#Abuya Press

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Por lo menos 15 feligreses católicos mueren en ataque en Burkina Faso Información de agencia Associated Press, Feb-25-2024. ABUYA, Nigeria (AP) — Por lo menos 15 feligreses católicos fueron asesinados en una aldea de Burkina Faso el domingo, cuando hombres armados atacaron una comunidad que se había reunido para rezar en el norte del país, informaron fuentes eclesiásticas. La violencia en la http://dlvr.it/T3F2sm

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Final Words

Sometimes we don’t know when the words we speak will be our last...

1,472 words. Angst. Mine & their family.

It was close to autumn now, maybe a month before the Matahari tribe would make their annual trip back to Balayu for winter, and for raya.

While Nopal and the surrounding regions braved the cold, the tribe would enjoy the temperate climate of their homeland and the welcoming embrace of their loved ones. The raya season was a time of festivities and celebrations, for family and friends.

However, this year, the usual festive spirit was missing, replaced by a gloomy aura that permeated the air.

A number of the tribespeople were missing, and people spoke of their absences in hushed tones. It was the Vesuvian sickness, the strange one that stained eyes red and left people choking up blood, that had spread quickly and suddenly like divine retribution.

(It wouldn’t be surprising with their count’s reputation.)

Nearly every member of the tribe that had done business in Vesuvia had been infected, forced to stay back in the city while the tribe discussed the next course of action.

How could anyone celebrate when their loved ones were trapped in that awful city, where death seemed more imminent every day? What could be done in such a hopeless situation?

Nothing.

Well, unless you were Mine.

Mine strode into the tent cheerfully, coin in hand, plans in their head.

It had been tough gathering money for the supplies, but after weeks of performing tricks, running around doing errands, taking up every job they could, they finally had enough to set up that medical tent for the sick. They had even procured some masks the doctors in Vesuvia were using.

“Ibuya, ummi, baba,” Mine bowed, greeting each of their respective parents.

“Mine,” Hasrizal, or better known as Hari, chief of the tribe and Mine’s ibuya, gave their eldest a gentle smile. “Sit down.” They gestured to the pillow.

“I have good news,” Mine said, excitedly rocking back and forth on their seat. “We made more than enough to set up the tent and supplies! It should last until we get to Balayu, then maybe we could get further treatment? It’ll be much easier to take care of them with more of our family around.”

“Mine…” ummi said hesitantly.

They stiffened. No, they heard wrong, ummi never hesitated; she was the fire, the drive of the tribe, the one who taught Mine to fight as a child.

“What’s, what’s wrong?”

Baba sighed. “You’ve done a lot, Mine. We appreciate the effort.”

“But?”

“But we’re not bringing the infected with us,” ibuya said.

Mine’s eyes widened, their mouth agape. “What?”

“We can’t risk the disease spreading to the rest of the tribe. They’ll be able to get better treatment in Vesuvia anyway.”

“They said the treatments there aren’t working! We, we can’t just leave them–”

Ibuya sighed. “Mine, our tribe is small. We’re not like the count of Vesuvia who can spare hundreds of his people at a wave of his hand. The wellbeing of the tribe comes first.”

“So you’re just going to leave them behind? During raya?”

“Even if we could do something, they won’t last long,” ummi said. “The disease… it’s known to kill quickly.”

Fire rushed through Mine, and they jumped to their feet, “But they’re alive! We can still do something about them, we can still help them! How-how could you even–”*

“That’s enough, Mine,” baba said sternly. “We have discussed it. This is the best course of action for everyone.”

“Not for the people we’re leaving behind.” Staring into each of their faces, the look in their eyes told Mine they would not be swayed. “At least, let me–”

“No.” Mine blinked; it was ibuya who had spoken. “I’m not speaking to you as your parent, but as your chief. My decision is final, and as my heir, I expect you to respect me.”

Respect? How could ibuya even think about respect at a time like this? People’s lives were at stake here!

“I won’t,” Mine said through gritted teeth.

“Mine–”

“I don’t accept your decision! If you won’t help them, then I will. I’m leaving.”

“Don’t be stupid,” ummi said. “You could die, Mine! You still have responsibilities towards this tribe, this family!”

