Cry in the Sun

Allie Ituen

Description

A Cry in the Sun is about two young women, united to overcome the limitations of cultural conditioning. Hanatu Samson is twenty-two years old. Her Papa has given her chance of a university education to her younger brother, Tim, and attempts to force her into a polygamous marriage to a wealthy entrepreneur, Benson Abraham. When Hanatu defies her father's wishes, she discovers a deep need to, also, defy the culture of silence over sexual abuse - her ten-year-old cousin, Esther, sobs for justice. Following the sudden death of her mother, Hanatu goes job-hunting, where she meets Karl Abraham. There is something so magnetic between Hanatu and Karl. True love emerges. He shares her determination to find justice for Esther.Meanwhile, Teresa Etebio is already trapped in a loveless marriage. She suffers constant abuse at the hands of her mother-in-law, Bimbo, from whom she has escaped FGM. However, Teresa is unable to save her step daughter, Lola, from the same ordeal, and when Teresa gives birth to a daughter, she must protect her infant from being mutilated. She leaves to find a new identity, and true love.

Informations

• Publié par: eBook Versions
• Date de parution: 08 octobre 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781843963301
• Langue: English

Extrait

Published by Lordship Publishing

Copyright © 2015 Allie Ituen
All rights reserved

Allie Ituen has asserted her right
under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988 be identified as the author
of this work

ISBN-13 978-1-84396-330-1

Also available in paperback
ISBN 978-1-50850-795-6

This ebook is sold subject to the
condition that it shall not, by way of
trade or otherwise, be copied, lent,
resold, hired out, or otherwise
circulated without the author s
prior consent in any form without
similar conditions being imposed
on the subsequent purchaser.

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A
CRY IN THE
SUN


Allie Ituen




LORDSHIP PUBLISHING
For Christa


Toutes les grandeurs de
ce monde ne valent pas un bon ami.

