CHRYSANTHEMUM

THE THOMPSONS “Hepzibah! Hepzibah! Hepzibah!” The voice echoed through the small house. “Where is that naughty girl?” Hepzibah hurried out of the kitchen, wiping her hands against the sides of her faded skirt. “Yes, Father?” Mr. Thompson sat rigidly in his worn armchair, his expression dark. Without saying a word, he extended a crumpled sheet of paper toward her. Hepzibah's heart sank. She knew that paper. Her university admission letter. “What is this?” he asked coldly. Hepzibah lowered her gaze. “My admission letter, Papa.” “And how many times have I told you that this dream of yours about going to university is impossible?” She looked up. “Papa—” “Not in this house, Hepzibah. We have your brothers to train.” Her eyes immediately filled with tears. “I know, Papa, but my mates are already in university. They aren't from wealthy homes either. My friend Shirley just got admitted to study Pharmacy, and her father does the same work you do. Please, Daddy. Just give me a chance.” For a moment, Mr. Thompson simply stared at her. Then he folded the letter. Hepzibah's eyes widened. “Papa, please…” He tore it. Once. Twice. Again. Until the admission letter was nothing more than scraps of paper falling between his fingers. Hepzibah stared at the pieces scattered across the floor. Something inside her shattered with them. “I've told you countless times,” her father continued, his voice devoid of sympathy, “we do not train female children in this family.” “But—” “We managed to send you through primary and secondary school so you could learn how to read and write. That should be enough.” Hepzibah's lips trembled. “University is not my responsibility. Perhaps when you get married, your husband can decide whether he wants to waste money educating you.” He leaned back. “For now, concentrate on learning how to run a home and become a good wife.” “Please, Daddy.” “Enough, Zibah!” His voice exploded through the room. He raised his hand. The entire house went silent. Her four brothers, who had been playing in the corner, immediately stopped. They knew that gesture. Hepzibah instinctively stepped backward. Mr. Thompson lowered his hand but his eyes remained fixed on her. “Go back to whatever you were doing. And we are never having this conversation again.” He paused. “Unless you want to become rebellious.” Hepzibah said nothing. “You know what I do to rebellious people.” Her stomach tightened. She quickly bent down and began gathering the shredded pieces of her admission letter. One piece. Then another. Then another. As tears rolled silently down her cheeks, she wondered how something that had made her so happy that morning could now fit inside the palm of her hand. She hurried back into the kitchen. Her mother immediately pulled her into her arms. “Come here, my dear.” Hepzibah broke down. “But it's not my fault that I'm a girl, Mommy.” “No, darling.” Mrs. Clara Thompson stroked her hair. “No one said it was your fault.” “I worked so hard.” “I know.” “I passed my exams. I got admitted. Why does he hate me because I'm a girl?” Her mother's eyes glistened. She looked toward the doorway before lowering her voice. “I promise you, I will do everything within my power to make sure you don't end up like me.” Hepzibah pulled away slightly. Her mother sighed. “I was betrothed to your father when I was young. I had no voice of my own back then.” She looked down at her hands. “And I regret it every single day.” Hepzibah stared at her. “I don't want that life for you.” Mrs. Thompson wiped her daughter's tears. “I want you to be successful. I want you to shine. I want you to outshine me.” A faint smile appeared on Hepzibah's face. “So don't give up. If I cannot afford university right now, I'll find another way.” “Another way?” Her mother nodded. “I'll help you acquire a skill. Something useful. Something that belongs to you.” Hepzibah hugged her tightly. “Thank you, Mommy.” “You're welcome, my dear.” Her mother smiled. “Now let's finish what we're doing. Perhaps next month, when I've saved enough, you can tell me what skill interests you.” “Okay.” Her mother returned to the fire stand, where a pot of yam boiled gently. Hepzibah continued cutting the vegetables. But her mind was no longer in the kitchen. She stared around the cramped room. The peeling walls. The old wooden shelves. The smoke-darkened ceiling. The cracked plates stacked beside the sink. Sometimes she wondered if visitors were ever comfortable eating in their house. Then she looked at her mother. The woman stood over the fire with her back turned, silently preparing dinner as though nothing had happened. Hepzibah felt a familiar ache in her chest. How had her mother survived years of being spoken to like she was invisible? How had she remained so calm? So submissive? Hepzibah shook her head. She couldn't imagine herself living like that. She didn't know what her future would look like yet. But she knew one thing. It would not look like her mother's. --- Later that evening, Mr. Thompson sat outside reading his newspaper. His wife approached him cautiously. “My husband…” He didn't look up. “You have to take things easy with Hepzibah.” Nothing. “Have you, for once, considered what she wants?” Mr. Thompson slowly lowered the newspaper. “Do you have money for her university fees?” His wife stared at him. “If you do, I'm not stopping you. She's your daughter too.” Mrs. Thompson clenched her jaw. She had heard that sarcastic tone too many times. “If you hadn't forced me to become a housewife, do you think I couldn't train my own child?” Mr. Thompson's eyes hardened. “My fellow women are doing it out there. This is not the eighties or nineties. When will you finally become civilized?” The newspaper dropped. “Look, woman.” He pointed at her. “It seems you've forgotten your place in this house.” Mrs. Thompson straightened. “They are also my children.” “You will not tell me how to train my children.” “I know what's best for them too.” For once, she didn't lower her voice. She turned and walked into the house before he could respond. Mr. Thompson watched her disappear. “I don't blame you,” he muttered. He picked up his newspaper. A gentle breeze rustled the pages. For several seconds, there was nothing but the sound of paper moving in the evening air. Then, from inside the house, a door slammed. --- In her room, Hepzibah sat cross-legged on her bed, her phone glowing against the darkness. She had been searching for hours. Fashion designers. Dress patterns. Fabric combinations. Sewing techniques. Bridal gowns. Evening dresses. She didn't know exactly when her fascination with fashion had begun. Perhaps it was because fashion gave her something her home never did. A sense of possibility. She saved picture after picture. Then she came across the page of a young Nigerian designer whose work had thousands of followers. Hepzibah stared at one of the gowns. It was breathtaking. She zoomed in. The intricate stitching. The fabric. The finishing. She whispered to herself, “One day…” Her phone suddenly vibrated. Ding. A notification appeared. Hepzibah frowned. She didn't recognize the number. She opened the message. Her expression changed. For several seconds, she simply stared at the screen. Then she sat upright. The message contained only one sentence: “I saw your work. We need to talk.” Her heart began beating faster. She looked at the sender's name. There wasn't one. Only an unfamiliar number. Hepzibah typed: “Who is this?” The reply came almost immediately. “Someone who knows you have a hidden talent". Her smile disappeared. She stared at the screen. A second message appeared. Hepzibah's fingers went cold. She slowly looked toward her bedroom door. For the first time that night, she wondered— Who had been watching her?