by Leah Bassoff
Tonight I will have to do extra washings, walk to the river when it is getting dark, plunge my hands into that cold water and scrub my skirt against a rock to remove the blood. When I dress in the morning, the uniform will remain wet, yet this is not too great a hardship. What is important is that I have proven I can be one of those girls who stays at school no matter what.
Still, I hate my body’s change. Will the boys now start to bother me, to pay me notice? I think of my mother’s friend Chocho hiding in the bushes, her face covered with leaves. I think of Nadai. My palms begin to tingle just as they did when I slapped my brother.
I will fight off any boy who bothers me, I promise myself, and I will do it with my own two hands if need be. Just try to touch me, I almost dare the boys. Touch me and watch how your fingertips will burn.
— 5 —
THOUGH ADULTS DO NOT discuss what goes on with a man and woman in the privacy of their huts, all of us girls know about what the adults do at night. We also know about babies. Most of us have seen our mothers pregnant and giving birth many times over. That is how women’s lives are. Children on top of children.
On a day when the ground has begun to crack from dryness, Mama — who is pregnant again — doubles over herself with labor pains. On this very same day, my brother Lotiki’s leg — achy and swollen since the beginning of the week — suddenly erupts into such pain that he runs for the small jug of water we keep in the hut and douses his leg with it. The water immediately reacts with the skin, puckering into an angry sore.
Upon further inspection, my brother sees a small white tail sticking out of this new wound. Guinea worm.
One of the town midwives ushers Mama into our third hut — the one that doubles as a birthing hut for all my father’s wives — while a medicine man lays my brother on his back. The man takes a small stick which he uses to push on the bottom of my brother’s wound, coaxing that worm out of its warm home in my brother’s flesh. He says “Come, come” to the worm, as if he is talking to a small child. Next he wraps the worm around the twig as though threading a spool.
“Please, yank it out!” I scream, not wanting to see this worm in my brother’s leg anymore.
“No, no. Pull the worm too quickly, and snap,” he says, demonstrating how it can break into two pieces with the one piece still stuck in the leg. Instead he pulls a bit of the worm out and twists it around the stick. This pull and twist, pull and twist, just a little at a time, will continue for weeks, even months.
Releasing the worm from his body is a painful, slow birthing process. I watch to see if my brother cries out, thinking I can some day insult him by calling him a woman, but he does not. Rather, he clenches his lips together so tightly that it looks as though he has one lip instead of two.
They say the Guinea worm is clever. It begins as a tiny larva inside a flea, a mere speck of a thing. Once swallowed through dirty drinking water, it grows quietly inside its host, never causing a fuss, like a third wife. But there reaches a time when it wants to see the world, and it peeks out of the skin.
This is what happens with my brother. He hobbles around for weeks with a stick hanging out of his leg. The live creature is coiled around it.
Releasing a worm from my brother’s body takes longer than releasing a baby from my mother’s. Having given birth many times before, three times to live babies and many times to dead ones, Mama is accustomed to the bearing down it takes to push a baby out of her. Still, this does not stop her from shaking her head from side to side, as if disbelieving the pain.
I watch as the midwife with the skinny fingers massages Mama’s belly with sesame oil as a way of feeling how the baby is positioned. She holds a compress made from boiled leaves to Mama’s back to relieve some of the pressure and tries to get her to eat some porridge.
I do not like seeing Mama in so much pain. Her eyes squeezed shut, her neck bent, her body as stiff and crooked as a branch. What if I lose her? But Mama desperately hangs onto her life and that of the baby. I hear her praying between jagged breaths.
Once the baby is out, Mama fights to find the small bit of oxygen in the stifling hot hut. The tang of birth blood fills the room. With the help of the midwife, Mama tilts her pelvis to stem the bleeding. Then she takes the product of her labor, the new small life — a little girl — and puts her to her breast.
When she is done feeding her, Mama holds the baby up so I can see.
“Here it is,” Mama says, holding my wrinkly, wet sister. To give her a name this early would be tempting the fates.
We have a saying, “You can’t have a swaddling cloth before a baby is born, because until you see the baby, you do not know if it will be human or not.” Our mothers lose so many babies that we do not count on this baby living until a few days have passed.
I look at my baby sister every day, stare at the crusty stump of her umbilical cord and run my fingers across the tight oily hair on her head.
Sometimes I whisper warnings into her tiny ears, the same ones Mama taught me. “Keep away from mosquitoes and puddles. Don’t miss a day of school, not even one.”
One morning I find the baby’s umbilical cord lying beside her, curled up like a crinkly peanut.
“Mama!” I call out.
Mama inspects the dried-up cord, squeezes it between her fingers.
“Now your sister is a person,” she says.
The naming ceremony takes place a few days later. Names come from families, local people and the Catholic church. That is why we have so many. One person may give you a name, but another may choose to call you by a different one. Names get strung together like links on a chain.
We name my sister Achii Iyom Ikaa Arminya. Achii is because she was born during thirsty times. Poor girl. If she had just waited a few more days to be born, she would have been named for the rain that followed — rain that was coaxed out of the sky by the elders.
