CASSayuran

Kambing


Orange colored my first memories of slaughter.


On the evening before Eid, I joined my cousins at the doorway. Cajoled by their excited chatter, I could only pick up on the words, “kambing, kambing!” as they stared at something outside. Curious, I stuck my head out too.


Our old ancestral home sits on a slouching back of a mountain. Other houses, if they were not overtaken by the overwhelming flora, placed themselves like staircases on the steeping land, their sharp, triangular roofs jutting out like grooves of a spine. When I stood outside amongst the plants, I could see our rightside neighbor’s whole yard and house, contained by a red gate frequently left open for others—other kin, other neighbors—to walk in as they pleased. On our left was a wall of cinderblock, separating a palm of land with banana trees sticking out like fingers. Tita Aznia, who was much closer to our age than the rest of her siblings, would wheedle one or two boys to cross over the wall and pluck wilting banana tree leaves from their trunks. All just to use them in play. It felt better than letting them drop on the soil to rot. Otherwise, Aznia scolded us from picking fresh ones, saying, “it's such a waste!”


There were fresh banana leaves on the grounds of the lever-less waterpump. Nothing like the dry brown thatches we plucked out. Then, the gates creaked. Two figures emerged from the night: two of my titos, who each led a goat by rope. The outdoor light from our downstep neighbor washed them in an orange glow. They led the goats, one with white fur and the other completely black, to the patch of shining leaves. One of my titos suddenly left, off to fetch what I knew now to be a large, sharp blade.


My cousins’ and I’s attention were fixed on our uncle who stayed with the bleating goats. We were silent now, transfixed as our tito handled the animals with odd care. Reverent, almost. He laid each goat on its side, the animals strangely docile. They remained locked in that position—my tito with both hands laid gently on their long necks until my other tito returned. We all stood straighter when we saw what he held: a bolo sharpened to a gleam.


It was quick. The goats were brought softly to their ends, their thin legs still twitching. My tito’s bolo knife released a tar black river from their throats, with it staining the banana leaves where the bodies laid atop and the concrete ground around the pump. I think I heard one bleat, but it was more of a squeal, really. The second to last proof of life exiting the lungs. The final evidence was made to dye the green weeds brown when it dried.


The braver of us cousins approached the prone bodies as they twitched and keened. Their curious little shadows curved over slaughter, their eyes bright as the draining blood reflected stars and an orange sun back at them. I didn’t go. I was not curious enough to do the same. Later, I saw my titos lay more leaves atop the bodies, their heads already smoothly removed. By morning come, all that remained near the pump was an indistinct dark stain, which continued to fade as my family filled gallons with water in preparation for a sudden water cut. The faded red would be gone by late afternoon, just in time for asar.


Meanwhile, my mother and titas took over the kitchen. Even Aznia was there, crouching, made to crush spices in a wooden mortar. I did not go near her, for fear that I would begin to sneeze. Instead, I focused on the large stirring soup presided over by tita Potre, the eldest of my titas. It was a rich, honey brown. Almost orange. When I stood over it, however, I knew it was the farthest thing from sweet.


“What's that?” I had asked, pointing at the pinkish chunks mixed in with numerous vegetables.


Tita Potre laughs, the sound emerging deep and warm from her belly. “Don't you know? You saw them last night.”


I frowned. Saw who?


“Don't confuse her like that,” Aznia cuts in. When I turned my head to look at her, Aznia’s glare had already softened. “It's kambing, Fia. We’re cooking for our visitors later.”


“Oh.” Surprisingly, no recollection of fear passed through me. No disgust, no sorrow, but an ever-present child’s wonder remained. I asked again, “is it hot?” Now to the entirety of the cooking soup.


“Very!” My mother chimed up from in front of the sink. “I do not think you can eat it, Sofia. Too much for you.”


Aznia protests on my behalf, pointing out how else would I get used to the spice. Tita Potre laughs again, before leaning down to whisper to me, all conspiratorial. The tufts of silver hair falling over her crescent eyes did little to hide her amusement. “Your mama just doesn’t like the smell of goat. She thinks it smells bad. That's why she doesn't eat it, either.”


“Kaka!” said my mother, indignant.


“But the taste?”


