Veronica by Adewale Maja Pearce Lyrics
Veronica Afaq's Sexy Hair
We had grown up together in my native village. Her family had been even poorer
than mine, which was saying something in those days. Her father was a brute and her
mother was weak, and since she was the eldest child a lot of the responsibility for
bringing up the other children had fallen on her. From time to time I helped her out,
but there was little I could do. Her father was a morbidly suspicious man. Visitors,
apart from his drinking companions, were not encouraged, and I had no desire to be
the cause of even more misery. I helped her fetch water from the stream and
occasionally chopped firewood, but that was all. Night after night I would lie awake
listening to her screams, cursing myself for my own physical inadequacy and my
father for his unwillingness to become involved.
When I was twelve I started at the secondary school in the town a few miles
away. During term-time I stayed with my uncle, returning to the village only during
the vacations. Veronica and I remained friendly, and she was always pleased to see
me, and when we could we snatched time together by the stream and she asked me
endless questions about my school and the town and what I was going to be when I
grew up. But for all the misery of her own life she never seemed to envy me mine.
And then came the day when I was to leave for good. I had won a scholarship to
the University and I knew in my heart I would be away a long time. I was eighteen
then and I thought I knew my own worth. The day before I left we met by the
stream.
As she walked towards me I realized for the first time that she was no longer a
girl anymore but a young woman. Her clothes were still shabby and if she was no
great beauty she still had a certain attractiveness that I knew would appeal to some
men. Not that she was likely to meet any as long as she remained where she was.
And although her father had long since stopped beating her in every other respect
nothing had really altered.
‘You must be happy to be going,’ she said. I shrugged and pretended to be
unconcerned, but of course it was the break I had hardly dared hope for.
‘What about you?’ I asked.
‘Me!’
‘Yes, why don’t you get out of this place? It has nothing to offer you.’
‘I can’t just leave my family.’
‘Why not? What have they ever done for you?’
‘Don’t talk like that. They are my family, that is enough.’
‘But think of all the things you can do in the city,’ I said.
‘No, the city is for you, not me. What will I do once I get there? I have no
qualifications, not even Standard Six.’
Although I knew there was a lot of truth in what she said I resisted her
arguments: I suppose I was both appalled and frightened by her fatalism.
‘You can go to night school and become a secretary,’ I said.
She shook her head. ‘I leave that to others, my own place is here.’
I snapped a twig and threw it into the water. It bobbed on the current and then
vanished from sight.
‘When I have qualified I will send you money to take a correspondence course,’ I
said. She laughed.
‘Don’t talk foolishness,’ she said and stood up. ‘I have to go and cook, my father
will be home soon.’
‘Here is my address. If you need anything don’t hesitate to write me.’ I handed
her a piece of paper. She took it and tucked it in her bosom. We said goodbye and
she hurried away. I thought I saw tears in her eyes as she turned to go, but I may
have been mistaken.
Well, I went to the city and made good. I passed my exams and in due course I
was ready to set up in a practice of my own. In all that time I did not return to the
village: while I had been a student I lacked the time, and afterwards I lacked the
inclination. As soon as it was possible for me to do so I sent for my parents to come
and live with me and they settled down quickly enough to their new life.
But I never forgot Veronica. She was the only person I had asked about from my
mother but she had merely shrugged her shoulders and said that nothing had
changed. That was the trouble with village life: nothing ever changed.
It was ten years before I made the return journey. It was in connection with my
work. The government had set up a scheme whereby all the doctors in the country
were obliged to put in some time in the rural districts. Quite by chance the area I
was allocated included my home village, so one morning I set off with a couple of
nurses, three male assistants and a suitcase full of medicines.
I was shocked by what I found. Either I had forgotten about the squalor of village
life, or it had worsened during my absence. The place was crawling with disease and
everybody was living — surviving, rather — in acute poverty.
I found Veronica in the same hut she had grown up in. She was squatting over a
smoking fire, fanning the flames with a piece of cardboard. There was a baby tied to
her back.
‘Veronica,’ I said. She turned round, startled. My immediate impression was that
the ten years had told on her more than they should have.
‘Okeke, is that you?’ She peered at me through streaming eyes.
‘How are you?’ I asked.
‘I’m still here, as you left me. What should of happened [sic] to me? Come, sit
down, let me make you tea.’ She indicated a stool. I watched her as she busied
herself. When she finally sat down to feed the baby I asked her about herself. She
shrugged.
‘What am I to tell you? You heard that my parents died?’
‘No, I didn’t hear.’
‘It’s a long time now.’
‘What about your brothers and sisters?’
‘They are gone, all of them.’
‘Where?’
‘All over.’ With her hand she made a semi-circle in the air.
‘Do you hear from them at all?’
‘What do they want with me? They have their own lives to lead.’ She spoke
without bitterness.
‘Who is your husband?’ I asked.
‘You don’t know him, he is not of our people.’
‘How did you meet him?’
