Char's Anger

Helena winced as pain from her knee ripped her breath away. The arthritis was getting worse, and she was tired of trying different curative solutions. Dragging herself to the door, she cursed, under her breath, the people who were responsible for the predicament of her and her family.

The aroma which wafted in once she opened the door calmed her down, and she eased away the frown as she didn’t want the children to see her worried. Her daughters were all she had since that day, five years ago, when her husband was taken away like a criminal and killed.

She had no proof of Marlon’s death, but the rumors had come from a reliable source. She knew she and her daughters were next, and the torturous acts were preamble to their arrest, and so she had fled with her children.

Her eyes were drawn to the setting sun, the myriad of colors doing more to douse the anger she still felt towards the villagers of Mutaka who had taken away her happiness and easy life.

Acknowledging her anger reminded her of one with a deeper, darker and yet well contained anger.
She looked across to the small construction which served as the kitchen, where her daughters, Charlotte, Anita and Marla, prepared dinner. They were growing up strong, the strongest of them undoubtedly Charlotte.

Source

Helena watched as her oldest daughter worked with her sisters like she was a Commander, her long hair doing nothing to deter her graceful and confident movement.

Helena was not fooled by Charlotte’s smiles and calm; she knew she was angry at everything.
She was angry at the villagers for barging into a perfect evening, angry at them for dragging away her father, and angry at Helena for not fighting back instead of running away, leaving behind most of their belongings and their life of ease.
If only she understood the whole story.

Looking at her now, in a faded pink gown which stopped mid-length of her calf, being sizes smaller, and her bare feet which she rarely shod in her favorite slippers which were also pink, Helena knew her daughter was unaware and unconcerned about how beautiful she was. Although she rarely smiled, Charlotte was a sight to behold. Her proud chin which looked perfectly sculptured, and her long lashes which fanned out on her cheekbones while she slept, gave her face the look of an angel, but she was a conquering angel.

Suitors only attempted once because the glare they received from Charlotte was enough to change their minds. Helena worried about her, and wished she’d settle for one

Her not-so-slim waist, her high bosom and toned but rounded hips left no doubt that she was a woman. The rest of her well toned body told of her strength.

After her escape with her children, Helena and Charlotte battled regularly, adding to the gray hairs on her head. Charlotte wanted freedom; freedom to learn how to fight – defend herself, she called it – and freedom to grow her hair to her waist, as her father had never allowed it grow past her shoulders, because that way she looked more like his mother, and freedom to demand to be called ‘Char’.

Charlotte won.

Just as Helena acknowledged pride in having such a strong young woman for a daughter, Char turned and caught her gaze, giving her one of her rare smiles which lit up her face, exposing hidden innocence.

“Dinner is almost ready, Ma,” She said, still smiling as she fanned the coals. “After dinner we do the stretches for your joints. I don’t like how you lean on the wall for support.”

Helena groaned and dragged herself back to her stool, to prepare her mind for the painful stretches awaiting her.

---

Char heard her mother groan and hid her smile of satisfaction.
She had seen the look in her mother’s eyes which told her she was worrying about her again. She knew she was also thinking about the past. She didn’t want to remember the past.

Char refused to be chased away from her home again.

She listened as the village leader spoke about the recent development which demanded that they evacuated the village, and grew angry at the cries of the villagers. Many of them in rags, as the call for the meeting pulled them from their farms and whatever work some of them did.

She noticed a woman trying to shush her baby who was obviously hungry. The eyes of the woman were sunk in; she was sure there was no milk left in the woman’s breast for her child.

Old Jose coughed loudly, in the corner, each cough taking him closer to his death.

All around her the people were suffering in their own home, and now they were being asked to leave.

Not again. Not while she was alive.

She raised her hand to speak before she could stop herself.

At the nod of the leader, Parlo, she rose to speak, trying unsuccessfully to suppress the anger surging within her. Unknown to her, her eyes blazed with rage.

“Are you really suggesting we leave the village for these foreigners? This is our home!” Ignoring the weak cheer from some of the villagers, she shook her head to calm herself.

“This is our home. You don’t leave your home for a stranger. The Rodriguez, my family and I, are going nowhere!”

“Charlotte Rodriguez!” Helena cautioned. Last time she checked, she was still the head of the family, and made the final decisions.

Char turned to her mother. “Ma, how far can you walk with the arthritis? How far can little Marla walk? Do we force Anita from another safe haven knowing how long it took for her nightmares to cease?”

She said this hiding the fact that she still had nightmares of her own.

Slowly, her mother sat back down, proving to Charlotte that she needed to be strong for her family.

Although it happened five years ago, she could still smell the gunpowder in the air.

She could still hear the shouts and the heavy steps from the boots of the amateur village soldiers as they hurried up the steps into the porch, and without a pause, barged into the house.

She could still remember their home which was the envy of many of the villagers. She remembered its white walls and brown porch which her father repainted yearly, because, according to him, the light should always be bright.

She never understood what light he talked about.

She remembered the grass which was never totally weeded away, and the beautiful flowers which her mother tended to behind the house. She remembered the swing her father made for her and her sisters by the side of the house. The swing hung from the huge tree which stood proudly, adding to the regal look of their home.

But the regality which the house portrayed could not hold the villagers from intruding on the family time after dinner.

Her father was serenading her mother with his deep, untrained voice, while she and Anita looked and cheered, and little Marla hit her spoon against her high chair, giving equally untrained beats to the song.

Everything was perfect until the gunshots and the sound of vehicles broke the perfection, and the look of fear on her father’s face alerted that something was wrong.

The last time she saw her father, he was dragged away like a criminal and forced into a truck, amid Marla’s loud wailing, Anita’s silent weeping, her mother’s confusion, and her own budding anger.

---

Further feeding her anger with the memories, Charlotte turned and looked straight into the eyes of Parlo.

She knew she was always angry, and that it worried her mother, but she held on to it, as it made her see things without rose-colored glasses. It also kept her strong and prepared. Her mother was getting weak, and she had to be strong for her mother and sisters.

“Instead of running, we can stay and fight back,” she suggested.

She heard the expected gasps, but ignored the people again, fixing her gaze on Parlo until he gave a weak nod.

They ran away from their home the first time, it was not happening again.

I wrote this story as a test of my writing prowess. The guy said I only wrote African stories and asked me to write something different. This came out.

I'm thinking of completing it, what do you think?

I love Char, and I want to see what she achieves with her anger.