Voltaire
Contents


Cover
Copyright Credits
Dedication
Title Page

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three

Acknowledgements
One


Hanatu stirred and woke. She couldn t have slept for more than three hours. She remained motionless for a while, wondering why she had been restless all night.
The overhead fan slowed down and squeaked to a halt. Not again, she sighed. As the heat began to stifle her, she pushed her bedclothes into a sprawl about her knees. Then she rose and gave the window louvers a little tilt to let in some air. Sitting on the bed, she groped for matches on the bedside table and lit the lamp. The spiky smell of kerosene fumes stung her nose like snuff.
I don t want you to marry that man. Amy s voice was soft like coconut oil. I don t like him. He has no nose and his face is big and round like the sun. Do you want to marry him, Hana?
Hanatu looked at her watch. Five a.m. It troubled her that her seven-year-old sister was already awake, worrying about adult issues. She gazed across the room at the face bathed in the glow of the lamplight. She beckoned. Di …come.
Amy slipped out of bed to sit on Hanatu s lap and smothered a yawn as she snuggled deeper into Hanatu. Is Mama coming back today? Without waiting for a response, she hastened. I don t know why Papa wants you to marry that ugly man. Do you want to? Her tone, now panic-stricken, underlined a need for an answer.
Hanatu tightened her arms around Amy, wishing she could hold her forever, as if letting go would suck strength out of her. Gently, she swayed Amy, relishing the comfort, as she always did when she held her sister close. Hanatu often explained things to Amy, but not this time. Instead she answered the easier question.
Yes, Amy, Mama is coming back today. Go back to sleep. You can sleep in my bed. Hanatu reached out for a magazine on the wooden stool by the window and began to fan her sister, watching her fall asleep.
The clatter of buckets and basins from the village green gave her a mild start. She rose and peered through the slit in the louvers. Moving forms silhouetted around the communal pumps. She always drew water at about nine before going to bed to avoid the rush in the morning. But the pumps had been locked last night.
The coolness of the concrete soothed her feet as she padded across the floor to her brother s bedroom on the other side of the landing. She touched him on the shoulder. Tim turned onto his back, opened his eyes slightly and squinted up at her. Hana, he croaked, What do you want?
We need to go and fetch water, she said firmly, to stop him protesting. I think the pumps are still locked. She picked up his boxer shorts and a T-shirt from the floor and threw them over his face. Hurry, she said, leaving the room.
The hazy January Harmattan wind wafted from the Atlantic and glided past the hill that rose at the centre of Maketa, the tiny Nigerian village nestling in the womb of Akwa Ibom State. After fetching two jerry cans, she gathered her abundant braid of hair to the back, twisted it into a bun and held it in place with a clip. Out of the compound, they picked their way between potholes, piercing the silvery film of the tropical dawn. A musty scent rose from the bleached cornfields that skirted the path. From the mud-and-thatch houses and cement bungalows, shrouded in the mist, lamps shone thinly here and there, lending the path a mock illumination. Hanatu walked past the track that led to the river.
Tim complained. We ve missed the turning. Where are we going?
They should have been at the river as early as five in order to get clean, clear water. It was way past five. The water would be stirred-up by now, troubled water of indefinable colour: zinc, copper. Undrinkable. But Mama s friend had borehole pumps for water supply. Mama was always welcome.
To Mama s friend.
Hanatu heard eerie noises in the wild cassava garden. She sidestepped in silence, motioning Tim to walk in front of her, where she could see him. She felt silly doing this, being only five foot five inches tall, while Tim was far stronger, a six-footer with broad shoulders, and far more capable of warding off any danger. She was only doing what Mama would have done: Mama always made the younger person walk in front.
Tim asserted. Go on, Hana.
When they arrived there, one of the maids came out, recognised Hanatu and took them to the back to fill their containers. Hanatu thanked her profusely.
By the time they reached home, pristine blue suffused the sky, gently touching the tree-tops far off on the crest of the hill, giving the illusion that heaven and humanity fraternised. The early morning sunshine cast soft beams over their magenta painted bungalow in its entirety. At the back of the house, in the mud-and-thatch house, where they used to live before the bungalow was built, they set down the water.
A goat bleated. It cried. It lamented, as if clasped hands encircled its throat. Tim poked his head into the shed and ordered it to be quiet. Hanatu giggled; she would never understand why her brother talked to animals. She was now sitting on a stool, a yellow plantain in one hand, a knife in the other and a bowl of water in front of her. Tim, go and get Amy and Jonathan ready for school while I prepare breakfast.
Soon, the hot, sweet smell of cornmeal porridge and fried plantains filled the air. She cut an avocado and mashed it into a smooth paste, seasoned with a dash of salt, lemon and coarse black pepper. This was for Jonathan. He called it green butter, and he and Amy, cute in their burgundy and white uniform, came out just as Hanatu plastered a chunky slice of bread with it. When Amy saw a packet of Lipton, her brown eyes flashed dissatisfaction. She threw her school bag on the beige sofa. I want grey tea.
Earl Grey was Mama s special tea, given to her by Hanatu s friend, who travelled to London often. Mama loved it and hardly ever shared it for fear of running out before Hanatu s friend brought some more.
Amy, you know the Earl Grey is for Mama, Hanatu warned.
I don t want Lipton tea. I want grey tea. She smashed the spoon in the porridge, spattering the wooden table.
Something was wrong. Grey tea wasn t the issue. Amy had never particularly asked for it before. Could it be the imminent marriage? Could it be Mama s absence? Hanatu pushed it to the back of her mind. Okay, she placated, grey tea it is. She turned to Jonathan. And you, Jon, you re okay? Hanatu spoke diffidently so as to discourage another tantrum.
Amy is not okay, Jonathan replied, his voice heavy with concern, leaving you in no doubt as to the pain he felt when his twin sister was unhappy. What a fatherly tone! Hard to believe he was only twenty minutes older than her. He kept looking at Amy as they ate, and held her hand firmly when they left for school.

Hanatu smothered a yawn with the back of her hand. The restlessness of last night had left her physically drained. She thought about going to lie down, but the hibiscus and the canna plants breaking out in a riot of yellow, purple and red, just off the verandah, drew her. She fetched secateurs, gathered a handful and arranged them deftly in a white vase and threw in some palm fronds, giving the bunch an iridescent richness. Taking off her slippers, she stepped into the living room, glistening with faux tiles and placed it on the cupboard below the wedding picture of Mama and Papa on the wall. She took three tiled steps that led to the landing and walked past her parents and siblings bedrooms. The beaded curtains jingled as she walked into hers. This was a special room to which she had given three names. When she was elevated to a spiritual arena, with a Bible in her hands, she called it ‘my sanctuary . When she sat on the cushioned stool in front of the dressing table to embellish herself, it was ‘my boudoir . Now it was traditionally her bedroom. She sat on the bed and swept her gaze around the walls decorated with photos of every member of the family – group and individual photos – the one of Mama and Papa hanging prominently right above the wooden chest of drawers. She flicked her gaze over to the one of herself taken when she was crowned ‘Miss Maketa Group School and smiled: those carefree days of the past when she saw everything with starry, innocent eyes and the unshakable belief that she could have it all – in equal measure – no sacrifices. It had never occurred to her that one could or should absorb the other.

When Papa woke, he and Hanatu took breakfast together. The sunshine streamed in through the window, incandescent, so glorious. The breeze rippled the trees, and patterns of foliage waltzed over the breakfast table. Papa sipped his tea. Well done, Hana. I m proud of you, the way you look after every