“The taste of kambing?” Tita Potre hums. Her curled, orange-stained fingers went to rest on her jutting lower lip. She seemed to think it over, her eyebrows making a funny dance on her face before she leaned down again and said in a stage whisper:


“It’s just like beef. But bonier, chewier, and smellier.”

My mother has this funny habit when she does not want to speak after being pressed for answers. Her nostrils flare before the rest of her face catches up: her mouth twists, her nose wrinkles, and her eyes flare, as if they, too, were offended. I think she would not have hated this habit so much if not for my father pointing it out whenever it happens. He would tease her, likening her to different animals he swore displayed the same behavior. My father would list them off, until you could see the blood set high on my mother’s cheeks and temples, and she would throw her hands up in defeat. Then, with great pains, she would admit to what was upsetting her. That was how it usually goes, except for today.


“Umi told me over-call not to visit,” she said, serious enough to make my father pause. “She never does that, you already know. Unless she is angry with abi, she always wants us to visit— especially with Sofia.”


By the mention of my name, I look up from my place at the backseat of the car. Unlike our typical visits back to the province in Lanao, this was not in time for any holidays, celebrations, or family news. I was disappointed by the prospect of being the only child there, but I was reassured that, at the very least, tita Aznia would be around to keep me company.


“Ah, Ina’s probably just worried. ‘Napping cases are popping up there again. I even heard of one from Iligan recently,” said my father, casually.


“Christian?” Asked mama.


“Must be. He had a Christian name. A shame, no? I heard he was a good teacher.”


My mother clicked her tongue. “Fantastic. They’re taking professionals now.”


They continued on like this for the rest of the ride. Talk of news. Gossip. Business ventures. I was content to rest my cheek on the window, watching the glass fog up from my breath. Before it cleared, I took a finger and doodled on the temporary canvas, thinking of the games I could play with tita Aznia. When it was us alongside my numerous cousins, we would play games either outside or on the second floor, which annoyed the adults when the thump, thump, thump of our joy threatened to bring down the decades-old wooden floorboard. Kuya Ali, who was also five, but was older than me by a few months, had his foot stuck in the decaying wood when he jumped to avoid me during langit-lupa. We spent long, anxious seconds trying to pull him out before I was shamefully made to fetch the adults. My mama was livid. Aznia turned as pale as a pearl. And tita Potre’s bellowing laughter made the house shake like banana stalks in the wind.


My favorite game, however, had to be pretending to manage a carenderia. I usually posed as the head chef with the various leaves and wild plants we picked. Depending on who was with us, Aznia was either my assistant cook or my eatery’s most loyal suki. Green almond-shaped leaves were our currency. When I announced the prices of my precious cooking, plated on little plastic toy plates or the covers of empty ice-cream tubs, tita Aznia would pull the almond leaves from behind her back and place them down to count. Ten pesos. Twenty pesos. Thirty pesos. She would count them with her index, as serious as those Chinese businessmen, and then proclaim something like: “one-fifty pesos. Is that enough, chef? ”And I would solemnly nod and serve her assorted leaves on a plate.

I fell asleep somewhere around the round-about roads going up the mountains, when concrete and steel buildings disappeared and were replaced by red arrows guiding drivers around strong curves. I only woke up when my father was parking the car, with my mother leaning her head and shoulders out the window, saying, “go,” or “stop!” As she guided him on his blindside.


I left the car with sticky eyelids and a red window print on my cheek. I was a difficult waker. With me still yawning, my mother held my hand through the only path towards my grandparents' house. It was a difficult walk. Not for its length, but the various obstacles in the form of wet mud, random bushes and weeds, slippery rocks, and an upward steepness. I was thankful we arrived during the afternoon, because navigating our steps at night would be a whole other challenge. Despite it all, my mother and I made it to the gate with my father trailing behind with our bags. My mother made a fist and banged on the old, rusted gate. The metal’s loud, grating sound bounced off my mother’s knuckles. It was a painful noise, but there was no other way to announce ourselves. I stayed silent, still sleepy, while my mother called out:


“As-salamu alaikum!”


Silence stretched. Then, we heard the creak of the giant front door, followed by a faint reply, “wa alaikumu salam.”


