“Ismae?” Joseph was surprised to see her and the baby. He peered over her shoulder, fully expecting to see Wasik’s Mercedes parked on the street. He opened his mouth to question her unannounced visit and then saw the suitcases—and thought better of it.
“Come in, come in,” he said.
“Who is it, Joseph?” Thema appeared behind him, her hands wrapped in a dishtowel. “Ismae? Well, what a nice—” she started, and then stopped when she saw the wrecked state her cousin was in. Thema flung the towel over her shoulder and rushed to Ismae. “What has happened?”
Ismae’s bottom lip trembled.
Thema turned to her husband. “Joseph, would you please put some tea on?”
“No tea. Do you have Guinness?”
Joseph and Thema exchanged surprised glances—Ismae was not a drinker.
“Okay then,” Thema uttered slowly. “Joseph, bring us two bottles of Guinness.”
In the living room Ismae set Agwe down on the floor and he quickly crawled off toward a potted plant.
“Ebony,” Thema called to her daughter, “come and take care of little Agwe while your aunt and I talk.”
They retired to the patio. The laughter of a talk show audience echoed from the television in a neighboring house. They settled in matching bamboo patio chairs.
Thema, short and round, folded one golden leg over the other, brought the bottle of Guinness to her lips, took a few sips, and then planted her gaze on Ismae’s sad face. “Tell me,” she urged.
Where should she begin? With Nsun and the van accident that killed the goats? The death of her father-in-law? The arrival of her mother-in-law? Wasik’s suspension? Agwe’s boils? Her broken ankle? Where?
Ismae began with the suspension and plowed through to the leaky roof. She didn’t speak about Nsun and the goats—that just seemed too ridiculous to mention, even though it was central to the mess Grandmother and Wasik had created.
Thema listened attentively, and when Ismae was done, she patted her cousin’s hand affectionately.
“All of these tears for a patch of bad luck?” Thema was relieved. “Oh, Ismae, you are much too sensitive. Things will turn around, they always do.”
“That’s not all of it,” Ismae whispered.
“Oh?”
Ismae drained the bottle of Guinness, welcoming the icy trail the cold stout carved down her throat. She drew her palm across her forehead and shook the perspiration into the still air.
“He took her to become trokosi,” she finally mumbled.
Thema blinked. Sure she’d heard wrong, she leaned closer to Ismae. “He? Took who?”
Ismae bit down on her lip until it sprang blood.
Thema pressed: “Who are you talking about, Ismae?”
“Wasik took . . .” She couldn’t bear to say the unsayable. She breathed deep and blurted: “Wasik took Abeo to become trokosi.”
Thema stared at her for one long moment. When she’d processed what Ismae had said, she gripped her cousin’s hand and squeezed it so hard Ismae cried out. “You’re mistaken, Ismae. He would not do such a thing.”
Ismae pulled her hand away and melted into the chair. “But he did.”
WIFE OF The GODs
Zolta Region, Ukemby
1985–1999
13
After Wasik left Abeo at the shrine, the old woman took her to a one-room hut with two square windows and a dirt floor. The morning spilled in through spaces in the thatched roof that were in need of repair. A stool sat conspicuously in the center of the room. A gray garment, folded into a square, rested on the seat of the stool. On the floor against the wall was a bright yellow bucket and four grass mats stacked one on top of the other.
The woman clasped her hands behind her back and walked a slow circle around Abeo. When she was done, she pushed her fists into her thick hips, glowered down at the girl, and announced, “I am Mama Darkwa. What is your name?”
Abeo whispered her name.
“We do not go for any nonsense here, do you understand? You will do as you are told. And if you do otherwise, you will be punished.”
Where was here? Abeo had no idea.
“Now, take off those clothes,” Mama Darkwa ordered, slapping her across the head.
Abeo cried out and stumbled backward.
“Are you slow or just stupid? Have you already forgotten what I’ve just told you?”
Stunned, Abeo slowly slipped her dress over her head and placed it in the woman’s waiting hand.
“Those too.” Mama Darkwa wagged her finger at the undergarments she wore. Abeo hesitated for a half-second, but the sting of the blow to her head was still fresh, and so she quickly complied. Darkwa clucked her tongue and snatched the gold cross and chain from Abeo’s neck. She held it up to the light and studied it briefly before tossing it to the ground and mashing it into the dirt with her foot.
“Come,” Darkwa instructed after she’d retrieved the yellow bucket.
