The Walls Between Us - by Peculiar Yeke

Just a soft knock... She thought she opened her father's doorto the stranger who stood before her. Unknown to her,she opened the door to her heartand awakened the heart she had imprisoned. Yes—a prisoner. For she had built wallsand caged it to protect herself. Her heart was her pet,once given to someone else, who wounded itand left it to bleed. So she took it back and caged it,not out of hate,but because she was trying to protect it. And the key she turnedto open that door for the strangerbecame the same keyhe would use to unlockthe prisoned pet—her heart. Yet the person who would heal her petwas the very oneshe was forbidden to see. He became the evil forestshe needed to enterfor rare herbs. Because he... He was a rare gem. He was the image of the husband she had always imagined,the partner she had spent years weaving within her heart. The perfect manwho could woo herand make her feel like a woman. Yet that very woobecame a woe. Not because he was wrong,bad,awful,or unloving. He was far from it. He... He happened to be borninto a different tribe. A tribe that might never accept hers. People who would call heran outsider. But she had given himthe keys to her heart. Only he couldlock it away again. When she speaksẸ káàrọ̀, he speaksỤtụtụ ọma. Two different languages. Two different worlds. Yet over five hundred tribesbuilt a nation. I guess diversity thriveswhen it isn't askedto share a surname. And he was a choir coordinator,she a pastor's kid. Perfect combo, right? Or so it seemed... Except he was not Pentecostal,and she was. Her familywould not accept him. Not if she clothed himin another denomination. For a dollar is a dollar,and a naira is a naira. Even if she painted him white, would she also teach himto eat bẹ̀gírì? Even if she taught himto speak her mother's tongue, would his tongue still carry an accent? Would he mistake r for land say "Ekalo"instead of "Ẹ káàrọ̀?" Even Jerichodidn't fallbecause love wished it to. And no trumpetcould bring downthe walls of tribe,tongue,and inheritance. With the mind,you can take a stance,because reason understands consequences. But love? Love shutsyour system down. So she worried... Would her parents call himàjèjì,unworthy of the titleọkọ ọmọ mi? If so,let it end. For she could not crya bucket of tearswith no end. He—Ọkpara of his father's house— drowned in the thoughtof the woman he longed for being calledan Osu instead ofnwunye Ọkpara when she stoodbefore his people. So, even if she became Catholiclike him, could she eraseher tribe,her culture,her inheritance? Could she unlearnjókòó,èjìdé,and the oríkìthat had danced upon her tonguesince childhood? Could she? And if he lefthis denomination for herand became Pentecostal, would his conversionalso erasethe other person'stribe,tongue,and taste? Would her changemake her belong,when Yoruba bloodstill flowed through her veins? After all... she was calledAdéọlá. There is love,yes. But there is compromise. And are they willingto pay the price,so their heartsmay beat togetheras one? Or walk awayfrom everythingthey have built? Love, they say,has no boundaries. True. It is a weedgrowing where it shouldn't. And unfortunately, farmlandsdo not uproot weeds. Farmers do. And sometimesthose farmers are— Elders. Cultures. Beliefs. Religions. Nationalities. Those...were the wallsbetween us.

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