The seesaw grind of the lock sounded the air, making my shoulders raise to my ears. As soon as the gate opened, my ina’s sharp, lined face appeared.


“Umi,” said my mama. A relieved sigh. She reached out to her mother, turned her face to the side, and pressed their cheeks together in a greeting. Mama held her there for a second. Then, separating. My ina’s eyes immediately fell on me, and I knew to go closer.


Ina made for a distinct figure. She, too, had the curl and hobble of many elders I knew. Her body the proof of a life well-lived. Black spots littered her skin like too-ripe mangoes. Eyes more inclined to squint. Yet, for someone in her nineties-something, her stare and mind still shone with clarity. Mama sometimes complained that ina grew softer over the years. Especially, with how she is with her youngest daughter and her grandchildren. Yet, it was hard to think of her, all stern and heavy-handed with knives and ladles alike, as related to soft at all.


But I suppose I can feel her softness instead. Her yellow and black malong, held up to her chest, is warm despite the typically chilly air of Lanao. The hands cradling my face are firm, but the kiss pressed on top of my head is anything but. “Sofia,” she greets. She says my name like it’s a new discovery. Indignant surprise coloring the first sounds, but then stretching out the final vowels like a song.


“Ina.” I smiled up at her. Her hand pinches my cheek.


She nods to my father behind us and leads us inside. Her and my mother have already begun talking in the tongue I couldn’t yet quite understand, to my ina’s constant dismay. My father occasionally chimed in, before entering a room to set down our bags. I follow the two to the kitchen, where the open doorway’s beaded curtain morphs and twinkles at my passing. On the old, long table sat my ama.


I had always likened ama to a statue. Not a marble one, however. Perhaps one carved from a mountainous rock: dark grey, turning a deep blue under stormclouds and rain. He would not be alone, though, as I can easily imagine bright moss, flowers, and vines around him. Yes, he would be the kind of placidity that likened stone, but stood still enough to invite life to crawl over him like unruly children. Ama had a green thumb, fittingly enough. Outside, his potted plants thrived, and I occasionally saw him with garden sheers. He would be humming low, while closely holding the leaves in-between his index and thumb. Unhealthy, wilting parts were snipped off without a blink.


I approached him near where he sat. Then, as if he were truly a statue waking up, he blinks slowly at me. Ama places a gentle hand on the top of my head. I feel like one of his plants under his stare, before the hand retreats. The warmth goes, too.


“Where’s tita Aznia?” My sleepiness had gone, replaced with urgency.


My mother’s nostrils flare. The lines on ina’s forehead deepens.


No one was made to answer my question, and I prepared to ask again, before mama finally says, “your tita Aznia is very busy, it turns out. Don’t go bothering her now.”


I frown. “But she’s here.”


My mother seemed to chew on her words, before acquiescing. “Yes, she’s upstairs, but again: don’t go up there, Sofia. She’s studying very hard, as she should be. If you want to play, wait and let Aznia go down by herself.”


I was quite upset at this, and left the kitchen in a hurry. My lungs felt weighted. Before I could leave by the kitchen backdoor, I heard tita Aznia’s name come up again alongside another. I did not recognize it to belong to any of my relatives. Mama sounded stressed. Perhaps, I could come upstairs when no one else was looking, I am sure Aznia would be just as upset if I didn’t tell her I was here. Satisfied, I set off to the large backyard outside, where I was sure our makeshift kitchen was still arranged.


At the back of the house, the land opens like a maw. Here, ama leaves the wild plants untouched.


Many times, I would notice shallow cuts on my arms after brushing past the tall grass, while the low, dense shrubbery muffled my steps during tago-tagoan. I make my steps long and slow, hyperaware of the hidden spots of mud who would clamp on my poor slippered foot and cause me to lose balance. By the cinderblock wall, there is a small clearing, made flat and dusty from years of trampling, overexcited feet. I remember placing our toy kitchen there, sure as ever that I would immediately come back after being called away for breakfast, lunch, snacks, or dinner. It becomes a habit to leave it there. It became a habit for them to wait.


Once I reached the clearing, I despaired at what I saw. Gone! My kitchen was gone! I could recognize the leaves we had picked scattered on the ground—evidence someone had moved it. Rather carelessly, even. Was it Aznia? I held my knuckles to my clenched teeth. Had tita Aznia moved our kitchen while I was away?