‘He was in the North when the trouble broke out. They took everything he
owned, he was lucky to escape alive. One day he showed up there. He had been
walking for weeks and he was half-dead. I was alone here at the time. I looked after
him, and when he got better he asked me to marry him. We have been together for
one year now.
‘Is he good to you?’
‘He is a good man. He works hard in the fields, but he has no luck.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘No, don’t be sorry for me. We are managing, and God has blessed us with a son.
Is that not enough?’
‘You would be better off in the city.’
‘This is my home, Okeke. But what of you? You are a big man now, not so? Where
is your wife?’
‘I have no wife.’
‘But why?’
‘All the women I meet are only interested in money and cars.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true.’
I was in the village a month. I saw Veronica every day, and sometimes her
husband. He was a good man, as she had said, if a bit simple. On the day I left I had
to force her to accept a present of some money. It was as much as I could afford, but
not as much as I would have liked to have been able to give her.
A few months after I got back to the city the war broke out. As she was in the
fighting zone I lost contact with her again.
Three years passed before I could travel to the village again. This time I went
alone. When I got there and saw all the destruction I could have wept. I had never
imagined anything like it. I went straight to Veronica’s hut. It was dark inside and
bare save for a figure huddled on a mat on the ground.
‘Veronica,’ I called. She opened her eyes. I went over and knelt beside her. My
eyes had become accustomed to the darkness. I saw at once that if I did not get her
out of there quickly she would die.
‘Okeke, welcome,’ she said. I reached for her hand and held it. It was cold and
limp.
‘I’ll get you out of here, don’t worry,’ I said.
‘What for?’
‘Veronica, if you stay here you’ll die.’
She tried to sit up but I restrained her. ‘Don’t exert yourself, you need all your
strength.’
‘I was lying here thinking about you. I wanted to see you once more before I go.’
‘I’m here now, and you’re going to be alright.’
‘Okeke, I won’t live to see tomorrow. Nor do I want to. My husband is dead, and my
child also. There is nothing left for me in this world.’
‘You’re still a young woman, in time you will forget this.’
‘No, Okeke, listen to me. I don’t want to live, you hear? Now that I have seen you
I am happy. Go, and leave me in peace.’
She closed her eyes and turned her face to the wall. I gathered her up in my
arms. She weighed no more than a ten-year-old child. She was dead before I reached
my car.
I cried that night for the terrible waste. In the morning, just as the sun was
rising, I carried her body down to the stream. And then I dug her a grave and buried
her and afterwards I watched the flow of the stream until it was time for me to go
away for the last time.
Adewale Maja-Pearce
We had grown up together in my native village. Her family had been even poorer
than mine, which was saying something in those days. Her father was a brute and her
mother was weak, and since she was the eldest child a lot of the responsibility for
bringing up the other children had fallen on her. From time to time I helped her out,
but there was little I could do. Her father was a morbidly suspicious man. Visitors,
apart from his drinking companions, were not encouraged, and I had no desire to be
the cause of even more misery. I helped her fetch water from the stream and
occasionally chopped firewood, but that was all. Night after night I would lie awake
listening to her screams, cursing myself for my own physical inadequacy and my
father for his unwillingness to become involved.
When I was twelve I started at the secondary school in the town a few miles
away. During term-time I stayed with my uncle, returning to the village only during
the vacations. Veronica and I remained friendly, and she was always pleased to see
me, and when we could we snatched time together by the stream and she asked me
endless questions about my school and the town and what I was going to be when I
grew up. But for all the misery of her own life she never seemed to envy me mine.
And then came the day when I was to leave for good. I had won a scholarship to
the University and I knew in my heart I would be away a long time. I was eighteen
then and I thought I knew my own worth. The day before I left we met by the
stream.
As she walked towards me I realized for the first time that she was no longer a
girl anymore but a young woman. Her clothes were still shabby and if she was no
great beauty she still had a certain attractiveness that I knew would appeal to some
men. Not that she was likely to meet any as long as she remained where she was.
And although her father had long since stopped beating her in every other respect
nothing had really altered.
‘You must be happy to be going,’ she said. I shrugged and pretended to be
unconcerned, but of course it was the break I had hardly dared hope for.
‘What about you?’ I asked.
‘Me!’
‘Yes, why don’t you get out of this place? It has nothing to offer you.’
‘I can’t just leave my family.’
‘Why not? What have they ever done for you?’
‘Don’t talk like that. They are my family, that is enough.’
‘But think of all the things you can do in the city,’ I said.
‘No, the city is for you, not me. What will I do once I get there? I have no
qualifications, not even Standard Six.’
Although I knew there was a lot of truth in what she said I resisted her
arguments: I suppose I was both appalled and frightened by her fatalism.
‘You can go to night school and become a secretary,’ I said.
She shook her head. ‘I leave that to others, my own place is here.’
I snapped a twig and threw it into the water. It bobbed on the current and then
vanished from sight.
‘When I have qualified I will send you money to take a correspondence course,’ I
said. She laughed.
