A WORKING HEART

You could see her smile from a mile away and mistake her for the sun. Most times, she was fondly called Sunshine instead of Dara. Dara’s laugh could chase shadows from the darkest corners. Her beauty was like a ray of light, so far, it could reach the moon. And even though she was thirteen, with one stolen glance at her, you would swear she was eighteen. Maybe this was why he would stare at her with lustful and hungry eyes, like a lion waiting patiently in the bushes before pouncing on his prey.

Dara was a sweet girl. The whole town loved her. No matter how much humanity played its silly tricks, she loved as hard as she could. She fed stray cats and dogs, sang with birds. When it was time for her to give, she gave like she had enough even and he would give her a hard slap just for delivering a kindness so little like helping a stranger with food and water. She had a heart of gold. A heart not comparable to any other, a working heart. She always tagged herself as a maverick- with feelings that she didn’t think any other had. Her thoughts were special and so was her heart. If only people had a working heart like hers, then maybe, just maybe, the world would be a better place.

But all this was before the monster was released from its hiding place. A man with a kind face yet wore cruelty as a suit and wickedness as a belt. He called himself her father. So she trusted him blindly. Not until one Sunday afternoon, they had just returned from church and her mother as usual had rushed off for her shift in the hospital. She was a nurse, one who hardly looked after her own daughter and always left her in the hands of Mr. Adebaje. A man who offered to marry her, at least to quiet the noise of the society on teenage pregnancy. At least, he never failed to remind her about it in every fight and quarrel with these painful words, “You should be lucky I married you out of pity. I should have just left you to the dragging hands of your family and village.”

Yet, Dara served Mr. Adebaje with her whole heart and might. She knew he wasn’t her biological father but who cared anyway. At least, he was there for her. Something her real father, wherever he was or whoever he was, couldn’t do. And so not minding this little background, that Sunday she passed by him in the sitting room. His hands firmly held the newspaper directly to his face, his legs were crossed with a bottle of beer on the side stool adjacent to where he sat.

“Come here,” he ordered.

She didn’t expect him to notice her. So fearfully, she answered, “Yes sir.”

“What did I tell you about calling me ‘sir’ ?” he had warned her several times. Not like she was stubborn, she just wasn’t used to it. She had spent 7 years of her life without a father figure and calling just anyone father would be the hardest storage her memory would take in.

“Sorry, yes, Daddy.” She did it anyway with an innocence so meek and gentle.

“Come, sit on my lap,” he ordered, dropping the newspaper and taking off his glasses. He knew how very vulnerable she was and decided this was the day he was going to convert her kindness to weakness. At first, she was hesitant, “No, Daddy, I can’t. I have a lot to do before Mummy comes back.”

“Do you want me to smash your head against the wall? What did I say about disobeying me?” he asked furiously.

“I’m sorry,” proves her pure innocence.

“Sit on my legs and take off your clothes,” he ordered again.

“What? Daddy, I am really sorry, I can’t,” she became more reluctant.

“Are you still disobeying me?” he asked with a fling of his hand which landed on her face. He stood up vibrating and his face dark with fury. He picked her up and pressed her against the chair he had been sitting on. Her attempts to break free only left her with bruises, each struggle met with more force. Realizing resistance would only worsen the situation, she froze, her mind racing to find an escape from the torment. This became a daily ordeal, her mind retreating to distant, imaginary worlds to numb the pain he inflicted. When it was over, she would watch him zip up his pants, the sound slicing through the suffocating silence.

“Make sure you never tell your mother about this. Don’t make me do what I will regret,” he would always remind her while she curled up tightly on the floor or wherever it occurred, muffling cries until he was gone. She had longed to tell her mother but the weight of his threats loomed over her, a chilling reminder of the consequences that followed. Even if she spoke up, a part of her feared her mother might turn the blame on her. That alone kept her in a shell.

It went on for years until she turned eighteen. Something had shifted. Slowly, she began to shed the identity of the helpless victim, replacing it with the mask of something darker. The sweet angelic Dara the whole town knew had turned into a monster. Her working heart had built bricks all around until it became a stone wall itself. Sealing away that girl who was often mistaken for the sun, the girl who danced joyfully in the rain, that little girl who believed in the world’s goodness.

The years that followed were still the same. Nothing changed. The town mirrored her- cold, unfeeling, and always moving too fast. People rushed by her without a glance, their faces blurred by indifference which she wore on her face. She felt like a chameleon, camouflaging her way through wherever she went with her headset always playing loud music. She didn’t need anyone, she had survived fighting her demons alone for too long. It started as a habit until it later became her character. Moving in shadows while shutting the whole world out.

Then on this particular day, the clouds hung low with a serious threat of rain. She was hurrying home from the market, tightly wrapping up herself into her coat. Trying not to walk too fast or too slow. At least her mother could get home before she did else she had to endure the rape again like always. She didn’t notice the commotion in the market else she would have stopped a while.

“Shift! Don’t you know people don’t walk like this in the market?” A man with a truck pushed her out of the way. That was when she turned. The whole bizarre fuss in the market was about an old woman who had stolen tomatoes. They had been dragging her all around the market half-naked. They wanted to burn her alive like always happened notoriously in some African towns. She wanted to look away and keep walking. It wasn’t her problem. It wasn’t her responsibility. But something inside her couldn’t move an inch, something she hadn’t felt in years. A voice she thought had been forever silenced whispered, “Help her”. Without sparing much thought, she stepped into the streets, dodging impatient drivers and market people just to get to where it was happening.

“Please spare her, have mercy on her,” she begged for the woman’s life when she successfully got through.

“No, this woman has been stealing from us for a long time. We need to teach her a lesson.” Everyone in the market said exactly the same thing.

“Take me instead! Let me take her place!” Before she could complete her statement, the old woman was thrown on the floor with the wicked mob chanting “kill her”, having no qualms that she wasn’t even the one who stole from them. Next thing tyres from nowhere fell over Dara’s body and fuel poured from a ten-litre bottle a man held. When the signal was given, the same man struck a match over Dara’s head and dropped it on her.

Shouting in serious pain from the flickering fire, her mind drifted back to all she had gone through at the hands of Mr. Adebaje who stripped her of her childhood innocence for so long leading her to mould her heart to something it wasn’t. But what mattered was that, in the end, she had chosen to care, feel, and love. Proving that her heart had been working even when she felt dead.

As she felt her soul slipping away, Dara’s lips parted. With the last strength she could gather, she whispered to herself, “After all this time, it still works…”

Deborah Usak

Deborah Usak is a multifaceted storyteller, poet, and essayist who hails from Akwa Ibom state, Nigeria. She is known for tackling pressing social themes such as mental health, tribalism, and social injustice. Drawing heavily from personal narratives, her works span poetry, creative nonfiction, fiction, and essays. She was Second place winner of The Academy hosted by Akwa Ibom Broadcasting Corporation (2018). She also won Best Collaborative Storytelling, 'Christmas Never Comes Alone,' 12 Days of Christmas, Global Writers Project (2024). Beyond writing, Deborah enjoys wine tasting, surfing the net, content creation, and spoken word art. She holds a Bachelor's degree in History and International Studies, Renaissance University, Enugu, Nigeria. Deborah is deeply passionate about works focused on healing, survival, growth, development and personal reflection.