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MUSTARD II – Ch. 10 | KT OLLA

HEAVY sighs fell from a hurting chest like logs from a camel’s back. Still the weight wasn’t just about the load. It was quite sorrow-full, too.

Yes, the talk about Morrow was fast spreading round town. People talked about a survivor of the Whiteman’s war, who returned alive – only to be poisoned by his wife.

People talked about the man, and it soon reached him.

It was a new day at the cottage hospital in the small township of Ede. Morrow’s brothers had gone home earlier to fetch his meal. They were making it themselves, so they hurried.

Now their eldest woke up and was by himself.

He thought of the events of the day before. Thought of them from several perspectives. And they just hurt, whatever angle he peered at them.

He thought of the years he spent with Wura his woman. Plus, the years it took him to have the kids.

Then again, he thought of the way Wura left him. And it irked him much.

Now Morrow chose to leave the thoughts on his wife and face his own existence. But that even hurt more.

All he wanted was a home, yet it was hard to build one. Then when he thought he had got one, he was separated from it.

 So he went back to things about his spouse—who wanted him dead. And those thoughts hurt him he sighed loads.

Now the head nurse of the day before, walked in and saw him down. He was sitting up on the bed, but she saw a man so down he could end himself. So she hurried to him.

‘What will you do now with everything shattered?’ She was getting down to seat on a side stool.

Moro gazed up, startled at first. Then he realised it was the matron in that ward. As she’d been treating him kindly since he got there.

‘Oh morning, Mr Morrow! You can call me Miss Hellen—and how are you?’ 

The woman felt to give her name as she thought to speak with the distressed man personally.

She’d previously realised that the patient could clearly pick her words in English – even though he couldn’t reply her.

Now she’d heard what made her feel more concerned. That a Trench War fighter survived poisoning.

So she asked again: ‘Is there something, Mr Morrow? Something you like to share?’

The middle-aged man only dropped his head. It was a heavy bow.

Hellen picked up. ‘Well, your story’s on everyone’s lip. So I happened to hear about you.

‘Speaking sincerely, I salute your courage sir. I just like to help lift things off your chest, if you don’t mind—’

Morrow didn’t answer. He just sighed.

‘Well, you don’t need to say anything, Mr Morrow.’ The matron kept putting in efforts.

‘You can nod to me, then, if you like me to go on. Or even if you understand what I’m saying.’

Morrow raised his head and talked. ‘How? Say to me how.’

He’d just attempted words in her language.

Hellen squinted an eye. Then the next moment she picked it. It seemed a yes—he was asking her to go on.

Tell me how. Nay, show me how you can liven me.

So Miss Hellen picked those words he couldn’t speak. Then dropped hers in a craving heart.

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