I let myself mull over the people who could have moved it: ina, ama, other titas, titos, and my numerous, curious cousins who could have come over while I was absent. After seconds—minutes, of just standing there, I resolved to find the toy pieces myself. I knew where to start, too.


Further down the back of this plot of land, stood a dilapidated, tiny cabin. I think the carpenter got confused while building it, because some of its walls were made with rusted metal roofs, including its rickety door. Aznia told me ama usually stored his gardening things there, along with other tools and hoarded scraps. Perhaps, the kitchen-thief had some sense and left my toys there to be found.


I would be a few steps away from going inside that unlit, dark storage, until the sight of another opened door caught my eye. Besides the tall, grey wall separating us from our banana tree neighbors next door, a far more crude, wood and brown-parasited iron wall separated us from the forest behind. Occasionally, people I did not know would walk right through to settle business with my grandparents, but I was more familiar with the sight of it being closed.


I drew closer to the hanging door, barely connected to its hinges on the wall. I deigned to close it. The unfamiliar sight bothered me more than I’d like. I already had my hand on the door, ready to shut with all the force I could manage from my body—before something stopped me. A distinct, putrid smell.


Beyond the feet-trodden path winding through the thicket of trees, I could see a pile of fresh, verdant green banana leaves. It curved over itself like a giant anthill, as a cloud of buzzing flies surrounded it. I am brought back to that moment two years ago, under the orange outdoor light. Now, I could see the same orange braiding itself into the tree stalks and the fallen leaves. Shades of yellow and green are mixed, as if with a spoon, with shadows hinting at sky-reflected blue.


I blink once. Twice. Then, my eyes drift to the darkened land beneath the pile. I realize it glistened, shined, instead of swallowing light like typical shadows. Under the afternoon sun, I discovered blood could be the brightest shade of red. Deep, bright red. Bright enough to rival the red accenting on my ama’s landap.


I frown. They must have slaughtered another goat recently. A really, really big goat, judging by the size of the pile. Except, that hardly made sense. Mama told me they only had goat when it was a special day. Otherwise, we mainly ate vegetables and lots and lots of fish here in Lanao. Proper meat like beef and goat, she said, was expensive. Chicken was fine, but here, they were often thin and small. Bisaya, as my mother called them. The house was too empty for a celebration, too. By now, I would have met tita Potre with her husband, tito Camar, with my cousins, Ali, Imah, Naya… and so many more of my relatives—my mother’s siblings. The house should not be as empty as it feels.


So, I am back to the problem lying before me: what was the slaughtered goat for? As I stared harder at the leaves and blood-stained land in front of me, I could even see small white rice spread around it. They wiggled, occasionally, in my line of sight. I scrub my eyes with my forearm, and they would stop. Perhaps, this was thrown out leftovers from a feast we had missed. I became upset for an entirely different reason, but it would explain the pile, the rice, and the flies.


To make sure, I had to see for myself. Stepping past the doorway, I tried guessing what I would find after I lifted the leaves. A goat’s head, maybe? Maybe a couple of heads, even, if it were for a big feast. I could imagine its strange, rectangle eyes staring blankly. Its horns would still be attached, although I couldn’t say the same for its tongue. Tita Potre said they also cooked the tongue, so it would not be a waste. I could hardly imagine eating my own tongue, though, so it was difficult to imagine the texture. Maybe there would be a pile of slow-cooked bones, with bits of meat still sticking onto them. Usually, ina would throw them out for the outdoor cats, but I could find no trace of a furry body slinking around now.


I stood a finger length away from the stained weeds and ground. The smell was sharper now, and it almost made me turn away. It smelled like leftovers abandoned on the sink for days. With no scent of accompanying spice, I could see why my mother would refuse to eat goat. The scent was wet. My nose and lungs drowned in it. I could already tell it would cling to my skin and clothes like water after I am a good distance away. For good measure, I put a palm to my wrinkling nose. When that hardly helped, I just pinched my nostrils close and began to breathe through my mouth. Even through my teeth and throat, I could tell the air stunk.


