These Letters End in Tears
By Musih Tedji Xaviere
Something strange happened the other day, Fati. I ran into Alimatou, your friend from uni. I was at the market combing the vegetable stalls looking for fresh pumpkin leaves when I saw her. The air hung thick with the smell of produce waste decaying along the passages and the rushed steps of people bumping past one another in every direction, their grocery bags heaving with whatever they could find last minute. People were stocking up. A week-long lockdown had been announced after a five-year-old girl was shot dead on her way to school that morning. Protests demanding justice for her could be heard from a mile away.
As I manoeuvred hastily past rows of stalls, the vendors—most of them overworked middle-aged women—attempted to charm me with endearments like ‘mum, baby, fine girl.’ I finally stopped by the woman selling my favourite brand of curry powder, a big, chatty woman with an unusual habit of speaking to me in English instead of the Pidgin English common among people in her trade. As she scooped curry with a measuring spoon into a small plastic bag, she said, ‘They have started killing little children now. What a shame.’ She shook her head; she had deep, worried lines on her face. ‘And I hear that the soldier who shot the girl is Francophone. He was beaten to death, you know, by Anglophones at the scene. As an Anglophone, I want to say thank God, but as a Christian, I knows better. Terrible.’ I nodded but did not say a word. We all know there are spies lurking in every corner, listening in on conversations, scouring for separatist supporters, police hauling scapegoats off to detention, never to be seen again. You never know if your neighbour is a member of the military disguised as a civilian. The vendor was rummaging around for change in her knockoff Puma waist pouch when I looked over at the next stall and saw Alimatou. I squinted at her, shocked.
She was haggling with a vendor over the price of something while supporting a large shopping bag between her legs, wet patches under her armpits. She looked older, rounder than I remember, but I’m sure it was her. With her was a boy of about eight, chubby and teary-eyed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was her son. It’d been thirteen years since I last saw her.
She looked sideways, suddenly, as if she could feel my eyes on her. And when our eyes locked, she froze, looking uncertain before taking off in the opposite direction, quick as a squirrel, ignoring the calls of the vendor she’d left hanging. I called out to her too, but she kept going, pulling her boy along. My own change forgotten, I went after her, shoving and pushing at the throng of bodies and sidestepping loaded wheelbarrows trundled by young boys in ragged clothing, but it was impossible to get anywhere in the congestion. She was gone by the time I turned a corner onto the next path.
I had woken up that morning feeling drained of life as usual, my mind stuffed with sadness. It’s April, and the rains have just started to pour after four long months. You used to make fun of me at the start of rainy seasons when I snuck out to my dorm balcony, eager for that heady whiff of air that permeates when rain meets dust—the smell that makes people want to eat earth. I still eat Calabar chalk when I’m stressed, you know. You used to go on and on about this for days. ‘Oh, it’s not good for you, oh, it will give you appendicitis, oh, it will drain your blood.’ Years later, I’ve investigated this strange addiction of mine and found that the urge to eat earth is actually caused by anaemia. I take iron supplements for it now.
The raindrops would beat down on the roof while we lay naked in bed, entwined and fully sated by lovemaking. I used to notice blue skies and immaculate green pastures when it rained, Fati, and how the soil went from red to dark brown after. These days I don’t pay much attention. Cherishing nature feels like such an unpleasant task. The energy it takes to gaze at the world and go, ‘Damn, God is creative’ has left me. I go to sleep at night, wake up in the morning, go through the motions of the day, and then I go back to sleep. My life has gone back to the way it was before I met you, only this time I know exactly what it is I’m missing. There’s no tomorrow for me, just the past and this infinite waiting.
Excerpt from “These Letters End in Tears” copyright © 2024 by Musih Tedji Xaviere. Published by Jacaranda Books.
About the book: While chasing a rogue football, Fatima crosses paths with Bessem and the instant attraction between the two propels them into a life-changing romance. Despite an atmosphere of threat due to the criminalisation of same-sex relationships in their home country of Cameroon, Fatima and Bessem persevere in living out their love. All seems to be going well, until one day tragedy strikes, and Fatima disappears…
Thirteen years later, Bessem is now a university professor, keeping her sexuality secret but bonding with her equally-closeted friend Jamal and the queer community around her. But Fatima still haunts her. A chance encounter with people from her past, pushes Bessem to finally go after the truth of her lover’s whereabouts. Told mostly through unsent letters, These Letters End in Tears, powerfully charts all the different ways that love, despite all odds, can persevere.
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Musih Tedji Xaviere is a Cameroonian fiction writer based in the U.K. Her debut novel, These Letters End in Tears, won the 2021 Pontas and JJ Bola Emerging Writers Prize. She is represented by the Pontas Literary and Film Agency.