The elders’ magic is hard to explain. I do not know what goes on at their meetings where they discuss, among other things, the problem of no rain. My father once explained that they slaughter a goat and spread its entrails out so that they can interpret them. They then discuss whatever disharmony is preventing the sky from releasing water. They talk and talk, and when they are done, the sky lets forth a torrent of rain.
Oh, Achii, I wish you were named for the rain that bleeds along the ground, turning it dark and bringing out the bright color of the leaves. Instead, when people hear your name, their skin will crack and their throats will croak with the memory of dry days.
I hold my baby sister during those brief moments when she is not strapped to Mama’s back, stick my face right over hers as she is lying on top of a goat skin. When I place my finger in her mouth, I am amazed at how strong her suck is. Achii is only a week old and yet, oh Lord, the will to survive and eat is so strong.
Forty days after Achii is born, we hold a big ceremony for her. All the villagers gather around. It is at this time that people give their unique blessings to the baby.
Nakiru, who is known for her ability to sew a dress after having measured you only with her eyes, says, “May you make your home peaceful.”
One of the elders, Lomura, whose purplish lips are in a constant pucker and who, it is rumored, can hold his breath indefinitely underwater, says, “Achii, may you bring a good name to your family.”
Finally, my father adds his own wish. “That your life should be a smooth one.”
As Achii grows, the villagers will watch to see which of their blessings comes true. If she is successful in life, they will take credit for it.
— 6 —
A YEAR LATER, AS Achii is learning to take her first wobbly steps, soldiers begin to surround our village. They mill about, lean up against posts, their eyes scanning the horizon. There have always been soldiers, but now there are more of them, and they are restless, like animals sensing an oncoming storm.
&n
bsp; I have grown so much that my school uniform — a white blouse and dark-blue pinafore — no longer fits me. Mama must buy me a new one, so she brews merti, our local beer, in order to earn some money.
I go with her because I have no choice, but also because I love the damp yeasty scent of brewing beer.
Mama has already soaked the cornmeal, allowing it to ferment. At the same time the sorghum has started to sprout.
“Roots!” I proclaim. This means the sorghum is ready to be boiled into porridge with the cornmeal. Soon it will be a sour fermented liquid, ready to drink.
Outside our hut, the soldiers from our Sudan People’s Liberation Army stand in groups and bump shoulders with one another. Tensions between the North and South are worsening, fermenting just like our beer. We of the South want to practice our Christianity, whereas those of the North want to spread sharia. For us, we consider sharia law to be a poisonous weed.
How will we protect ourselves against the North? Though we have guns, they have missiles. We hold twigs while they hold tree trunks.
The soldiers buy the beer from Mama and drink it warm. I hand a cup to one of them before Mama quickly pulls me aside.
“These same soldiers who give us money are the ones who, if they drink too much alcohol, might turn around and violate us later on. Sell them the beer, but remain wary of them,” she tells me in a low voice. “Always look at the eyes, Poni. If their eyes look cloudy from beer, that might mean trouble.”
“Why don’t you make changaa?” I ask Mama. “You’d earn more money.” This alcohol made from palm sugar and yeast is a strong, pure alcohol.
“No. Never,” Mama says. “There is good reason for people to call it kill-me-quick liquor. If it doesn’t kill you, it might blind you. More money is one thing, but remember what they say. The higher the monkey climbs, the more danger he faces.”
———
MY COUSIN KEIJI braids my hair in the sunshine. Keiji is all smiles, but her fingers are harsh and unforgiving, pulling my hair so hard that I feel every nerve ending in my scalp and tears forming in the corners of my eyes.
“Slow down! Stop hurting me,” I tell her.
“And then what? We will be here until the sun disappears, eh?” When Keiji finishes, she has me feel the neat rows she has made.
She also pulls a letter from her dress pocket. “Here is the reward for your beauty. It’s from a boy,” she laughs. Keiji has the giggle of a fluttering butterfly.
I unfold it. It is from Akileo. They say that this boy, along with two of his friends, killed a lion. Not only that, but Akileo is tall with broad shoulders and legs whose muscles stand out in ridges against his calves.
I know I am supposed to be happy to receive a letter from one so fine and courageous. Certainly Keiji is hopping up and down with excitement. But all I feel is anger.
“What are you going to do?” Keiji asks.
I hesitate only for a moment. “I will go beat him, of course.”
“It is a wonder any of the boys bother with you,” Keiji calls after me, but I ignore her.
Later that afternoon, I march over to where Akileo is tending cattle. He is standing, brushing his teeth with a tree root, surrounded by the cows with their enormous horns.
I draw myself up as tall as I can. Even so, I only reach Akileo’s chest.
“Did you write this?” I wave the letter in his face.
“I did,” he says with a smile that reveals one front tooth, cocked just so, as though it is teasing me.
“I am not some lion you can hunt,” I say, and I slap him as hard as I can across the chest. His chest feels thick as wood, and his skin makes a hollow thuck sound when I hit it. “If we married, you could hit me back,” I tell him. “But we won’t, not ever.” And with that, I hit him again across the shoulder.
