The Wayward Children of Asase Yaa

The Wayward Children of Asase Yaa Cheryl S. Ntumy (bio) The offspring's appetites know no end. What's a mother, any mother—even that mother who nurtures us all—to do? The wound is smaller than last time, tiny teeth marks ringing the circumference. It started as a dull ache drawing her out of her dreams; a vague, colorless sensation. Now that she's conscious, the ache has blossomed into pain, red and real and raging. Asase Yaa curls her knee into her belly so she can reach the wound. Her middle finger sinks into the bloody hollow and she bites back a gasp. It only takes a cursory glance around her to find the culprit. One of her babies. When she finds him, her heart can't help but soften. There are telltale flecks of blood on his jaw, and yet she is moved by the reckless way he slumbers, limbs sprawled with abandon. She reaches out with her uninjured leg and nudges him into a fetal position. Rising, she checks on the other children—still snoring, except the older ones who didn't come home, little rebels—and then hurries to clean up before they wake. She places a fresh poultice over the new wound and wears her cloth loose around her so it rides low on her hips, the hem covering her ankles and the wounds. The shift in seasons warns her of the approaching festival, another glittering get-together where all the mothers in the cosmos commune and commiserate. She fantasizes about skipping it, but she has no choice. Governed by the same laws as the other mothers, pulled in the same direction, around the same sun, she goes where the orbit takes her. The festivals never bothered her before. There was a time when she relished the drumming and dancing, the colorful camaraderie, the steady flow of wine and wisdom. But now she feels the eyes of the other mothers on her like shivers, barbed words hooking into her skin. She is tired of wounds, and less tolerant of harm inflicted by those she didn't give life to. She arrives at the festival on schedule, dressed as cautiously as she could manage, but the mothers have eyes like daggers that cut right through her disguise. "Are you thinner, Asase Yaa?" She forces a smile. "The pattern on my dress is slimming." "Nonsense! A mother must be luscious. You dwindle each time we glimpse you." "You have lost your glow." "Did she ever glow, really?" "Come, don't be nasty. All mothers glow." "Well, technically …" She places both hands over the small bulge that holds her next brood and tries without success to keep her desperate gaze from the gloried, glistening bellies of the others. Their pregnancies form flawless arcs beneath silky dresses strewn with stars, lending a richness to their cheeks and a thickness to their hair. Their moons trail them like lovestruck suitors, while hers judges her in cold, white silence. They are lush, those other mothers, swollen with the promise of devoted, dutiful, disciplined life. Their children are not like hers. Their children are … good. "Look at the hollows in those collarbones! Like they were scooped out with a spoon!" "No hips to speak of …" "Such dry skin …" "Is that another injury on your leg?" Scandalized gasps. "And you continue to allow it? This shameless abuse?" She keeps her smile on and throws in a tinkling little laugh for good measure. "Calm, my sisters. All is well. We ebb and flow, you know that." They look at her with wily eyes that see through her defenses, and whisper behind their rings. "Her own children. Can you imagine?" "Wicked creatures." "She lets them run wild, that's the problem. Children need boundaries." "Children should care for their mothers. We give them life, they grow strong and tend to us. What sinister beings could fail to grasp this?" "She should punish them. Teach them respect." "How? Don't you see how weak she has become?" "Keh! Me, I can't even look at her." End Page 46 "If I birthed demons, I'd drown them all." She waits an agonizing eon for the...