I had to do it quickly. I prepared to crouch and stretch my entire body over the red puddle. Lifting the leaves would hardly take any strength. Just my index and thumb. Before I could do it, however, I heard the rusted door shriek behind me. I nearly fell over.


A bang sounded. The iron door hitting the wall. A heavy, heavy crunch of grass.


“Sofia.” It was ama.


I turned to look at him. I know I did not do anything bad, but I still somehow felt guilty. His face was shadowed by the turning of the sun, and it was hard to tell what he was thinking—nevermind I never usually could. Once again, I am reminded of stone statues, solemnly staring at passersby below. Still, I recognized that tone. Not a call, but an admonition. I straighten. I could do nothing else but step away. Go, go. Away from the forest and leaves, and back into the house.


But before I could lose sight of the cabin, the rusted door, and of ama entirely, I stopped to stare at his still back. He had not moved except to make way for me to leave. Not even to cover his nose from the overwhelming stench. I watch him stay deathly still, until I hear my mother’s yelling travel over the shrubbery and grass. Yelling for me. I turn away, disappointment and curiosity weighing heavy in my belly.


Inside, I find mama and ina locked in what seemed like an argument. When they saw me, they hardly paused. Instead, mama pursed her lips and gestured at an already prepared place with food on the table, before turning back to her exchange with ina. Syllables were spat out like punches—sharp and swift. Sometimes, I wonder how they could stand to look at each other talking like that.


Nevermind, nevermind. I take my place on the kitchen table alone, my papa nowhere to be found. Tita Aznia still had not gone down too. I am thankful my mother prepared a spoon, as I did not know how to eat with my hands without being super messy. I would find rice on the floor, on the table, and under my feet. It was terrible to pick out.


The red rice was overlaid with brown soup and chunks of vegetables. Its glass plate was a pretty orange, much like the sunsets I would watch. When I took a full spoon to my mouth, I was surprised to feel what must have been meat. I chewed it thoroughly, trying to identify the texture. Nothing like chicken, fish, or beef. I pause on my meal. Perhaps kambing, then? Tita’s Potre’s words float back to me. I try to find the hidden pieces in the soup to examine it. It did not really feel like beef. I drew my nose closer to the plate. It did not smell like much. The soup and vegetables were far more strong in scent. No bones, either, as my mother had likely removed them beforehand. Utterly stumped, I could do nothing else but continue to eat. Perhaps tita Potre meant it in another way, or I was misremembering.


When I lifted my eyes from my plate, I was startled to find ina staring at me from the doorway leading to the kitchen. It was quiet now, too. Their conversation just finished. I did not want to seem ungrateful, so I was quick to try and finish my meal. All the while, ina’s dark, sharp stare did not leave me. Her stern mouth did not move. She was so, so still. Like ama. I begin to just swallow mouthfuls instead of chewing. A part of me was scared of choking, but another part just wanted to be rid of that look on ina’s face. I hear a wet plop on an empty part of the plate. My body felt cold. I was sweating.


Then, finally, I finished it. I was still trying to swallow down the last mouthful when I picked up the plate to place it on the sink. Ina finally moved when I was about to pass her, saving me the trouble of speaking with a full mouth.


My hands tremble when they place the empty plate on the sink. It clinks. I had long since swallowed the remaining meat, rice, and vegetables, but a particular aftertaste began to spread on my tongue. It tasted like my cut finger when I had carelessly grabbed onto the tall wild grass, intending to pick it. I hated the taste, but I still went up to ina, nervously grasping the hem of my shirt.


“Thank you,” I still wanted to seem well-mannered. “Kambing tasted good,” came my awkward addition. I did not anticipate a hand to fall gently on my head. Ina stroked my hair, and while her eyes were still dark, her stare did not seem so scary anymore.


“Kambing?” She muttered, almost as if she was not sure. Then she nodded. A slight, slow incline of her chin. “Ah, ows. Kambing. Good, very good.” I think I heard her chuckle, but it was a brief sound.