‘Don’t talk foolishness,’ she said and stood up. ‘I have to go and cook, my father
will be home soon.’
‘Here is my address. If you need anything don’t hesitate to write me.’ I handed
her a piece of paper. She took it and tucked it in her bosom. We said goodbye and
she hurried away. I thought I saw tears in her eyes as she turned to go, but I may
have been mistaken.
Well, I went to the city and made good. I passed my exams and in due course I
was ready to set up in a practice of my own. In all that time I did not return to the
village: while I had been a student I lacked the time, and afterwards I lacked the
inclination. As soon as it was possible for me to do so I sent for my parents to come
and live with me and they settled down quickly enough to their new life.
But I never forgot Veronica. She was the only person I had asked about from my
mother but she had merely shrugged her shoulders and said that nothing had
changed. That was the trouble with village life: nothing ever changed.
It was ten years before I made the return journey. It was in connection with my
work. The government had set up a scheme whereby all the doctors in the country
were obliged to put in some time in the rural districts. Quite by chance the area I
was allocated included my home village, so one morning I set off with a couple of
nurses, three male assistants and a suitcase full of medicines.
I was shocked by what I found. Either I had forgotten about the squalor of village
life, or it had worsened during my absence. The place was crawling with disease and
everybody was living — surviving, rather — in acute poverty.
I found Veronica in the same hut she had grown up in. She was squatting over a
smoking fire, fanning the flames with a piece of cardboard. There was a baby tied to
her back.
‘Veronica,’ I said. She turned round, startled. My immediate impression was that
the ten years had told on her more than they should have.
‘Okeke, is that you?’ She peered at me through streaming eyes.
‘How are you?’ I asked.
‘I’m still here, as you left me. What should of happened [sic] to me? Come, sit
down, let me make you tea.’ She indicated a stool. I watched her as she busied
herself. When she finally sat down to feed the baby I asked her about herself. She
shrugged.
‘What am I to tell you? You heard that my parents died?’
‘No, I didn’t hear.’
‘It’s a long time now.’
‘What about your brothers and sisters?’
‘They are gone, all of them.’
‘Where?’
‘All over.’ With her hand she made a semi-circle in the air.
‘Do you hear from them at all?’
‘What do they want with me? They have their own lives to lead.’ She spoke
without bitterness.
‘Who is your husband?’ I asked.
‘You don’t know him, he is not of our people.’
‘How did you meet him?’
‘He was in the North when the trouble broke out. They took everything he
owned, he was lucky to escape alive. One day he showed up there. He had been
walking for weeks and he was half-dead. I was alone here at the time. I looked after
him, and when he got better he asked me to marry him. We have been together for
one year now.
‘Is he good to you?’
‘He is a good man. He works hard in the fields, but he has no luck.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘No, don’t be sorry for me. We are managing, and God has blessed us with a son.
Is that not enough?’
‘You would be better off in the city.’
‘This is my home, Okeke. But what of you? You are a big man now, not so? Where
is your wife?’
‘I have no wife.’
‘But why?’
‘All the women I meet are only interested in money and cars.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true.’
I was in the village a month. I saw Veronica every day, and sometimes her
husband. He was a good man, as she had said, if a bit simple. On the day I left I had
to force her to accept a present of some money. It was as much as I could afford, but
not as much as I would have liked to have been able to give her.
A few months after I got back to the city the war broke out. As she was in the
fighting zone I lost contact with her again.
Three years passed before I could travel to the village again. This time I went
alone. When I got there and saw all the destruction I could have wept. I had never
imagined anything like it. I went straight to Veronica’s hut. It was dark inside and
bare save for a figure huddled on a mat on the ground.
‘Veronica,’ I called. She opened her eyes. I went over and knelt beside her. My
eyes had become accustomed to the darkness. I saw at once that if I did not get her
out of there quickly she would die.
‘Okeke, welcome,’ she said. I reached for her hand and held it. It was cold and
limp.
‘I’ll get you out of here, don’t worry,’ I said.
‘What for?’
‘Veronica, if you stay here you’ll die.’
She tried to sit up but I restrained her. ‘Don’t exert yourself, you need all your
strength.’
‘I was lying here thinking about you. I wanted to see you once more before I go.’
‘I’m here now, and you’re going to be alright.’
‘Okeke, I won’t live to see tomorrow. Nor do I want to. My husband is dead, and my
child also. There is nothing left for me in this world.’
‘You’re still a young woman, in time you will forget this.’
‘No, Okeke, listen to me. I don’t want to live, you hear? Now that I have seen you
I am happy. Go, and leave me in peace.’
She closed her eyes and turned her face to the wall. I gathered her up in my
arms. She weighed no more than a ten-year-old child. She was dead before I reached
my car.
I cried that night for the terrible waste. In the morning, just as the sun was
rising, I carried her body down to the stream. And then I dug her a grave and buried
her and afterwards I watched the flow of the stream until it was time for me to go
away for the last time.
Adewale Maja-Pearce