Edith's Dress

There is only one moment that Edith could recall where she'd felt free, like fresh breath after a peppermint candy: standard 6 in primary school. She'd qualified for the nationals for the Interschool Tennis Competition- the only female and representative for her district. The memory resonates so clearly as if it happened just yesterday.

"I have no regrets," she said, glaring blankly at her faded image in the mirror.

As the sun was rising, the day promising to be bright, and pessimism a budding characteristic, she existed in silence trying to nullify the imperfections at hand. She shouldn't have done her makeup, she thought to herself, still concentrating on the mirror. She was only 12 when she became a superstar in the little village of Palapye. Edith Motswagole: Tennis protégé! Well of course she then grew older, and a year later there was another superstar after her, as she transitioned into secondary school. The memory was left at her disposal, for only she would remember the peak of her young years. It was only the most intimate detail to roam within her thoughts. If ever someone would hint her childhood tennis career, she'd be at awe, the ability of that someone to acknowledge an event that occurred almost 12 years ago.

"I do not regret... anything!" she said again, this time with but a gentle whisper under her breath. She stroked herself down, trying to picture how she was going to look like in public. Edith had a rather tall, lanky but yet athletic looking figure. She stepped off her 3-inch heel pumps and decided to go for a more imperceptible approach to her image. She was after all going to meet her boyfriend's family for the very first time.

She walked back to the mirror, this time wearing black leather sandals- a summer style choice to the matter. It wasn't working out. Motheo had always loved her choice of style- simple and easy to understand. She could never forget the beguiling nature of his brown eyes. It's only proper to talk about it. Cliché is a word that's got everyone hyped at the slightest hint of trends and change and... difference. But it was indeed his eyes that had gotten her attention. It might not be important, it might be somewhat a superficial notion to suggest that love could develop from just a simple look in the eyes. Then again, who's to question the abundant hand at which it enthralls its victims? But one could always wonder how these things come about. How love just manifests quite so easily, but it easily becomes a burden on the heart. It could be quite simple of sorts to try and stay without it, deny its existence. But that's not proper either, is it?

Her closet was a typical advert for black clothing, but she found it quite difficult to pick something to wear. Her gaze sketched every inch of its capacity and somehow, nothing seemed appropriate for a funeral. She tried on a black maxi dress and it exquisitely draped down around her figure, hugging at her growing belly and at her hips. The silence in her room suddenly became evocative, lingering, like an unexpected realization of emptiness.

"Hi, I'm Edith," she said, extending her arm forward, shaking hands with the image in the mirror. She forced a smile, but it came out crooked. She fixed it and tried introducing herself again. The thought occurred to remove the black eyeliner she was wearing and just leave her eyes natural. She brushed it off. Her big brown eyes needed some highlighting so that they think of her as someone good enough for their son. She turned sideways to further scrutinise her image.

"I'm Edith Motswagole."

Tears singed the surface of her eyes and a burning pain tarried at her heart, as the memories came flocking back in turns. Every time. Like notes in a song already composed, already known, already played or sung, a succession of the unchangeable, a correlation... a reality.

"One day I'll ask you to marry me, Edith Motswagole," he expressed, his arms tightly wound around her.

She giggled knowingly and gently stroked him, "One day I'll say yes... yes, a thousand times and more!" Edith snuggled deeper into his arms and imagined what her wedding day would be like. She'd always wanted a small intimate gathering with her closest family members and friends and a tantalizing white mermaid dress. The dress had to be a mermaid dress. One time at a school ball she had worn a sequined gold mermaid dress. Her image had almost melted the eyes off of most from the opposite gender. That's the time she realised that it would without a doubt be a similar cut at her wedding.

She knew it would be hard to convince her family that the man she chose to be married to was a little older than she was. Twenty-five years to be exact, but that's not the point here. She was 24 when they met- an adult capable of making her own decisions.

*********

Edith walked swiftly into the compound and sat at the back row of garden chairs that were intimately set in order. A subtle chilly wind was in the air but the sun was out, so it would warm up soon. The time was 6 am. People were slowly gathering into the small area, some taking seats and some opting to stand behind the back row, to allow older citizens a chance to sit. Motheo's house was incredible. Large red jacaranda trees were forming a canopy over almost the entire place. Edith counted 4 in total. The red flowers would randomly detach and fall against the crisp morning air, gently settling on the ground, paved with red face-bricks, adding on to the collection already on the ground. Edith could tell that they tried to sweep away some of the menacing flowers earlier, but it seemed to have been of no use. The house, a mini cottage built entirely from the same red bricks that were on the ground, had large windows in front and a green tiled roof. It sat comfortably in the middle of the compound, one of the jacaranda trees brushing on its left side.