We leave the kitchen soon after. In our shared room, I find my father in the middle of his prayer. I waited for him to be done, and when he was, papa looked weirdly pale and grim. While he tried to smile, I saw how his hands shook as he rolled up the prayer mat. Later, my mother also enters the room. It was too early for my bedtime, but that was okay. When mama and papa are finally asleep, I planned to go up the second floor and finally see tita Aznia. Content with this plan, I close my eyes and pretend to sleep. On either side of me, my parents whispered to each other. Not the soft kind of whispering, however. I am reminded of the earlier argument between mama and ina in the kitchen. At the very least, this time, their conversation was easier to ignore. Minutes pass. Their conversation tapers out. Eventually, they, too, quieted.


I wake up with an urge to use the toilet. Immediately, I was frustrated with myself. How could I have fallen asleep so quickly? Luckily, when I turned to my parents’ sleeping forms, nobody else seemed awake. When I checked the sky through the curtains, the moon still hung snugly in its midnight blanket; the stars spilled around it. I pray for the door to not creak as I push it open, and I pray once more as I push it shut.


The lounge, where wooden furniture older than most of my cousins sat empty for the night, was still lit by the overhead lamp. I was not worried, however. It was usually this way unless there was a brownout. Ama and ina were probably asleep in their rooms as well. I was not worried.


I head to the bathroom connected to the dining area. I would do my business, then check on tita Aznia upstairs. Yes, the plan is still safe. The beaded curtains twinkle as I push past them, and I quickly head to the toilet. Before I could reach it, however, I saw a figure hunched over in the kitchen through the open doorway. My belly turns cold with fear. Yet, as I thought of whether to rush into the bathroom or flee back to my parents’ room, the person turned. My mouth drops open. It was tita Aznia.


She looked terrible. That scared me. Her usually beautiful black hair, often tied back with a pink tali when we played, was loose and messy. Some strands stood on their ends, as if they were pulled, fist to skull. As I crept nearer, I saw how red crawled into the whites of her eyes. Her undereyes were puffy and wet from tears. Nearer, nearer, I heard her sniffles and anguished sobs. Where her sleeves stopped at the elbows, I saw long pink lines of irritated skin. The size of it befitting Aznia’s own nails.


My business in the bathroom all but forgotten, I croaked out, “tita Aznia? What happened to you?”


Her head snapped to where I stood. I was terrified for a moment that she would not recognize me, as if her sadness had addled her brain; erasing everything that made tita Aznia be tita Aznia. Including her affections for me. But something in her eyes cleared, and she called back: “Fia?”


Her eyes widen and her hands move to cover her mouth. I hear her mutter a verse. “Oh, Sofia—Sofia.” I could not stand the way she said my name. It hurt. My heart hurts. My heart hurts seeing and hearing Aznia.


She stumbled towards me. I cry out as her knees hit the floor with the crack. Yet, tita Aznia did not seem to care, as she threw her arms around me. I try to do the same, hugging her shaking shoulders.


I feel her voice through her chest. “Sofia, Sofia, oh, why are you here? Is your mama with you? Has ate Farha come to see me?”


“Mama is with me,” I said. “Papa too. But mama told me not to see you. She said you were busy; I should not disturb you raw.”


Aznia sobs wetly over my heart. She pulls away suddenly and I can see her close face. Sleep lines cross over her face like scars, like she had stayed very, very still in her bed for a long, long time.


“Not that busy,” she said firmly. Her hands cup my cheeks, almost squeezing. “I will always make time for family. I am not throwing you all away.”


Thoroughly confused, I still nodded. It felt good knowing tita Aznia still wanted to see me. My own hands move to hold her wrists. Aznia's hands had always been warm, like her father's.


“What were you doing in the kitchen?” Aznia’s squeezing my face made it hard to speak, but I continued, “If you want to eat, I don’t think you will like the kambing. It tastes weird.”


Aznia’s eyebrows turn down in her confusion and her hands leave me. “Kambing?”


I nod. “I think ina cooked it before we were here. I saw its leftovers in the backyard when I tried to find our toys.” I began to pout. “You didn't invite us when you were celebrating? It was a lot of goats. The pile was very big. So stinky, too.”


But it looked like tita Aznia had stopped listening. I was getting annoyed, but then she spoke: “Sofia, I need you to remember for me. Did you see anything else near it?”


My face twists. I could only clearly remember the blood and the smell. “Like what?”


Aznia’s eyes begin to dart around, looking everywhere but me. “Like—like shoes. A watch. Glasses.”


