For those who are eternal

1

I shook my head as she tried to get me to my feet hoping she'd give up and sit by my side whilst absorbing the atmosphere December 1818 had to offer.

"Can't you be a little more excited?" she asked as her arms wrapped around my neck, "Your birthday was two days ago and you're finally 18. You should be happier."

I was happy.

Although my family were servants to hers, I was still happy that I had the rare privilege of being betrothed to her. She was finally sixteen and that meant she was ripe for the taking.

"Kwame, Will you ever grow a beard?" she poked my chin, "My brother would never take you seriously."

My father had always asked me that question as well; apparently, here in Ghana, a man is measured by his beards, muscles or roundness all of which I failed miserably to be counted amongst. It's still a miracle how Yvonne still loved me.

"It's the year 1818, we would finally be a family of ours in two years," she informed with a giggle as her hands played with the necklace I had given her. It was once my mother's which she inherited from her mother-in-law through my father and now it belonged to Yvonne.

"Say, say, Kwame," she shook me, "I want four boys and a girl."

I gave her a disapproving look; four boys were way too much for me to handle.

"It's alright Kwame. Your hips and mine can handle them just fine," she assured me while pinching my sides. I sighed, she was much to handle. I think I'd prefer the four boys.

2 years came by faster than expected but there was a little problem. Yvonne suddenly fell ill a few months towards our wedding and the doctors said there was nothing they could do.

God couldn't have picked a better time to fail me. I never left her side. She was a fighter. She battled with the illness for 3 months until the day before our wedding. I had little hope that she'd make it and held onto that hope as desperately as I could.

On that day, she gave me back my mother's necklace and with tears in her eyes she said, "I am sorry Kwame but this is my limit."

I shook my head and wanted to tell her to fight harder for she was the Lioness of the savanna and this was a light challenge, but her pale skin and emaciated form was God's way of telling me to know my place.

"On the bright side," she said weakly, "I at least died looking young and with my memories intact."

I bit my lip to suppress the bitter laughter that was to escape. What was her problem? She even made jokes about her situation. Why was she so thick-headed? I burst into tears as her breathing became shallow.

"Ah, Kwame. You're still such a child. Live for me. Live until you find a suitable replacement for me." she said and her tears flowed before she closed her eyes. I squeezed her palm at least hoping for her to open her eyes; she never did. The following day she was buried. If only God had been merciful, it would have been an event filled with laughter but the air was so heavy, everyone would have choked and be buried alongside her. Her family never hated me. They never blamed me.

That was until 1856.It was my 56th birthday but it didn't feel right. None of my birthdays after 1830 felt right.

"You're a wizard! A wizard! You used her for your sorcery!!" Jonah bellowed.

"Calm down dear," his wife pleaded, "You really need to take it easy.""Not as long as this sorcerer lives!" he stomped his feet on my carpet. "Let us go," she suggested.

They both left while Jonah grumbled some words. I buried my face in palms as I let out a huge sigh.

Looking at my face in the miracle, I was disgusted.

After Yvonne died in 1820, I stopped ageing physically. Although I was 56, I still looked 20.

God really chose the wrong time to play pranks.