Three market days rolled by quickly like the hungry tilapia in shallow waters and Chima’s marriage to Chief Obi had arrived.

Men and women I had never seen in my lifetime gathered at Papa’s compound and the sound of “congratulations” caused his head to swell. These uninvited guests thought only of the meal they were to receive at the wedding. For a good number of them did not know the name of the bride, but Chief Obi they knew well.

Chima was the perfect bride. Her caramel skin synced with the red of the beads on her neck, arms and waist, as they danced on the white and black cotton Ankara that dripped from the top of her breast to her ankles.

Nkechi and I were not as beautifully arrayed as the bride. Our hearts were heavy at the thought of Chima becoming the wife of Chief Obi, but instead we joyed at the number of beads and corals that kissed our short wrappers and brought a certain distinction between waist and hips on our bodies.

Chima’s marriage to the Chief was conducted according to the customs and traditions of our land and after moments of palm wine, kola nuts and prayers, our elder sister Chima, became the sixth wife of Chief Obi Okoro.

Drinks and music kept feet and arms in motion, as drummers and dancers recalled their purpose at the ceremony.

We danced my sisters and I. We had no other choice but to dance and keep smiles on our faces though our heart bled.

For if we did otherwise, the villagers would shun Papa and say he had not raised his daughters well.

If Papa was to be shunned, our skin would welcome new bruises and we did not want that.

I danced but lost my sight for a while, due to the waters of the human eyes that blurred reality about me. Soon, my vision became cleared by the wind and I discovered the disappearance of Nkechi.

I left Chima who was already drunken by the enticing milk of the palm trees. My heart’s beat increased by an unsettling pace and a cold chill kissed my spine. I knew something was wrong, so I decided to search for Nkechi.

Papa’s compound was a large one. It took me quite a while but I finally found my sister at the barn. The goats that once occupied the barn had already been eaten at the wedding ceremony, so all that was left were straws. Straws, Nkechi and Chief Obi.

I got closer to the door of the barn and was about to make an obvious entrance, when Nkechi opposed my decision with a wave of her hand. She did not use words. She did not have to. I was her sister, so I understood. I understood but I stood still and did nothing. I still feel like a coward at the thought of that moment.

Chief Obi hit Nkechi the same way Papa would hit us when he was drunk. Nkechi’s beads flew of their strings and her wrapper had shown hate to its seams, for it was torn.

Chief Obi placed his left hand over Nkechi’s mouth, while his right hand explored my sister’s body in the most indecent way.

My heart was set on fire by the twigs of hurt and the heat of anger. I wanted to save Nkechi, I had to save her but Nkechi’s eyes had a different opinion. Her body spoke pain but her eyes spoke endurance. I understood.

If I were to walk into the barn at that moment I would only bring more harm to Nkechi and myself. If ran to tell Papa what had happened he would not hear me out. If I were to tell the villagers they would not believe me, for Chief Obi’s wealth would cause their eyes to be blinded from the truth.

I could not do anything. I did not do anything. I stayed and watched as confusion danced in my mind and pain squeezed my heart at the sight the windows on my head had placed before me.

Chief Obi had almost begun to perform the dance that produced children on Nkechi, when Chima marched into the barn like one who had the gods on her shoulders.

She held a machete on her right hand and resentment in her eyes.

Chief Obi, half naked quaked in fear at the sight of the machete.

Nkechi screamed and turned to me but I remained as still as the river in the absence of wind. My limbs did not quiver and my eyes did not leak, but fear wrapped its freezing hands around my heart.

The machete made swift movements followed by curses from Chima’s lips and screams of dread from Chief Obi’s throat.

Nkechi pulled at Chima’s clothing and yelled at me. I remained still.

The machete danced a bit more and at the sight of red liquid by drops the sole of my feet recognized the floor and my lower limbs understood their meaning. I fell.

If anything were to happen to Chief Obi, Papa’s greed for a new farm would be left unsettled, which would cause our deaths.

If the village heard our story but knew Chief Obi’s life was the price for our survival, we would be killed.

In any way and every way, Chief Obi’s life held our future. It was insane, but it was true. After all, we were just women.

My feet made a leap to put a halt to Chima’s madness but red stained the air the second time and not in drops but like a fountain, the liquid of life decorated the air about us.

I had made a decision to endure pain and self-hate. I had made a decision to save Chief Obi’s life, but I was too late.

Chima’s right arm had played the music fit for a man like Chief Obi and he did dance to the beat but his head was the result.

Chief Obi’s head flung off his neck and his lifeless body lay stiff at Chima’s feet.

There was no time to cry. For at the turn of our heads a beast we knew too well, stood at the door with absurdity and hate in his eyes.

Papa walked into the barn, the anger in his feet tore straws and hay apart. Without a word, he stared at Chief Obi’s body, then at the machete in Chima’s hand.

He walked towards Chima, but her madness had completely engulfed her. She defended Nkechi. She defended us. For the first time, Papa feared us. Tradition called it a curse but we called it freedom.