The chairs were arranged in the driveway, leading up to the front porch where the coffin would be placed. The gathering had already started an assortment of church hymns, their sombre tone swaying in harmony with the soft breeze as if the two were partners. Some people were also dressed to impress. The wealthy community, rolling out from their Range Rovers and Mercedes Benz's, pristine black two pieces, slick pointy high heels or leather moccasins, heavy dark blazers, flappy hats, large dark sunglasses, perfume that makes your nose sensitive to pleasure- just the smell of money. She knew not one of them. She knew no one, in fact. She just pretended to blend in, pretended that there was someone there who knew her, or someone on their way to help her through the service. Someone who would come and sit next to her, talk to her, put curious minds at bay, assure them that she was not alone, that she belonged in this world, that she- just like everyone else at the funeral was there.

Edith tried to hum along to the hymns. She knew some of them, recollecting their familiarity in her mind, but she didn't know the words. At least if she knew the words she would feel less like a stranger.

If Motheo had been there with her, he would have calmed her thoughts. Edith didn't go to church but it would be easier on her life at that moment if she was a church goer. This way she'd know the words to the songs they were singing. Her inability to spare herself for belief, for religion, was now defining her potential downfall. A seemingly large man stood on the porch and announced that the proceedings would start. They would bring the coffin out from the house and onto the porch. Everyone got on their feet at once and the singing got louder. The sadness of the song caused her throat to dry and clamp up as she felt as if a heavy mass had developed there, blocking the passageway. The beautifully crafted brown case was carried out by 6 men. Edith could not see their faces as she was seated far behind. She let out a slight shriek but covered her mouth instantly to ward off any attention. It would seem strange, an outsider breaking down, her wails heavier than those of the bereaved. She swallowed hard and the memories came again in unison.

"Hi, my name is Edith Motswagole." She smiled and sipped from a pale blue glass. Her smile twinkled even brighter than her eyes. She tried her hardest not to seem too forward, having not known him. Maybe he didn't want to get to know her like that. Maybe he was bored and wanted a simple chat. Maybe he wanted to ask for the time or the date, or something rather random like directions to another bar where the ladies were more attractive. She always said her name in full, as if it would trigger in the other person's memory the greatness it had- which it had once.

"Motheo, Motheo James. Nice to meet you Edith Motswagole."

He had an amazing voice, deep and mesmerizing. Her ears listened all night at the tone that came out of his mouth rather than the words, her spirit dancing in its depth, if there is such a thing. Edith wasn't usually chatty, but she thought it was right to speak up and impress this man who to her seemed to be stupid enough to give her time to impress. That was it then. Edith didn't mind older guys, she'd always expressed her interest in maturity and vision. Motheo was an architect in Gaborone, he was perfect. She had just graduated from university and had moved to Gaborone, this was perfect.

The song died down and the same large man went up, and referring to himself as the Master of Ceremonies, he called for the priest to come up and give a prayer following to the program. There were two women sitting on the porch next to the coffin, both dressed in black. One of them, an old woman raised a handkerchief to her face and wiped it down, as if she was trying to remove her grief, but it was stuck on her, like ink from a permanent marker. She had a head scarf tight around her head and an identical shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her gaze grim and empty, as if she was lost. She must have been the mother, Edith thought to herself. Her hand was tightly grasping the other woman's hand. She looked very much younger than the old woman, probably in her forties. She must have been the wife. Her face was emptier than the old woman's. It was amazing what grief had done to it. She looked like an imitation of the once vibrant beautiful woman she was. But distraught had ruined her, the years had ruined her, and it seemed she didn't care. Only her eyes bared the reminder of her youth, their benevolence, betraying the rest of her face rather. Edith's heart raced and wished time would pause. She wished she could go up to them now and see them up close, get to know them.

Motheo had made so many promises to Edith. Promises of marriage, of companionship, of forever: feed for the naïve kind. She wasn't naïve at all, but it felt good to let her guard down and just relax in good old fashion doses of happiness. He'd promised her he was the man for her. All lies. He was married, cheating on his wife with her. She was a mistress, the other woman. She felt dirty all over when she found out, as if she had been drenched in sin. But it was impossible to stop seeing him. After a lifetime of doing the right thing, the enticing clutches of dissipation washed over her spirit like how darkness befalls a room when the light goes out. They held her by the throat, suffocating her servitude to virtue. The sweeter the secret, the more seductive the sin was. The pleasure was so attractive, it rippled at her hips down to her legs- which is why it was so simple when she spread them for him without a thought, allowing him to enter her soul and without a doubt, change it. He promised he would leave his wife, but he never got around to doing it. He died...well, there goes forever.

