Black wind from the North

By Joseph Ikhenoba

 

Kimberley Collins, a blonde teenager, made a distressed call to the North Manchester Division Police Station on October 15th, 2023, at 8:15 a.m. She reported that her mother strangled herself with a rope.

It was a crackling and tears shedding voice that fired Inspector James Johnson off from his black leather chair to the sight of the scene. Before setting off, he told his secretary to photocopy criminal records and arranged the stack of files on his polished table.

It was a bright morning; the skies were woolly, similar with an unchastised white garment of baptism, and the trees rustled among the wind, rustling decayed leaves on the wretched earth.

Throughout his twenty years as an office, he hasn’t recorded a suicide case but tonnes of murder, but this matter was strange. On arriving at their brick-cottage in Downing Street, Northern Manchester, her two daughters sobbed next to her. Their eyes were bloodshot and swollen from the storms of tears.

He greeted and taped the door with yellow ribbon, ordering no intrusion. Then he turned to two junior officers, ordering them to collect any evidence they could find. Officers saluted, then entered her room. The young coroner wasted no time in getting forensic details from here. He took a thumb-print of her lifeless body and wrote reports on a plain paper, while the officer turned to the older girl who called him on the phone.

“What time did she die?” He queried, peering into her eyes.

She mopped the phlegm on her nose and composed herself. Despite feigning her voice, she still said something.

“I and my sister Hailey returned from our grandma’s house this morning, only to find her tethering on the fan. So, we unfettered her.”

“What did she tell you before taking her life? I meant, was she having a depression? The girls exchanged glances, trembling.

“For a month now, we have seen her taking anti-depressants, and each time we asked her why she did, she said the pills calmed her nerves. We are unaware of her condition.

“Ah!” His jaws dropped.

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s her job?”

“She was a factory worker. She worked in a chocolate factory as a cleaner.”

“What was her schedule?” He jotted her statement.

“Six hours. I often heard her grumbled because of the pay.”

“Do you know her pay?”

“Five pounds an hour. She complained to her male colleagues who does same work as her received higher pay.”

“Do you think it could have resulted in her death?”

“I don’t know, sir. Three days ago, before visiting our grandma’s house, I told her of my college fees, because I recently gained an admission to the University of Manchester to study Business Administration. She remained mute, and thought of giving it an afterthought. Then I returned to bed that night and never discussed it.”

The officer gave a deep breath and waggled his head.

“So, tell me a brief history of her life and the relationship between you.”

“She was born in Chester, and married to my dad Francis, who died five years ago of lung cancer. My father was a disciplinarian and always ensured we kept to his rules. But he loved us and always wanted the best for us. As for my mom, she was a gentle and hardworking woman. She always taught us the virtuous ways and ensured we dressed decently and respect others. I remembered when I failed in the Grade Eight and felt the skies were going to unleash their fury on me. She came to the rescue. She encouraged I and my sister to strive for excellence in our studies and don’t dally with boys. Though she never hated them, but wanted us to stay away from the forbidden apple, just as every caring mother would do.”

 

She stared at her blackening skin with tremors, her lips wriggling. “She must have been a caring mother.”

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“She was.” Hailey replied.

“So, tell me, does she have any addiction history?”

“Like I said, sir, I only saw her twice with some anti-depressant’s tablets, and she said she only wanted to calm her nerves with them. But I think her meagre wages, coupled with the death of my father, caused her death.”

Hailey interrupted. “She told me one night she was going through depression, over her hectic job and poor pay, which was raising her blood pressure. We struggled to have delightful meals.”

The officer forced back the raging storm from his crystal balls, knowing how tough life was to him growing under a single, poor mother. “It’s alright. I know how pained it was for you losing her at this moment of your life.”

“She was everything to us. I don’t know how we will cope without her.” Hailey burst into tears; her sister put her head on her chest.

The Investigator collected a few samples of her saliva with a cotton wool and put them in a plastic bag.

“Are you almost through, sir?” He turned to the young man.

“Yes sir. I have to document something.” He scribbled on a file.

The two other police officers returned with a green rope, two small brown bottles of antidepressants and a pack of syringes.

“Sir, these are what we found in her room.”

He collected and marked them as exhibits.

“It’s strange how many people take their lives nowadays. Suicide isn’t the way out.”

“The high cost of living is partly to be blamed, sir.” An officer added.

“Of course. The wages are nothing. Bills are piling, school fees, feeding, rents, and other miscellaneous expenses. It isn’t a platter for working-class couples, let alone a poor, single parent. Our government needs to work on gender equality on pay, and soften the taxes.” He wrapped the exhibits in a black bag.

“We can go now.” The coroner said.

The girls led the way and two ambulance medics wrapped the body in a white wrapper, with the hope of the officers getting to the bottom-line of the matter.

 

Ikhenoba Joseph from NIgeria is a passionate biochemist and writer. His essays, poems, and stories have appeared in local and international magazines, including Writer Space Africa, Humanities Commons, Poetry South, and Kinsman Quarterly. He has authored over thirty short stories and has received nominations for several international awards. His poem “Sanctuary” was long listed for Iridescence Awards and his story, “Wretchedness of the Earth”, shortlisted for Natives Awards in USA. When not writing and making scientific researches, he is out there watching football and sipping beverages with his loved ones.