Chapter 9

The cold seemed to penetrate through the prison clothes into her bare flesh. She struck a match and lit a candle. A faint glow illuminated the room. A kind female warder diligently supplied her with packs of candles and matchboxes throughout the five years that she had spent behind bars. Her cellmate, a middle-aged woman who had earned a jail term for murdering her husband, stirred in her sleep, muttering a few incoherent words. The other inmate who was released the previous year usually complained about the light. This one arrived just the previous day and Ntone had only heard her say four words, ‘Where do I sleep?’ Ntone had immediately pointed at the bunk bed beneath hers and that was it.

The woman sneezed. Ntone knew that the flame was disturbing her breathing. A small window above the bunk served as the only means of ventilation. She remained still as she was unable to flip through the pages of the hard cover notebook before her. She gritted her teeth as the woman’s eyelids flickered open and began to count in her heart. A verbal explosion was inevitable.

“Don’t you sleep?” the woman asked in a loud voice that was as deep as a man’s voice. Ntone stopped counting at the number, forty one. She didn’t know if a reply was needed. She however stammered a response.

“I’m sorry ma, I love writing.”

“What do you write about?” the bed creaked as she sat up.

“Go on. I’m interested.” She said when Ntone remained silent.

“I write stories that portray the pain of women who have been abused.”

A moment of silence passed. The woman had her head bowed. Ntone swallowed hard, thinking desperately.

“That’s good.” She nodded. “You are a brave girl.

I wish my daughter was brave too.” Ntone smiled gratefully. “Tomorrow, I’ll tell you my story. It will help you.” She muttered drowsily and sprawled back on the bed.

Ntone heaved in relief, and bent over the notebook. Her pen seemed to bleed with her heart as she laid bare the pain that lurked there. The security officers always demanded sex from female prisoners in return for small favours. Derogatory names were used to address the female prisoners and the plight of the girl child in the society. She just wanted to let it all out. She believed she could still dream about hope for the downtrodden. She wrote about her expectations for the girl child. The girl child was the rose that should be allowed to bloom. She thought about what her cellmate had said wondering if she too had been abused. Hours later, when she flipped through the pages of the book, she knew that the prison walls could not stop her from expressing her dreams.

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“Hey! You better get to work.” A female warder barked, referring to Mrs. Johnson, Ntone’s cellmate. They were scrubbing the toilet floors and Mrs.

Johnson had briefly risen to her feet for a brief rest. “Don’t you think you are overdoing this hard labour thing?” The chubby woman grunted, referring to the sentence of life imprisonment with hard labour that she was serving.

“One more word from you and I would have you taken to isolation. I don’t care if you are a celebrity.”

Ntone looked up from her crouched position on the floor, and almost immediately continued scrubbing. Mrs. Johnson hissed and stooped once again beside Ntone. They scrubbed the tiles on the floor and wall until they saw the departing figure of the warder.

“She called you a celebrity. Are you one?” Ntone blurted out, the moment she was sure that the warder was completely out of sight.

Mrs. Johnson laughed mirthlessly, suddenly scrubbing the wall with greater zeal.

“I am a writer and I’ve authored several books. My name is Barbara Johnson.”

Ntone gasped, briefly releasing her hold on the spiky brush. It fell on the ground with a loud thud. She quickly picked it up, hoping that the sound would not attract the attention of the warders. When no one appeared, she looked at the other woman in unconcealed amazement. The name Barbara Johnson rang numerous bells. Who hadn’t heard of Barbara Johnson? Her works had received widespread acclaim. Ntone had read quite a number of books authored by her.

“Are you really Barbara Johnson?”

“Don’t I look like the photographs you’ve seen?”

“Oh my God!” Ntone gasped, suddenly noticing the resemblance. It was really her. She rubbed her eyes, peering closely at the woman. “What are you doing here?”

“I promised to tell you my story. Maybe, this is a good time to do so.” Barbara Johnson said, suddenly flinging the brush aside. She sat on the floor and Ntone did same.