Edith looked up and discovered that the woman sitting in front, next to his mother was looking at her. She must have been staring at her for quite some time in fact. Her gaze was locked on Edith, eating through her face like termites eating through wood. She could recognize her. Edith quickly looked back down, trying to disguise herself. She didn't belong here, that's what the stare was saying. She had tried to guise herself by sitting at the back, but one can always spot a pimple even when it has formed under the chin. Edith's heart beat even faster at realising that she was caught. After so many months of holding onto a farce with someone else's man unnoticed, she was finally caught. She had always pondered on that possibility of one day getting caught in adultery with Motheo. Maybe one of his wife's friends would discover them and let her in on his infidelity, or she would walk in on them as Edith was leaning in to steal a kiss before she bid him goodnight: that sultry cadence that intensified every time she was stealing kisses, caresses, sex, from his wife- never once being caught, this was the moment, wasn't it? She knew.

Edith thought she was imagining things when she saw the woman shooting up from her seat, abandoning the clutch she shared with the old woman. "Stop, stop talking!" she shouted. The valour in her voice matched her distraught facial expression. No matter how fiery her approach was, she still looked dumfounded by her newest role as a widow. The man who was making the eulogy, Motheo's best friend, was startled and immediately stopped talking. For a moment they thought she had gone mad, struck beyond return by grief.

Edith's heart was now thumping on overdrive, her temples aching with fear. She sunk lower on her seat and wondered if this was really happening.

"You, in the back," said the woman once more, pointing her out. "You in the back, look at me." This was confusing to many for no one knew what she was on about. "Look at me dammit! Someone make that bloody woman to look at me!" she cried.

Edith slowly looked up. Amazingly, all eyes were pinned on her as if she were the target on a dart board. Some people even had enough audacity to remove their jumbo sunglasses which were supposed to hide their gouging teary eyes. Her heart continued its habit of betraying her, her breathing accelerated.

The woman examined her for a while. "What are you doing here?"

The old woman tugged at her arm looking muddled. "What are you doing, Oarabile?"

"That's her ma, that's the woman he was seeing behind my back. That's the bitch, the whore!"

Astonishment, rowdiness and questions- all adorned the crowd, but all remained still! One slight move and you might miss it. Edith was caught- hush dammit, or you might miss it!

"Ao ngwanake," pleaded the old woman, "please my child, calm down."

A gentleman had gone up front to try and control Motheo's wife. He tried to force her to regain her seat, but she pulled away. "

No, what is she doing here Mark, what is she doing here, I want an answer. What are you doing here you filthy man stealing impostor!" her expression had gone hard and impossible to penetrate, she had decided that she was going to do this- the catching, the confrontation at that moment, at that time. It was appropriate rather, what she was doing. All members of the debauchery had to be present as she dived in for the jugular: Motheo and Edith. The irony of it was uncanny. It was the rule to the game, except no one says that all players must be alive. It's perfectly fine if one of them is in a coffin, embalmed, ready to face eternity underground- what is that they say: ashes to ashes? Game over! It's all dead and almost buried. (Cliché?)

"That's the woman who was sleeping with Motheo, I want her out of here! Have you no shame? Someone get that woman out of here!" she howled, tears flying down from her eyes, her face finally showing the ripples that were her wrinkles, the ones she had tried so hard to hide with her liquid foundation.

They were representatives of all she had been through, all the frustrations and them. The larger crinkles around her eyes probably started forming when she first noticed her husband's constant absence from their life. Was he cheating or just bored of her? Eighteen years together was a long time. Then began the secret phone calls or the hush tones when he was in another room on the phone- the message inbox that was always empty- obviously he received messages, but why was he deleting them? Then he became careless and didn't bother to try and smell less like her perfume. THEN! And then the stalking began, she followed her husband and employed all her sources to keep an eye out on him. All these events, burrowing her face, creating channels on it without any discretion, working away, worrying her. But she never got to tell him that she knew. Heart attack: the autopsy says.

Motheo was found dead by his car in the parking lot at his work. An explained circumstance. A bewildering accomplishment by karma. Fury was her expression now. She stared at the woman who ruined her marriage with murderous eyes.

A man sitting next to Edith, light and friendly looking fellow, leaned over and said in the kindest manner, "Maybe it's best if you just go ma'am."

Edith looked over at him, petrified by all the attention. She was shaking uncontrollably, nausea threatening to make things worse. He did look rather friendly, without an agenda. His expression was sympathetic and unjudging. "Sure," Edith nodded shakily, slowly rising from her seat.

"Go! You piece of rubbish!" Motheo's wife threw in once more.

