When she was wailing, the space she inhabited turned completely white — the absence of life colorless, blinding, enveloping her without warning. Her voice would start out melodious and honeyed, especially when she talked about the life of the dead. But it would gradually become a cry, then a wail, then simply a hiss, a whisper of sorrow, and by then she would have stirred waves of tender blue-black into the ears of the mourners, and it would take them hours before they would let her paint them with yellow again.
Although Weyzero Fantish was a woman afflicted by many sorrows, she also loved life deeply. Mourning was what she did best, and she wanted to do it because everyone deserved to be mourned for, to be longed for, and the seed of sorrow she planted in her mourners’ hearts always loomed larger and more intricate, and would come back to her in the shape of kindness and kinship.
As she caught up with Amare again, Weyzero Fantish realized he hadn’t yet told anyone of her death. She passed through him and quickly walked three steps ahead of him. He was headed back to their house and his face was black with anger, something she hadn’t seen in him in a while. He summoned the maid and lashed out at her about random things: she had not cleaned the house yet, lunch was not yet ready, and had she heard from his mother today? He was too irascible to notice the tears on the maid’s sullen face. Behind her was an ocean of tears, the somber faces of neighboring women outside already dressed in black, their netelas turned upside down to mourn his mother.
He still seemed to not understand.
The maid did not respond, but nodded quietly at his requests.
“You will clean the house!” he shouted. “For lunch, you will cook misir wot,” which his mother loved, “and you will brew some buna before early evening!”
He was not to be disturbed, and nobody was to enter his mother’s bedroom.
The women looked at him without uttering a word, though they were whispering among themselves, and he failed to see it then too: the brownish stain of pity, leaking slowly through their bodies and attaching itself onto his. It was nauseating.
He walked into his mother’s room and shut the door. He didn’t realize it would be this difficult to breathe, and the air surrounding him seemed to grow thicker and creamier, and the terrifying feeling of someone choking him arrested his whole body and sent it into convulsions. The shaking became stronger, and only then did he see the colors: a pale burgundy, a spongy yellow, and something of a purple blemish, all spiraling toward him with the force of Nehase winds, taking over his body quickly. It entered his limbs at first, then nested in his abdomen, filling his chest with multiple explosions, and finally sputtered from the sides of his mouth into a snowy foam. His eyes dimmed as he fell onto the ground, and though the thump was loud and clear, the women had been instructed to stay away from him, so he was left alone — alone with his spiraling clouds.
The husky corn plants of Yerer Ber painted a sea of blue-green in the early morning and dark gray at night. Their corpulent arms were constantly in motion, as if breathing heavily at the smallest hush of wind. The neighborhood was at its busiest in the evening; the local tella and tej bet were just opening, the corner suk was filled with children buying bread and sparkling water, and people were walking quickly through the mud back into their homes. But the fields were at their quietest: there was no sun shining on their glowing skin, no forceful wind breathing on their hairy necks. The moon was not bright enough to expose their flesh, and their fruit was stolen by schoolchildren. The hyenas were not yet hiding their hunchbacked bodies in the corners of the field, and shepherds had not found shelter underneath their frocks. In that moment, everything was still in the fields, a peaceful moment before the night descended unhurriedly.
Weyzero Fantish followed the detective to a local tella bet, but she didn’t dare cross the threshold of the establishment, mostly because she did not want to see or hear the lustful conversations of men inebriated with sweet honey and in the company of masinko music from azmari. She waited for him outside, but was quickly distracted by the chatter of two women on a side street; one was selling fire-roasted corn, the other vegetables arranged in small bundles.
They talked rapidly, as if they’d already rehearsed the conversation. Their gossip was sweet, like the aroma of boiled eucalyptus, yet venomous, like a pint of senafich accidentally inhaled through the nose. Nonetheless, Weyzero Fantish realized she already missed this, this unhealthy camaraderie between townspeople. There was something ignoble yet necessary about these kinds of hushed-up conversations, mostly because they brought embarrassment to the subjects of the chatter, and an unyielding sense of belonging to the gossipers — Weyzero Fantish used to be one of them.
The women spoke swiftly, selling their merchandise to passersby, unbothered in their exchange. It took awhile for Weyzero Fantish to realize they were actually talking about her, something about poison and a neighboring lover.
“And the gun?” one of the women said.
The other shrugged her shoulders.
“Igziabher bicia new yemiyawkew. God only knows what the gun is for. Her son found her in her sleep. It was already past midday, and he was up and running.”
“Poor boy, what did he do?”
“Nothing. He didn’t do anything, he didn’t even cry.”
“Endet? Malkes ’ema yighebawal. He must cry. He must.”
That stuck with her more than the poison. She did not know the truth yet but found herself longing for the boy already, the son she hadn’t even realized she had lost until the women brought it up. Weyzero Fantish walked back to her home slowly, her shadow making its way through the wet mud, as a light drizzle started to pour unceremoniously on the neighborhood. She saw everything: the eyes of men wandering to women who were not their own, the listero, the shoe shiners stealing from customers, the suk owners raising prices on small items such as gum and soap, the taxi drivers heading back home, hunchbacked and starved. She saw this, and yet she saw nothing.
Her house was drenched in heavy orange, as if engulfed entirely in flame, its roof spiking into a razor ice-blue. She did not want to enter, but a thin sliver of grayness removed itself from its walls and rested beneath her shadow, her tall figure succumbing to grief. She followed it inside: women were busying themselves, their chatter buzzing in her ears. They were quick and efficient in their actions because they had done this many times before. They cooked, cleaned, and tended to guests dropping by to pay their respects, mostly people of the neighborhood speaking of Weyzero Fantish in dewy and sugary voices.
Weyzero Fantish looked at no one in particular and left them, her shadow now moist with a cobalt veil. She entered her bedroom and sat beside her body. Her oak dresser was still in its place, her barciuma just as she’d left it in the corner, her four pairs of shoes aligned neatly by the doorway. That was when she saw him: his arms limp, his head tilted to the side, his body dried up like a fig.