“I am here because of my husband. We were married for twenty five years and had a daughter. I started writing before I met my husband. During our courtship, I asked him if he was okay with the fact that I was a writer because I wouldn’t stop. He replied by saying that he was my biggest fan. Things however changed after I gave birth to Susan, my daughter. He began to complain about my works, saying I wasn’t spending time with the baby. This of course wasn’t true. He griped so much that I stopped writing. The international community was surprised that I had decided to stop writing. Several times on interviews, people wanted to know the reason for my prolonged silence. I always replied by saying that I wasn’t strong enough to write anymore. My daughter completed her secondary education and gained admission into the university the same year. I decided it was time to continue addressing the issues that I felt were plaguing society. I couldn’t close my eyes anymore to the plight of women. My husband started complaining again. He said I was a sexist and that I was indirectly saying that I was also abused by my husband at home. He threatened to destroy my works even though I tried my best to be a good wife and mother. Last year, I received three Orange fiction awards. The book I began to write after many years of silence seemed to touch many lives and helped hurt women to heal. I received the literary icon award, humanitarian award and lifetime achievement award. My husband had watched the show on television because he refused to accompany me to the award night. I arrived home however to see the most sorrowful sight I had ever witnessed in my life. My husband had burnt the original manuscript of my work, ‘Beautified Pain.’ It was my most recent work. It had not even been typed yet. I watched my sweat, ideas, and pain burn into ashes. My husband had burnt it and my daughter stood beside him watching. Till today, I don’t know what he told her to get her on his side. She had always supported me and countless times, I had seen that gleam in her eyes that told the world how proud she was of her mother. It suddenly occurred to me that this same daughter had turned down my request to accompany me to the award ceremony. My work was gone and I could see my husband’s mocking eyes as they danced before me in victory. I watched my daughter hiss and stomp to her room. I opened my mouth to scream but nothing came out. My legs couldn’t support me anymore. They suddenly gave way and I found myself on the floor. Afterwards, when I rose to my feet, I didn’t know what was happening around me. I was dazed. The sinister grin still played on my husband’s face. His eyes were cold as they regarded me like a spectator in an event. I must have played the role of a mad woman well to get his unwavering attention. I ripped my gown apart, pulled off my shoes and ran on bare feet to our bedroom. He followed me there.”

“You will never ever write a single line again in your life.” He said.

“Those words pierced through my heart like a dagger. I couldn’t take it anymore. It dawned on me that he hated me for being so powerful. He didn’t like it. I painfully realised that my husband was one of the characters I wrote against. For many years, he had killed my dreams and I had allowed him to. I thought of the ideas that I would have shared with the world during those long silent years but I had allowed my ink to waste. Now, he had burnt my work threatening to completely destroy me. He didn’t predict my next move and neither did I. I reached for the flower vase on my dressing table, and flung it at him. The vase, which was quite heavy, hit him squarely on the forehead. It was only after I saw him fall to the ground that I realised what I had done. He died before we got to the hospital. My daughter disappeared after spitting in my face. I was charged for murder and that is how I found myself here. I told the court the circumstances that led to the incident pleading that it was an accident. My daughter however testified against me saying that I had on several occasions threatened to kill her father. No one believed me. I was sentenced to life imprisonment with hard labour.” “Now you’ve heard my story. Why are you here?”

“Just like me.” Ntone muttered in a grave voice, recounting the incident that had brought her to prison. “Don’t ever lose hope. We might be here for a reason. This might just be your breakthrough ground.” Ntone chortled at this comment.

“It’s life imprisonment. Don’t forget that.”

“You have started by becoming a voice behind the lofty walls. I wasn’t inspired to do that, but even the stench of the prison couldn’t drown your aspiration. Don’t end up like me, regretting those long silent years. You can be the voice behind the prison walls.”

The sound of heavy boots caused the women to look up. They jumped to their feet at the sight of the warder.

“You two have the nerves. You would certainly go without food today.” She thundered.

For the first time, Ntone didn’t mind the threat. Only the echo of Barbara Johnson’s voice reverberated in her head. “You can be the voice behind the prison walls!”