before a dying man sighs
Note: When I heard of Witches in Fiction 2016 hosted by Magaly, I thought it a splendid idea and an opportunity to stretch my imagination. And boy, what a stretch! Hope the reader can connect and take something from it. If you’re in need of some healing, do drop by Magaly’s blog for a dose. 🙂