“The Bliss of the Grave”

West Coast of Unguja Island, Zanzibar City, April 1, 1811

Zahara knew this day was coming just as sure as she knew the sun would shine on the morrow, whether she was alive to see it or not. She was an oracle and had divined the nature, if not the exact time, of her transition. She looked up from her silent meditation to find her granddaughter, Mehwish, standing over her, dripping wet from the rain that was pounding on the beach. She was breathing hard with her dark hair plastered to her skull like a shiny black scarf.

Why had I not noticed it before? Zahara thought. Mehwish has the same sharp, ferret-shaped eyes as the man who had raped me over forty years ago and the same eyes as the child I bore him.

If the eyes are the windows of the soul, surely Mehwish’s dark, emotionless eyes are the gateway to hell. The eyes that stared back at Zahara were calculating and devoid of emotion, suggesting sinister, unwholesome thoughts and the promise of evil deeds. Eyes such as Mehwish’s were rare in one so young.

Zahara recalled the stormy night her granddaughter had first barged into her small, lonely hut located on the outskirts of her village and asked unceremoniously, “Are you really my grandmother?” That was six years ago, more than enough time for Zahara to apprentice her wicked and intelligent granddaughter in the art of black majick. There was little else she could teach her. It was now time to unleash her granddaughter’s special brand of evil upon the unsuspecting world. Zahara felt no remorse concerning the dangerous powers she had placed at her granddaughter’s disposal.

Why should I protect the innocent from my granddaughter when Allah had not thought to protect me? Where had Allah been on that fateful day when Rajab bin Mohammed bin Said el Murgebi swooped down upon my peaceful village like a rabid dog on a herd of innocent lambs?

Perhaps Allah was otherwise engaged on that day? Or mayhap He was busy assisting someone more worthy than me. It didn’t matter that Zahara would go to hell for it. Allah had turned a blind eye when that rabid dog forced her to carry his evil seed. She would pay Him back by passing that same evil on to others.

***

The memories were like dung on Zahara’s tongue. They flooded in with Mehwish and the storm surrounding her. Tears ran unbidden down her face at the bitter memories. Zahara would take the night of her ruin to her grave.

After I pushed out Rajab’s demon seed, he threw me across his huge black horse and rode me, still bleeding, to the entrance of what remained of my village. There he threw me to the ground like so much garbage and rode away. I found no succour amongst my people. The few people left that had not been sold into slavery or killed, reviled and ostracised me.

***

Mehwish was perplexed by her grandmother’s tears. She knew Zahara to be the most fearless person she’d ever met. The look on Mehwish’s face was as if she was fascinated by an unusual bug, but hadn’t quite decided what to do with.

Should I cherish it? Or should I stomp it into the ground?

Since Mehwish was standing over her on a night not fit for man or beast, and without her ladies’ maid, Zahara assumed Mehwish had finally made up her mind. The decision would not go in her favour.

So, mote it be.

Zahara’s voice was steady and clear. “Go ahead,” she said. “Do what you came here to do.”

***

“I am going away, Zahara, to live in the colonies with the man I love. I fear I will never see you again. So, this will be goodbye, Madhe,” she said, wrapping the wizened old woman in an affectionate embrace. That was the first time Mehwish had ever called Zahara, “Madhe,” the word used for mother and grandmother.

Even as the honoured title registered in Zahara’s brain, she felt a sharp pain in her belly. When Mehwish stepped out of the embrace, the hilt of Zahara’s ceremonial dagger, missing since Mehwish’s last visit, was protruding from Zahara’s belly