”You have seven other children. I’m sure you can find a replacement.”

“Mine!” baba gasped.

Ibuya held out their arms, stopping both of their spouses from getting up. They looked to Mine, their piercing gaze meeting hers.

“Is this your final say on the matter?”

“Is leaving them yours, chief?”

Ibuya nodded. Mine reached for the keris in her belt, the keris that had been given to her the day ibuya announced her as their successor. She pulled it out and knelt before her ibuya, holding out the blade to them.

Ummi and baba both gasped. It was insolent, it was rude, but Mine had no desire to continue being the next chief, not if it meant abandoning her people.

As a sign of respect, Mine kept her eyes down, but she saw ibuya’s hands had clenched into fists, knuckles turning white.

Ibuya stood up and took the keris from her hands. “Yazmin Kaseh Hasrizal, you are hereby banished from the Matahari tribe. You are to leave before dawn. After a period of six months, you may return to contest your banishment. Should you fail to return within one year, you will no longer be considered one of this tribe. You will be a stranger, unwelcome amongst us.”

Mine nodded, glancing up now. There were tears in ibuya’s eyes, and Mine’s own eyes watered at the sight. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed baba was tearing up as well, while ummi looked ashen.

The rage in their chest dimmed a little, but there was no turning back now.

“We take care of our own, ibuya,” she whispered. “We always do.”

“Go,” ibuya said.

Mine got to their feet and turned to leave, just as the tears started pouring down their face.

The tent they shared with their siblings was empty, all of them were probably still eating dinner. Mine tossed their belongings into various bags, quiet sobs escaping their mouth as they worked.*

Once they were done, they hurried to the edge of the encampment, where the horses were kept. They would ride one to Nopal, leave the horse with a tribe member, and take the wheat beast the rest of the way to Vesuvia.

They took one last glance at the their tribe, their people. Further away, light radiated from fires and there were sounds of happy chatter and laughter.

Mine was sure if she ran now, to any campfire, everyone there would greet her with smiles and hot food, just like always.

These people, her tribe, she’d been told her whole life that one day she would be responsible for everyone here. One day, they would all look to her to lead and protect them. It had never felt like a heavy burden, because Mine loved everyone here, of course she would give everything to take care of them.

Just like how everyone here would do the same for her. That was how their family worked; they took care of their own.

Mine choked back another sob, and rubbed at their eyes furiously with their sleeve. The time for tears was over. They had to move before someone noticed.

They saddled one of the faster horses. Just as they were about to climb up, someone slammed into their back, almost knocking them over.

“Don’t go!”

“Din…” Tajudin, the second child, the one after Mine.

He had his arms around them, pressing his body close. They could feel him shaking.

“Please, Along, please,” he sobbed. “Don’t go.”

She managed to turn enough so that the two of them were facing. Tajudin was taller, curse him, but he was still a crybaby, still Mine’s baby brother.

They ruffled his soft curls. “Din– I’m sorry, I have to. People need my help–”

“What about us? We’re your family and we need you here! Y-you’re the one who’s supposed to be chief, Along, not me. Don’t go, please. I’m sure, I’m sure if you talk to ibuya and ummi and baba, they’ll take back what they said.”

Mine unclasped his hands gently and pushed him away. “I need to go now.”

They got on the horse before he could stop them, but he managed to grab their sleeve in time.

Leaning over, Mine wiped his tears with their other sleeve, and placed a hand on his. “It’s going to be alright, silly. I’ll be back soon.”

“P-promise? You’re def-definitely c-c-coming back?”

“Of course.” Mine kissed his forehead. “Take care of everyone for me, alright? You’re the Along after me, you know?”

“Stay safe,” he whispered, and released their sleeve.

But that was the last time Tajudin, or anyone in the Matahari tribe, ever spoke to Mine again.

Notes:

- Ibuya is an amalgam of ‘abuya’ & ‘ibu’, terms used for father & mother respectively. The term was created by me since there is no gender neutral word for parent in Malay

- Along is a nickname given to the eldest child

- A keris is a type of dagger, asymmetrical in shape. It is considered a significant part of Malay culture