Niko’s Eye

Chapter 59.

Belvia.

"Hmmm. Oh, you’re back. It’s Wednesday, right? I’d better get the trash out. Did I tell you I’ve been working on zero waste. We’re down from four bags a fortnight to one, I call that success. Next week it’ll be even less, half a bag I hope. What’s that you’re holding? Something you found on the door mat? Oh, a flyer for a neighbourhood barbecue, well, that sounds like fun. I never stay long at these things, too shy really. The neighbours are fabulous though, great folks. Gary plays his cello and Lorna brings her electric guitar. I bake ten tonnes of cinnamon buns, maybe I’ll do the face painting again this year. I’ll talk Marsha into coming, she’s always a hoot in social situations, no off switch, no mental censorship, just wall to wall funny stories."

"Charlie, I can’t heal you, but I can help you to heal yourself. My love is like a meadow, a quiet place to reflect. In the stillness, you can let the tornado that is your pain slow down, perhaps stop. It is in these times you can begin to take steps forwards, to learn that life is okay. People do care, but we heal from within if it’s to last. That skitter-skatter mind of yours is looking for solutions, a way to live in peace and thrive. It is the reason for your lack of focus. Your mind is powerful and it will devote itself to finding a way forward that works for you. The quieter I am, with the truest love for you, the faster you will grow strong. I know it hurts, babe. I know. Try to listen to music, move, walk, paint, enjoy sunshine and birds... cut out negative media... and know I’m always loving you so very much."

Belvia stayed up at night in front of the telly, going through her emotions.

She was avoiding talking to Isis about the truth.

A cry from the heart and soul stretches across the foundations of who you are, seeking to find if you have a solid foundation built from love and nurture. Then, as we recover, that instinct, that sense of needing wholeness, starts to direct us toward what heals and away from what hurts. Pain is there as part of the education of how to recover, so as challenging as it is, listening to what it has to say is necessary.

In the moments before the transitions, before the stage and spotlights, I felt as if I were back in my grandmother’s garden, blessed by dappled light. For then there is the comfort of the shade and the invite of the warm rays. In that moment there is a sense of choice even through you realise you will go on. That is the show. That is what we do.

She sat in her bed, dwindling her fingers.

Aisha has been a devil, but am I the greater demon?

And the elites who made themselves cozy from the work of the poor, yet saw themselves as favoured by God, had set themselves up as false gods, as if their status as a leader could exempt them from sin. Nothing could be further from the truth, for in their zeal, in that false humility of a man who thinks himself above the beggar or leper, they had no ability to tell the gifts of a loving God from the bribery of Satan. To work for a loving God is to gain strength so that one can help those who cannot help themselves and see all of humanity as one family. The voice that calls to power, to luxury and a feeling of special selection and superiority... that is the dark side of the force and I suggest you repent and use you days to make amends.

Isis held her in such a high place. Thinking back at what she overheard Isis telling their house help one day.

"I’m sure Granny always knew more than she let on, but unlike mother she never said "I told you so," or tried to belittle the intensity of my feelings. Being that one step removed I guess she could see me more clearly as a person rather than a problem creating dependant. She always understood the significance of things, why hurtful comments hurt and why slights from other teens could wound so much. She was that listening ear, the one who would wrap me in her love just with her soft face and kind words. She was my number one supporter, my angel and my hero. If I grow to be half as good as her I will be proud. Everyone needs a granny like mine, a never depleting repository of love and good feeling combined with a lifetime of experience."

Zainab.

She still had to tell her father that she was a lesbian. She shifted and looked down at her shoes.

The laces were the bold colours of her ambitions, neon pink and burgundy, for in them she felt as she was both in flight and rooted in good earth. And so as she fixed them in a bow, she felt her shoes hug each sole all the tighter.

Isis had suggested that it was better for her and her father not to have any secrets between them so their bond would be even stronger. She had said that because she was Sergio’s daughter, he would never reject his own blood. No matter what.

That had given her courage.

It had been months since she came out. Her and her new crush had developed into a romantically involved pair, and it had all happened really naturally.

She had been in love with the curve of her body, with the curls of her hair and the timbre of her voice. She could have spent an eternity merrily in her embrace. They were lesbians. She loved being a lesbian. To her, it was the straight road, the right path, the God given heaven she’d been searching for. Love is that way. Love is divine.

The love-o-meter doesn’t come with entitlements, love is free, it can only thrive in liberty... yet you must be real about what kind of relationship your heart can handle. Everyone has the right to protect themselves and clear communication is a must in matters of the heart. To do this right, you must first have a clear sense of who you are and what you want. So, when that meter says you have fallen in love, take a moment to step back and ask yourself what you really, really need and then discover what they really really need. Either you are a match, or there are easy compromises that can work, or you take the hit and walk away - hard as that is.

Zainab ran her hand over the cloth cover of her ledger. It was her life’s work to write her heart’s songs and she’s sworn allegiance to the her soul to always write the truth that was inside of her. During the day, she attended her courses and wrote some pieces when she could. That’s one thing her and Isis had in common. And then by noon, she sat at her desk in bedroom, listening to the thrill of the waves outside. She heard the hubbub of the people running across the sands, the baying of birds and the shrieks of children playing on the baked summer soil. By night, she tried to finish her sgcool assignments while listening to Lauren Hill.

The clothes on the line blow like flags in the wind and the clouds race by fast - like cars on the highway. It’s not a day for loose hats or umbrellas, but a day to tuck my head to my chin and let my hair whip around my face. There is something about these windy days that blow the cobwebs right out of my head. No sooner have the trees begun to sway than I’m out the door in jacket and boots. In ten minutes I can be at the sea, watch the waves and take a lung full of salty air.

She picked up her working copy and dropped it into her hessian bag for the morning along with a new bottle of ink and a quill. Now it was time for her, now the work of the day was done. She sat back on the couch and waited for the knock at the door that would tell her Ida had come. Ida who told her that her skin wasn’t the colour of soil but the colour of the king’s coffee beans, that her hair wasn’t simply black but it flowed like the river at midnight over her bare shoulders.

Stars shone as sugar spilt over black marble, glistening in the sun. The night sky was such a welcome sight, appearing like magic at each sunset, promising to return as she faded in dawn’s first light. There were times in the daytime, under skies of blue, Zainab would think of those faraway stars and how they’d return after the shadows blended into the dark.

She could do her duty by day, she could be the boring college girl, but night time belonged to her and Ida.