Sober Sundays
Sober Sundays
Hold Your Heart
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Hold Your Heart

#Prompt 31

Rah was leaning towards the yawn of a morning she knew. Unafraid to be pushed and pulled by choices the others decided they had. Not her though. The others huddled closer, hope stretched over their faces to hide the fear that rattled them.
“Let’s do what they ask and we can go home”, one of them piped up and the rest started to murmur in agreement.
Across the room Rah stood tall from her squat, all 4 feet 7 inches of her, casting a shadow twice her size in the glow of the moon. Her voice biting into the cold that hung in the room, from the window you couldn’t even fit a fist into.  She cut in, “You do what they ask and you won’t be alive to do anything else”

Another one piped up, but they promi-

“They can’t promise what they don’t have”, again Rah's voice slicing into the air.

“You can play macho all you want but they have our hearts. They have it, locked up somewhere on these grounds and they will give it to us if we do what they ask!”

This was Ita. She had been the pillar of these women for the past 2 days but the other ladies could see, the warmth of  her composure that they had learned to rely on was now threadbare. 

Ita's eyes roamed over Rah’s, she couldn’t make sense of the colour of her skin or the lack of cold. In fact, her eyes still had a warm glow.
She looked to the other women, huddled together to brave the cold, their eyes shades of pale blue or grey, depending on how fast they were fading, that is. 

She suddenly lurched forward and grabbed Rah by the chin, her much taller frame towering over her.
Why are you not fading?!

You are not cold!

Your skin is warm to the touch!
Rah showed the dare in her smile as she started to speak, the heat in her body matching her eyes, “My heart is on the right of me. They took something else my grandmother created on the left to mimic it. I am..”
“A tapu” Ita finished for her.
An unutterable that was never allowed to live as an infant where they came from but here she was.
Ita’s hand slipped from Rah’s chin to grip her elbow in gratitude. “You are called?”

“Rah”, Rah returned a much stronger grip.
I am Ita.

The other women stood around them one by one, they knew, this little taboo was getting them out of here.

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Sober Sundays
Every Sunday, a new poem or story by Obii
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Obii Ifejika