Chapter 14: Burning the Past

As dawn broke, my mother opened the door, took some brown paper, and burned it in our backyard.

The smoke rose, twisting up to the pink sky, carrying her prayers and grief with it. She squatted on the ground, small and curled up.

Her wrapper dragged in the dust, her shoulders hunched as if she were shielding herself from the world. She faced the firelight, muttering something. She muttered, "Oluwa, carry our pain go, let our children see better days."

Her voice was low, almost swallowed by the crackle of the flames. Hot tears dripped into the flames, making them burn even brighter.

The fire hissed, as if answering her sorrow. I guessed, maybe she was reporting to her fallen comrades.

Maybe she was saying, “We made it. Our pain was not in vain.” I watched from the doorway, hands clasped, as the sun crept higher and the day began.