more.
Perhaps it would have helped me more for what lay ahead.
CHAPTER
four
Having a twin is like having a second version of yourself. Leah and I often found ourselves thinking the same thoughts at the same time. So many times we shared emotions, thoughts, and reactions. When I was happy, she was happy. When I was sick, she was sick. We were the same in so many ways.
As similar as we were, I was able to attend school more often than she was. We ate the same amount of food, slept the same amount of time, and did the same activities. But Leah became more and more tired. She would stay home while I went to school.
I felt a sharp pain in my stomach as I walked to school one day. What used to be a short walk now felt like a long journey. The hot sun beat down on me as I lifted each foot. Each step felt like incredible effort, like the way an exhausted runner might feel nearing the end of a marathon if she hasn’t had enough water or training.
I reached the schoolyard. It should have been a time for playing games. Instead, I felt like collapsing. I wanted to reach the classroom, but not finding the energy I simply sat down, waited for the announcement that class would start, and watched the other children.
I often enjoyed observing people. But in recent times I found myself becoming preoccupied with thinking about other people’s lives and, increasingly, my own life. What was once a positive reflection on life now became dominated by an ongoing fight to remain hopeful. Things that did not used to bother me now consumed my thoughts. I had no defence against the onslaught of negative thinking. It was as if a voice inside my head suddenly had free range to attack me, and I was sapped of any energy to fight against it.
These children have food to eat. You don’t. You don’t even have parents. They do.
And try as I might, I just could not find it within me to be rid of this voice.
Your grandparents are poor. You will end up just like them. Your life will be poverty and hunger. You don’t even have the illusion of a brighter future because even the most optimistic person on earth would see that you are a starving orphan.
It all seemed so logical. So factual. Who was I kidding? Who were any of us kidding? No food. No parents. No money. No future.
Of the many difficulties in African life, giving in to the realization that life cannot improve is among the hardest.
I made it to class. I was last. The others had run in ahead of me. I sat down at my desk. The teacher told us to open our books. The others flipped the pages and got to the right place, but it seemed like my mind was in a deep fog, like I knew what to do but lacked the power to do it. I looked at my hand and thought, Okay, pick up the book and get on with it. But it took all my effort to move my hand to the cover and flip the pages. As the teacher spoke I fought to concentrate on her. I found my mind drifting, like a leaf on the river that goes wherever the rushing water takes it.
Will there be enough food at lunch? Will there be any food? Can we grow more crops? Can I find food in the—
“Hannah, what do you think?” the teacher asked.
I had no idea. She had taken me in because I was poor, and the least I could do was concentrate. And I was. As best as I knew how.
“I …” I said as my eyes tried to focus on her. I raised my eyebrows to get the teacher to become one image instead of the three I was seeing. “I am not sure.” It was a safe response. Hard to give the right reply when all you feel like doing is falling into a deep sleep.
I went home for lunch. On the way, I wondered what the point of that was. Would I get enough food to even warrant the trip there and back to school? Wasn’t I better off just staying at school, resting, and then coming home and having what little I would have had at lunch for supper instead?
I managed to make it home that day.
Unfortunately.
Leah had stayed back from school. That was nothing new. What was new was the crowd of people around our hut. We didn’t have crowds of people around our hut. Not at normal times.
I came closer and heard people crying. I began to cry. I knew what had happened. I did not need to be told. Twins always know. Somehow we just do.
I felt so empty all of a sudden. Like I was there but at the same time in a completely different world. People moved about me as if in slow motion. For a moment, I felt like backing up and walking off the property as if doing so could undo what had happened. I wished that maybe I could avoid all of this and pick a different path to follow, one where my twin and I could walk through life together.
But the realization of her passing began to work its way through my dark skin and into my heart. I felt a sting of tears begin to well up around my eyes, which then streamed down my face. This was not how life was supposed to work. It just wasn’t.
My grandmother saw me, ran to me, and hugged me. My grandfather came out and wrapped me in his arms as well. I tried to look past them for my younger sister, Zemira. And when I saw her sitting outside I felt the strangest sense of wanting to grab on to her. She saw me through the haze of people, and in that moment before she got up and came over to me our eyes connected in a way that we had not experienced before.
How strange that we were once seven, and now we were down to four.
• • •
That night, I lay down on the ground next to my only remaining sister. We looked into each other’s brown eyes. There was a knowing with her as well. Not the same as I had with Leah, of course, but we understood each other. It was deep, yet different. She fell asleep first. I was glad for that. It is better when the younger ones fall asleep first. Somehow, young children believe that the other person will remain up the whole night, keeping a watchful eye over them.
Heaven knew we needed someone looking out for us.
I remained quiet that evening, and many evenings thereafter. I would stare up at the blank ceiling or out at the stars. Every day I felt like I was carrying heavy pails of water on my shoulders. The world around me felt like it was spinning so fast, and I was no longer able to keep up. I understood nothing of what was happening in my life.
• • •
The students at school would not mention Leah’s name. Not to me. There was a strange silence that seemed to envelop me. They thought that if they talked to me about my sister’s passing, something bad would happen to me as well. As if the malnutrition that had taken her life could somehow be transferred into my body just by the mention of her name. Walking in that odd quiet among the students made me feel as though I was not really there, like I was invisible and unable to interact with people who were close enough to touch.
I sat at my desk and tried to focus on the chalkboard. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the empty spot where Leah had sat. I tried to listen to the teacher. I don’t know how much sank in. Probably not much; grief and hunger make it difficult to concentrate.
When class ended, I felt my pulse quicken. Children stood and hurried for the door. But a sudden panic gripped me. I felt like crawling under the desk and staying there.
Come on. You have to stand up. You can do it. Just go to the door.
I cannot.
But you can. It’s all right.
I am just going to wait here.
For how long? School is over. Come, you need to go.
I … I don’t know what to do. I just want to sit here.
The teacher said something to me. I didn’t hear the words, but the tone was kind. I slid one of my bare feet into the aisle and managed to stand. I walked to the door, and despite the bright, sunny day, I had the feeling it would be safer to stay inside. Even though there was no evidence for it, there seemed to be a large storm brewing for no one else but me, and I should remain at my desk, just to be sure.
I forced myself to step outside.