The healthy Jewish male is chauvinistic, and the culprit intruding on your space is not any different. You turned to stare at him as he walked slowly towards you. His gait was steady; though fatigue was etched across his...
The healthy Jewish male is chauvinistic, and the culprit intruding on your space is not any different.
You turned to stare at him as he walked slowly towards you. His gait was steady; though fatigue was etched across his face. His blue eyes were like the sky that stretched across the horizon. You could lose yourself just…
‘Give me a drink.’ His voice pulled you out of your reverie, and you blinked in surprise.
A Jewish male will never ask for something from a Samaritan! Let alone a female Samaritan, an outcast among outcasts.
******* (Earlier that day)
The woollen burgundy scarf was one of your most prized inheritances. All because it shielded you better from the hawk-like eyes of nosey neighbours than from the intense heat of the sun.
Using one hand to clasp it around your face, you carried your pitcher with the other, focused on the lone path to the well. You prefer to do this now than in the early hours of the day because of the prying stares and whispers.
Wishing you were a tiny dot in the whole universe did not bring you any luck. It would have been better to be unseen and neglected than to be seen and ostracized. Even the dreaded lepers were well regarded than you.
Your mother’s breath ceased before your first cry. She left two hideous inheritances- a bitter name, Mara and a burgundy scarf. Your father left you with your grandmother and life was normal until Matt happened.
******
‘Are you greater than Jacob, our forefather, who dug this well?’ His arrogance was beginning to grate on you, and you could not help but put him in his place.
He smiled at you, and you felt a surge in your belly. His smile was not like the malicious tilt Matt had before his belt welted your skin or the glint in Isaac’s eyes before he stripped you naked.
‘Go, call me your husband.’
You stiffened, then forced through gritted teeth, ‘I don’t have a husband.’
‘You are right, for you had five husbands, and the one you’re with is not your husband.’
Your eyes grew big, and a gasp escaped your lips. You stared at him as your past flashed before your eyes.
Matt…
Niel…
Tobias…
Nathan…
Isaac…
All who stole a precious part of you and left you with a vacuum. Without words, the light in his eyes spoke to the deepest parts of your soul. He knew you, He saw you, and He loved you.
Minutes later, your pitcher would sit at the well, with your scarf tossed beside it. You would run into town where you were neglected and tell them about the man who saw you at your lowest and gave you a pleasant name, Naomi. People will follow you to see the El-Roi, but right now, you couldn’t resist the urge to deflate his chauvinism…
‘Our fathers worshipped here, but you Jews claimed that Jerusalem is the only place of worship…’
Biography
Julianah Samson writes from Ijebu-Ode, Nigeria. She is the author of two novellas: Caught and Anjola’s Story. Her works have been featured in magazines like Writers Space Africa, a literary magazine with international readers. She loves to teach and coach on writing when she is not writing. You can connect with her on Facebook here:
