The Orchard of Lost Souls 315-16 by Nadifa Mohamed Lyrics
Kawsar senses a pulse of pleasure at the girl’s frankness, a kind of warmth that tending to a child’s needs has always given her, a sensation she has nearly forgotten.
“Ge the hair oil and comb from the dresser.”
Deqo hands them to her.
“Sit beneath me,” Kawsar orders.
The girl sits lightly on the floor, holding her weight up with her arms; she smells of fruit and sweat.
“We should wash it but never mind.” Kawsar pulls apart the old plaits, sifting Deqo’s soft but dirty hair between her fingers, massaging jasmine oil into her scalp while Deqo toys absentmindedly with the bottle top.
The words of an old song play in Kawsar’s mind: “Love, love isn’t fair, teardrops always chase behind.”
“Can I stay here for a while?” Deqo asks.
Kawsar’s heart is beating hard, her breath shallow and quiet. She wants time to end at this moment, for there to be nothing in the world beyond her nimble fingers and the girl’s hair to spin into silk. There must be a hunch-backed toothless sorceress somewhere who weaves all these disparate people together, thinks Kawsar, who carelessly throws this child together with me, while families are ripped apart.
Resting a hand on the girl’s narrow, sinuous back, she can feel the heat of her soul through the oily palm of her hand, as smooth and alive as an egg. She doubts that incandescence can simply disappear. If they are killed right here, would their ghosts continue as they are, the old ghost plaiting and the young one waiting, fidgeting? She can imagine that, the silence and peacefulness of it, a source of envy to passers-by—battling with the rage and chaos of life—who happen to glance in through the barred window.
“Ge the hair oil and comb from the dresser.”
Deqo hands them to her.
“Sit beneath me,” Kawsar orders.
The girl sits lightly on the floor, holding her weight up with her arms; she smells of fruit and sweat.
“We should wash it but never mind.” Kawsar pulls apart the old plaits, sifting Deqo’s soft but dirty hair between her fingers, massaging jasmine oil into her scalp while Deqo toys absentmindedly with the bottle top.
The words of an old song play in Kawsar’s mind: “Love, love isn’t fair, teardrops always chase behind.”
“Can I stay here for a while?” Deqo asks.
Kawsar’s heart is beating hard, her breath shallow and quiet. She wants time to end at this moment, for there to be nothing in the world beyond her nimble fingers and the girl’s hair to spin into silk. There must be a hunch-backed toothless sorceress somewhere who weaves all these disparate people together, thinks Kawsar, who carelessly throws this child together with me, while families are ripped apart.
Resting a hand on the girl’s narrow, sinuous back, she can feel the heat of her soul through the oily palm of her hand, as smooth and alive as an egg. She doubts that incandescence can simply disappear. If they are killed right here, would their ghosts continue as they are, the old ghost plaiting and the young one waiting, fidgeting? She can imagine that, the silence and peacefulness of it, a source of envy to passers-by—battling with the rage and chaos of life—who happen to glance in through the barred window.