Witness

When they told Delia Jimenyere that she could watch her son die, she'd thanked them for their thoughtfulness. Last time, their invitation was not to watch, but to see her twelve-year-old son, Golden, lying in the street, his body a slab of sixteen little red fountains, a gaggle of policemen swarming around him, rehashing a broken narrative. Now, soon after she got off the phone with Tyrese, the public defender who relayed the news, Delia retreated to her bedroom, got down on both knees and said a prayer to the dead. To Ojie, her husband now three years gone, to the parents she never knew and to Golden—the child she lost on that stifling September morning in Seattle in a rain of bullets. From them she asked a little favour: Let Beloved go in peace, and if you will, feel no pain. Then, she rose slowly, went to the full-length mirror in the corner and checked that everything was in the right place as Beloved wanted it.

Beloved had three days. And the days came in a hurry. On the morning of her journey to Aberdeen, Delia packed a spare bag: a Bible, a Rosary, and snacks. This would be her final journey to Stafford Creek Corrections Centre. Twenty trips in three years and she thought she was ready for today. But, as she tucked a lock of hair back into the black scarf around her face, her fingers shook feverishly. Delia drew in a deep breath and steadied herself. This was not how she had envisioned this day. She'd not planned on losing the steely visage she had carefully put together in the last three years. She had schooled herself for today, this moment when she'd sit, in honour of Beloved's bidding, and watch them take him from her.

She felt a familiar faintness, light as air from a vent but powerful in its effect and, as always, quickly suppressed it. When she felt calmer, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Everything was as she wanted it: A scarf to hold her unruly curls, brows manicured into a look of defiance, and lips flawlessly rouged. This was the way Beloved wanted it too; this was what he'd asked for—that she celebrate his life even as it was about to leave him. So, she gave no thought to the dark loops around her eyes or to the slight hint of red around the whites. There were now creases where there used to be dimples, and her skin had lost water and light. Delia rehearsed the journey ahead. Two hours to Aberdeen. A short ride to Stafford Creek. Sit, smile, talk. Farewell to Beloved.

Then, she walked out of the bedroom to the sitting room, where a child, only four, was huddled in a chair. He looked weak and rattled, his full and unruly hair tumbling over his forehead. Delia picked up the child, grabbed a bag by the door and went out towards a waiting taxi.

________

Now, as she sat staring into the room beyond the glass wall, Delia averted her eyes from the single bed in the room with the restraints hanging limply from its sides, forcing her eyes to settle somewhere in the past. Now and again, she rocked gently, back and forth, sighing in-between. The child in her arms was barely visible. He was fast asleep and Delia's embroidered kaftan neatly shielded him from the scene.

Earlier that day when she walked into the prison complex, she'd felt an unusual jolt of emotion, and reflexively tightened her grip on the child. He was barely four, frail-looking and straggly like his brother, Beloved. She named him Favour and, even though he gave her little reason to, looked upon him with the concern that she never really felt for the other two. He came out of her bawling and kicking, hankering for a fight. He nursed more often than any other child did and each time as if it were his last meal. His...