Abeo cupped her hands over her private area and followed the woman obediently out into the open. The sun was hot and the trees were alive with the chatter of birds. Eyes lowered with shame, Abeo stumbled along a path that wound between huts, through a thicket of brush, and ended at the bank of a wide river.
“Get in,” Darkwa ordered.
The water was cold. Darkwa dumped bucket after bucket of icy water over Abeo’s head until her body fell into spasms.
The woman pulled a bar of black soap from the pocket of her dress and raked it across Abeo’s body, then slathered it through her hair until it was a foamy, woolly ball. She dropped the soap back into her pocket and pulled out a straight razor. When Abeo saw the blade, she began to shriek.
“Shut up!” Darkwa bellowed, using her middle and index fingers to pop Abeo across her lips. “Hold still or I might slip and cut off your ear.”
Abeo held herself as rigid as possible while Darkwa drew the blade expertly across her head, slicing off soapy locks that dropped into the water and were whisked away by the current.
When Darkwa was done she took Abeo back to the hut, where she pointed a long finger at the folded piece of fabric that rested on the stool: “Put that on.”
It was a drab, sleeveless dress. She slipped it over her head, the rough material scratching her skin.
“Come,” Darkwa commanded, and once again Abeo followed her from the hut. Now that she was clothed, she felt it safe to raise her eyes and survey her surroundings. Apparently, her father had left her in a small village that consisted of dozens of huts of various sizes. On the east side of the compound, a half-mile’s walk from the huts, grew acres of corn. Abeo watched the tall stalks shudder beneath the swiftly moving hands of the young girls harvesting the produce. Beyond the corn was flat red earth, which gave way to mango trees, lush with fruit. Chicken coops and livestock holding pens flanked the southern side of the village. The river ran along the northern perimeter, hemmed in by a dark and imposing forest. The west, Abeo reasoned, must be the way out, the way home. They walked past lines of young bald girls carrying sacks and baskets, all outfitted in the same gray dress that Abeo now wore. Dangling from their necks were strings of crimson beads.
At the doorway of a very large hut, Darkwa gave Abeo a final once-over before shoving her inside. The hut had six windows, so it was bright with sunlight. In the center of the hut, surrounded by baskets of fruit and vegetables, sat an old man dressed in a white robe. Standing on either side of him were two girls, each fanning him with a massive palm leaf.
Abeo’s eyes moved from the girls to the hanging folds of skin on the man’s long face and finally down to his feet, which were bigger than any feet Abeo had ever seen outside of a cartoon. Not only were his feet enormous, but his toes seemed to be as long as his fingers. Abeo would have laughed if she wasn’t so traumatized. He grinned at her, revealing a row of black teeth.
Darkwa knelt at the old man’s feet and he presented his hand to her, which she kissed.
“This is Abeo Kata,” she announced.<
br />
The priest nodded. “Come to me, my child.”
Abeo’s fear had drained down into her feet, turning them into cement. Darkwa reached around and tugged her forward.
“No need to be afraid,” the man encouraged. Abeo stared at his finger toes. “How old are you?”
“Nine,” she whispered.
“Do you know who I am?”
Abeo shook her head.
“I am the priest and this village is my shrine.”
Abeo said nothing.
“Many years ago Yame came to me in a dream. Do you know who Yame is?”
Abeo shook her head again.
“Yame is the supreme god of heaven; the moon goddess and the sun god, the creator of sky, earth, and the underworld. Yame entered my body and informed me that I would represent him here on earth, that he would use me for the good of man; that I would be a trokosi priest and this village would be my shrine to him. I was twelve years old.”
Abeo’s face flushed with confusion.
“Do you know why you are here?”
Once again, Abeo shook her head.
“You are here to serve Yame. And in doing so, you will bring good fortune back to your family. You must be a very special little girl to be chosen by Yame to become his wife.”
Abeo’s eyes filled with tears. What was this old man saying to her? Wife? She was just nine years old. How could a child become a wife?
“You will follow the rules that Yame set forth, and in doing so, Yame will bless your family.”
With that he nodded to Darkwa, who rose, walked over to the far wall of the hut, and pulled a blanket made of goatskin from a blue-and-yellow woven basket. This, she draped over the rounded shoulders of the priest. She returned to the basket and retrieved a white cloth, which she placed over Abeo’s head, tying the loose ends into a knot at her throat. Darkwa forced Abeo to her knees, then went over to the table set against the opposite wall and retrieved a wooden smoking pipe with a long, sloped stem, which she lit and handed to the priest.