"

Oarabile! That's enough, enough!" interjected Motheo's mother, pulling her forcefully to her seat. She was a good moment from breaking down herself, puzzled, wondering why her son's life always had to be a playground for scandal.

(Hush! or you might miss it.)

Edith stopped moving and looked searchingly around the scene. It was unforgiving and humiliating. She envied Motheo for he would never experience her fate. It was easy for him to ruin her life, and now with the help of his wife, she would ruin his funeral. The crowd, still as the corpse they'd come to bury, was wondering how it would all end, how the day would survive such an episode.

Edith breathed in and said, "I am Edith Motswagole!" Her voice trembled as it ripped across the stares, up the rows of chairs and onto Oarabile's attention. Oarabile looked appalled at the nerve Edith had to think she had any right to say anything. She'd eliminated any chance for Edith to ever be appropriate in life. In that moment, without a thought, Edith let her hand leave her side as she carefully reached for the zip on her left, under her armpit and unzipped her dress. She had decided to go with a loose black dress that fell around her body like a tablecloth. She slowly released the spaghetti straps from her shoulders and eventually both her arms.

"Thaaka! She's stripping," said a woman from the audience, a chuckle attached at the end of her statement. "I think she's taking off her clothes! She's gone mental."

Indeed. Edith traced her hands back up her dress and pulled it down, allowing it to slide down her body, falling to the ground, landing gently like those pesky red flowers from the jacaranda trees. Edith was naked. Her nipples bare against the fresh morning breeze, against the sun's gaze, against the corroding stares from the audience. Everyone was baffled at that point, any reaction would just be inappropriate or unworthy to the cause. No one took their eyes off Edith as she was doing that melting thing again.

She wasn't thinking at all, she was numb and adrenaline coursed through her body, making her immune to consequence. Her eyes were bloodshot red, but they managed to manufacture enough tears to flow infinitely down her face. She sniffled, snot also in free flow down her nose, settling just above her upper lip, not in pain anymore, feeling rather free instead. Like she could breathe, like her life could continue, even after Motheo's death, after the humiliation. Edith had had no one to mourn with her. What right did she have, she wasn't his wife? She'd learned of his death through various channels of hearsay. What right did she have to be notified of her lover's passing? To plan his funeral, or inform his relatives, to sleep on a mattress on the floor all week in the living room, next to his mother in his house. To have people tend to her, treat her like broken glass? To sleep next to his coffin the night before his burial and say goodbye to him? She had no right to him whatsoever. She had no one on her side, no one who understood.

"Modimo!" exclaimed the same woman's voice, "God! She's pregnant," realizing that along with Edith's perky chest, her belly persevered, tight and protruding with evidence of a child on the way.

Oarabile couldn't have been more dazed, colour drawn from her face, flabbergasted. "She's pregnant," she mimed under her breath.

"I'm Edith Motswagole," Edith said once more, her eyes fixed on Oarabile's. She couldn't look away any longer. She reached for her hips and quickly withdrew the bloomers she was wearing from her body as well, sending the crowd thriving in astonishment.

"...the whore that's been sleeping with your husband. It's true, all of it! Congratulations, you are right, I am the one that's been screwing your husband, my dear. And since you think you know me so well, such that you feel you have the right to expose me, leave me bare for the public to prosecute me, have my bare flesh as their supper, there is no use to walk around wearing clothes, pretending to be covered. For you know it all, you know everything about me: your husband's "small house". You've got me analysed, right down to my knickers! Heck what's the point of me hiding behind my clothes when you know what my vagina has been up to! You wretched old woman, I'm pregnant!" Edith clasped her chest, as if she were running out of air. "I'm carrying his child: that's what I'm doing here. I'm not here as his mistress, or to spite you because I have no shame. I am here because I am the mother of his unborn child! Understand?" Edith scanned the crowd one last time. "Call me whatever you want, all of you. You think you're all better than me, hiding behind your money! I deserve to be here. I am not just a mistress, you horrible people. You horrible, horrible-"

Edith was cut short when she felt a heavy, dark blazer being thrown upon her shoulders. It was the man from earlier. He clasped it tight around her to make sure she was fully covered before walking her out of the compound. Leaving everyone's yaps behind them.

"It's alright Edith, you're gonna be alright," he whispered in her ear as he propped her in his dark Range Rover.

"I don't regret any of it," said Edith staring into space, not once glancing at the man who had already put the car on reverse.

And that is it then. How Edith Motswagole: whose name once resonated in the atmosphere, fresh as peppermint, as the future of tennis, made her name once more prevalent...for other reasons. But alas, Motheo was eventually buried and sent to rest, the day came to an end, bringing forth tomorrow, when another protégé would prevail... and Edith would be nothing but a memory, once more.