At this point he turns his body away from me and says, “Are you crazy?” Now he has tightened his lips, no longer flashing that tipped-to-the-side tooth at me.
“Stay off me,” is all I say and turn on my heels.
———
A MONTH GOES BY and I do not hear from Akileo again.
“Thanks to God,” I murmur to myself. The problem is that once word of this first boy’s letter gets out, the other boys start to compete over me. My disinterest in boys makes me more interesting to them. They are like flies drawn to a cow’s swishing tail.
A week later, as I am studying, Keiji approaches with another letter.
“Tell me this is not from Akileo,” I groan.
“No,” she says, her eyes wide with mystery. “If you can believe it, it’s from Lokure.”
“Oh, no, no,” I say. “That skinny boy?”
“He’s not so bad. At least he’s a top student.”
“Yes, but he spends his time with his sister and mother more than with the other boys.”
Lokure’s mother gave birth to nine infants, all of whom died except for his sister and him. Lokure’s mother breastfed him until he was old enough to climb trees, a fact which earned him mockery around the village.
When I go searching for Lokure, I find his sister Lele instead. I am surprised she is alone, since she usually follows Lokure wherever he goes.
“Where is your brother?”
“He is studying near our hut,” she says.
I march straight over to Lokure. When he sees me, he lifts his hand up in greeting. I respond by shouting insults right into his face.
“Ugly,” I tell him. “Your face is a thorn to my eye. Don’t even look my way or I shall pierce you with a stick.”
I do feel sorry for Lokure, the way his smile falls off and his chest caves in. But I don’t apologize.
As I walk home, arms folded across my chest, blood pulsing within my cheeks, I am so distracted with my thoughts that I nearly run into a gazelle. It looks at me, and I stare right back, but it doesn’t run. I scare everyone else off. Why not it?
Maybe the gazelle is waiting for me to explain myself.
“I had to be cruel to Lokure. Otherwise he might try to claim me.”
The gazelle looks at me, its mouth full of grass, but its eyes sympathetic.
“I have to fight people off, you see,” I continue. It has something to do with Nadai, with the image I have of her hanging from a rope. I imagine her disappointment when she saw the men coming for her. They cut her down then sent her right back to her husband.
As I walk away from the gazelle, I let the tall grass scrape against my legs. I love grass like this, grass so high you can disappear into it.
— 7 —
A WHOLE MONTH GOES BY, and Lokure doesn’t contact me. Good, I think. But then, in a few weeks’ time, one of his friends approaches me with another love letter from him.
Oh, tell me this is not so. Were my words not cruel enough? Does he think I have time to wind him out slowly, like the medicine man who lured the Guinea worm out of my brother’s leg?
I don’t. I long to yank him out and be done.
I call my male cousin Juma over. “Juma, please do me this one great favor. Find Lokure and beat him.”
“I will,” he says.
The next time I see Lokure on the way to school, he stares past me. I cannot see any marks on his face, but I presume, judging by his expression, that of a frightened bongo antelope, that my cousin thoroughly thrashed him.
Good. But then, after a few more weeks have passed, eyes be true, I see Lokure’s friend trudging back towards me. In his hand, another letter.
“Am I crazy?” I ask. “Is this boy a poor dog begging for food scraps?” I take the letter and angrily put it in my skirt pocket. This time, I reason, I will go and beat Lokure myself, just as I did with Akileo.
I take the letter over to the small pile of trash we keep and burn every few days. I will set the fire right now. But, as I am about to put the letter in the tras
h pile, Lokure’s looping handwriting catches my eye, and I begin to read the letter in spite of myself.
As I read, something goes soft inside me.
How to explain? There are words in this letter. Bold words that compare me to things of beauty — the arched branch of a tree, the gold of a sunset. I remember when Nadai and I held a mango in our hands and plunged our fingers into the sweet fruit, remember the gloriously sticky sensation. In his letter, Lokure tells me that I am like this fruit, sweet underneath a tough rind.
I have never seen writing as beautiful as this.
As I read Lokure’s letter, my eyes begin to tear up. He is not supposed to know this side of me, the soft parts I have tried to cover with sticks.
I cannot, will not, let Lokure lure me in. He will not win me just because he is able to carve such beautiful images with his words. All boys seem sweet when they are trying to win the heart of a girl, but after marriage something changes. I know this. I saw how Chocho covered her cut-up face with leaves. I saw how Nadai’s husband stole her light. I cannot allow Lokure’s words, however magical, to pull me in.
Mama made it clear what marriage is like when she tugged on my hair and warned me about a life full of kneeling and beatings.
Yet, although it is my plan to do so, I cannot bear to burn Lokure’s letter. Instead I hide it in my pocket. I may need words such as these one day.
Then I go straight to Lokure. The slaps I rain upon his chest and across his face seem mechanical now. I hit him as though I am slashing away brush.
Lokure does not lift a hand to stop me. Instead he simply asks, “Do you not have a female’s heart?” I do not answer his question, and I do not look back after I walk away.
A female’s heart? It is quite possible that I do not. I run to Kinyeti and plunge my sore hands into her waters.
This river understands me. She is as cruel and cold as I am.