“How long would this leave last?” Papa asked, while sharpening his cutlass against a nearby stone. The scrape of metal against stone produced tiny sparks that flickered briefly before they disappeared.
“Seven days, Papa,” Emelda said, while washing her face.
The dawn was cold and Emelda was almost freezing; it was the kind of weather that pushed her to drink tea whether she wanted it or not. But she was not in town and was contemplating going out to buy one.
She could see why the cold was more intense in their compound. There were trees and flowers in and outside their compound. The orange tree in the middle, the seed so close to the ground that one could pluck it without even jumping.
The mango tree at the entrance, so tall that children preferred to stone it instead of climbing it, and the hedges before their corridor, rarely trimmed by Papa. And she could feel the air oozing out from them. Sometimes, she heard the crispy noise of some leaves as they fell.