“No!” I was upset that Aznia was making fun of me. Why would goats wear shoes? Why would it wear a watch? Glasses?


“Fia.” I froze. Aznia's wide eyes pierced me. She grabbed my arms, keeping me still. It began to hurt. She spoke very slowly: “what else did you see?”


“I don't know!” I felt the familiar pressure behind my eyes. Tita Aznia was scaring me. Her hold hurts. “It hurts!”


I had not realized how loud we were, until I heard the rustling of the beaded curtain. Stepping through it was ina, still clearly recovering from sleep.


Hands released me so fast, my legs nearly failed to catch me. I scrambled back. The person standing before me and ina was barely anything like tita Aznia. Her hair and eyes were wild. Teeth and tears were bared before her mother, who could only stand there, bewildered and sleep-hazed.


“It isn't true! Tell me it isn’t,” screamed Aznia. “Tell me it isn’t him thrown away there!” She gestured wildly, pointing first behind her and then, towards me. “Umi, umi! Tell me it isn’t!”


I fearfully watch the expressions on ina’s face. Surprise, confusion, realization, then—a grim set of her mouth. I did not understand it, but tita Aznia had.


She wails. The sound would echo through my bones for years. It woke the rest of the house, as evident by ama and my parents rushing into the kitchen soon after.


When my father had drawn me into his arms, Aznia had already collapsed on the floor. She screamed. She kept screaming, “Marion, Marion!”


“Stupid, stupid girl. Pull yourself together!” My mother cried. Despite her clear anger, her voice broke terribly. I could hear it shake. My father stood up with me in tow. I hid my face in his neck, afraid of what was happening in front of me.


I heard ina yell out mama’s name in admonishment, but my mother was undeterred. “Throwing away your family, dignity, and pride for some dog! How are you not ashamed? We sent you to school for your betterment, and you come back with a slobbering old mutt on your leg. Astaghfirullah; you’ll make an embarrassment out of us all!”


Before Aznia could reply, my father and I had already left the kitchen. Still, her haunting scream still followed us through the house, etching itself into my brain:


“I never betrayed you! I would never betray you—I swore to God. I love him; I loved him and you killed him!”


The next day, we were due to leave. Mama said that her other siblings were coming; I was sad we would be missing them. What they had on their hands was far bigger than any of them had anticipated. They still did not know what to do with Aznia.


Before we were set to go, I snuck off into the backyard once more. I was less careful, and I am sure mama would turn red at the sight of my soiled pants. Or, perhaps not. My mother looked far too tired to truly summon her typical energy. Regardless, I kept walking. I had to make sure. I push through the shrubbery and the sharp grass. I saw the cabin in front of me and started jogging.


When I reached the gate to the forest behind, I was surprised to find that it was not locked. I simply had to wedge my fingers in between the wall and the iron scaffolding, and it easily flew open. The door banged as it hit metal, but I could not have cared less. I just needed one look. One look to make sure. I practically jumped over to the beaten path and stared at what was in front of me.


There was nothing. No banana leaves, no pile. All that remained was a dark stain, and it had already blended nicely with the ground. I only knew there was a stain because its outline carved itself into the back of my eyelids, forever burned as imagery. I could trace its shape on the soil if I wanted to. Yet, as I stood there, I realized my mistake.


The smell. The putrid, metallic smell swayed faintly in the morning air. I did not cover my nose this time. Standing here, my memories of two years ago of that live slaughter layered itself over my present vision. I see a goat. I see my ama. I see a bolo. I see a knife. I see twitching. I smell its struggle. I hear Aznia’s screams. Marion. Goat meat. Kambing. Beef. Chicken. Goat. It is finished now—all of it.


Sometimes, I envision my ama wielding his garden shears like it were a knife. I see my father standing in my place, staring at his hands and choosing to leave. I can imagine tita Aznia. Happy. Sad. Angry. In love. In grief. It all blends together. Mixing. Separating. It all goes away. I leave the ancestral house to the mercy of my overlapping memories, as the people it holds become the chunks of vegetables and meat in a soup. I could taste it. I may never will.


Written by Fatmah Caryl Said
Art by Jazztine Eve Paragoso