Page 69 of Tangled at the Root
We kiss, desperately, fervently, like its simultaneously the first and the last time, but I take comfort in knowing its not. We kiss until we can’t breathe, and then we kiss some more, making up for every single moment we’d once let slip us by.
It’s a wondrous thing, knowing—knowingthat many more moments are waiting, a precious gift sitting just out of sight.
And for what feels the first time in my life, I can’t wait for tomorrow.
Epilogue: FEELS LIKE LOVE
Nnenna, Chidinma Obi’s twelve-year-old daughter, is peeking out at me from the tiny space through the slightly parted door leading to the stairwell, probably hoping I won’t notice. My lips quirk.
I close my eyes to better connect myself to the eshé, chanting underneath my breath as I run my hands over a selection of roots, herbs, and spices spread over a net on top of the dining room table. Every time I feel something light up in my grasp, I take it and put it aside.
When I’m done, I open my eyes, finding three neat piles. One for Chidinma’s tea—something to help with her headaches and stress. Another for protection for her daughter, and the final, protection for the house. I take three brand-new drawstring bagsfrom a bigger netted bag in my handbag, and carefully pack the selected mounds into their new homes.
Nnenna is muttering something under her breath. It sounds like she’s trying to repeat what she’d heard me chanting. My heart hurts. It’s so rare to meet a child outside of Maraya so sensitive to the eshé without having done a grounding ritual. I’m itching to find just how far her connection goes, if she can actually harness it, but know it’s not my place.
Well. Not yet. Not unless Chidinma asks, like Genevieve suspects she’s going to.
I pack up my things, then take the three drawstring bags to the sitting room where Chidinma is on the large sofa, waiting for me.
She flies to her feet, eyeing the bags critically.
“This is for your tea,” I say gently, placing the first small bag in her hand. The herbs and spices in it are in shades of red. “You can brew it as many times as you like; just dry the bag out when you’re done and store it in a safe, airtight container.”
“The potency will remain the same?” Her voice is low to match mine.
“It will. Just remember: boiling water, brew for two minutes only. Take it every morning just after you wake up. While you’re sipping on it, picture the rest of your day in a positive light. Mentally go through your routine, and fill the vision with sunlight and joy. The stress in your daily life will reduce.” She nods sharply. “If you don’t like the taste, you can feel free to add honey or sugar. It won’t affect its purpose.” She nods again, ever so serious. It’s why she’s one of my favourite clients, and one of the few people I’d call a friend.
If it weren’t for Genevieve’s steady presence and encouragement, I’m not sure I’d ever have made friends at all, especially not now, not after I’ve already outlived every single person I’ve ever loved.
I hand Chidinma the second bag. My lips twitch at the sight of all that green. “This is for Nnenna.” I hand her a miniature glass jar that looks like a charm for a bracelet or a necklace. “You’re going to think of your love for your daughter while going through this bag; select the first of the herbs or roots that immediately feel right. Don’t think on it too hard. Just pick whatever first calls out to you. Place it in the jar, and use it to make a necklace or bracelet or anklet; whatever Nnenna prefers. If she loses or breaks it, come back to the bag and repeat the process.”
“All right.”
“This last bag is for your home. Hold it tight and walk around all the rooms, thinking about the warmth and safety of your home all the while. Place it wherever feels best. Again, don’t think too hard on it. Don’t try to rationalise it. Once a spot feels right, just put the bag there. It’ll stay there. It’ll keep you safe.”
Chidinma exhales shakily. “All right. Thank you so much, Rosemary.” Then she squares her shoulders. “About that other thing I wanted to talk to you about—”
Nnenna chooses that moment to leave the stairwell, leaving the door open behind her. She jogs over until she’s standing a little bit behind her mother.
“Are you done, mummy?”
“Not quite yet, honey. But it’s good that you’re here. Rosemary, I was wondering. I feel like—it seems like …” She pauses, like she’s unsure how to phrase it. I’m trying not to smile too widely; Genevieve had been right.
“I have dreams, sometimes,” Nnenna offers boldly. “About the future. Or about—about certain things my mother and I need to do sometimes so something bad doesn’t happen.”
Oh, wow. Her connection is stronger than I thought. And getting foresight and instruction through her dreams? Thatsounds like a gift. Someone out there must be looking out for her.
God, my chest aches. I’ve always wanted to pass on the tradition of the oerhwus, like my mother had done for me, and her mother had done for her—if not to my own child, then to the children of my village who wanted or needed it but perhaps didn’t have that someone in their life to teach them. The tradition had strictly been family-oriented, but I’d wanted to make it more community-based, gathering all children who wanted to learn in a specific hut. Of course, that maternal—or paternal—connection works just fine, but I know the bonds to the eshé would be so much stronger if the children are surrounded by peers who are also learning.
That dream had been pushed aside when my mother had made us leave Maraya. Apart from our twice-a-year annual visits to pay respects to our ancestors and the land, I’d never properly gone back. Those visits with my mum had been hard enough, the memories of what my set girls had done remaining fresh and biting for the years following.
I go more often, now, but only to visit Maraya Forest—to be in the resting place of my mother and father. I could visit properly—my set girls are all probably long gone, now—but I only feel a connection to the forest, not the actual village itself. Cliche as it sounds, my true home is wherever my heart is.
And right now, my heart is back in the tiny village of Ghenelo, in a house sitting in the middle of a forest.
“I don’t know what it would entail, but I’d really appreciate it if you could … help her with her gifts. I’m sorry,” Chidinma says, flustered, “I don’t know how this process works, if you need to refer me to someone, though I’d feel more comfortable if it were you.”
I have to admit, I’m a little wary. It had taken me a while, but my mother had eventually been proven right about wanting meto be careful about helping folk who aren’t already in the know. There are some dangerous, delusional, and desperate people out there. I’ve expanded my client list enough that I don’t need to go searching for new folk, now; I’m doing my part, helping an expanded community, and my ancestors seem pleased with my efforts so far, so I’m not going to risk it by doing too much.