The old man chanted words that Abeo did not understand, sucked on the stem of the pipe, and blew a white stream of smoke into Abeo’s face. The girl coughed, her eyes burned, and her head grew light. For an instant, she imagined her head lifting from her neck and floating off into the air like a balloon.
Darkwa slipped a rope of red beads around Abeo’s neck.
The second stream of smoke the priest blew into Abeo’s face sent her cascading into unconsciousness.
When Abeo came to, she was stretched out on a floor mat, in yet another hut. She blinked at the blurry face hovering above her. “I’m Juba,” the hazy image declared in a high-pitched voice.
Abeo winced at the spikes that the sound of Juba’s voice drove into her brain. Slowly she gathered herself. Propped up on her elbows, Abeo glimpsed stick figures, numbers, and letters scrawled on the mud walls. Two young girls were seated on mats, hunched over bowls of food. A third girl was nursing an infant, even as her swollen belly jutted ominously out from her midsection.
“Are you hungry?” Juba asked.
Abeo tried to speak, but her tongue felt as heavy as wet cloth. So she shook her head. Juba sucked her teeth, scurried over to the window ledge, and retrieved a small gourd which she filled with granulated cassava—known as gari—from a clay pot on the floor near the door. Next to the pot was a bucket of water. Juba used her hands as a ladle, spooning the water from the bucket onto the gari. She brought the bowl to Abeo and offered it to her.
“Here,” she said. “Stir it up and eat before it hardens.”
Abeo stared down at the glop. Gari was not usually served alone, but accompanied by a rich meat or vegetable stew. Abeo glanced around at the other girls who were silently eating without complaint. She set her bowl down, lay back on the mat, and curled her knees to her chest.
“You must eat,” Juba urged.
Abeo turned onto her side, squeezed her eyes shut, and waited for the terrible nightmare to come to an end.
After the other girls finished eating, they washed their bowls in the bucket and stacked them along the ledge of the window. The pregnant girl wrapped her baby on her back, walked over to Abeo, and nudged her with her toes. “Get up. We have to go to the fields.”
Abeo didn’t move.
“You, new girl. Come, before you cause big trouble,” Juba pleaded from the doorway.
When Abeo still didn’t move, the girls shrugged their shoulders and left. A few seconds later, Abeo was staring at the faded knees of denim jeans.
“Get up, you!”
His name was Duma and he was the oldest of the priest’s sons. He also had the blackest heart of his eleven siblings. The trokosi girls secretly referred to him as The Evil One and sasabonsam: a vampire.
Tall, dark, and lanky, Duma had a flat nose that was so broad, it cast a perpetual shadow over his lips. His wide-set, slanted eyes imparted him with a serpentlike quality that matched his personality.
“You can sleep tonight,” Duma growled. “Out to the fields, now!” He grabbed Abeo by her throat and yanked her to her feet. Abeo clawed at his hands but Duma held fast. He dragged her out of the cool hut, into the sweltering afternoon heat. Just when Abeo thought she would die from suffocation, he released his grip. “Walk,” he commanded, shoving her down the dusty road and into the field.
There, amid stalks of corn, she was placed in the charge of the pregnant girl known as Nana.
Nana waited patiently for Abeo’s sobs to dwindle to shuddering gasps before she spoke.
“Okay, new girl, pay attention.” Nana wrapped her hand around an ear of corn. “Pierce the kernel with your thumbnail—if the juice runs milky, it’s ready to be picked. If it looks like water, leave it.” She grabbed hold of an ear, snapped her wrist sharply to the left, and pulled down. The corn came away from the stalk with a pop. “Now, you try it.”
Her body racked with tremors, and still sniveling, Abeo had a hard time grabbing hold of the corn.
Nana frowned. “Tears will not help you here. It will only make things worse, so wipe your face, stop your crying, and do what I have shown you to do.” She aimed her chin at a stalk of corn. “That one.”
Abeo took the corn in her shaky hands and tried her best to imitate Nana’s movements, but the result was poor, leaving the stalk bruised and bent.
Nana clucked her tongue. “That,” she said pointedly, “will get you whipped.”
14
Abeo wept all through her first night at the shrine. Her small hands were bruised from hours of pulling corn and her back ached from the heavy baskets of produce she had been ordered to haul between the fields and the storage hut.
The question of why her father had left her in that place ran circles in her young mind. Try as she might, she could not come up with an answer,
Sometime during the night, Nana’s baby woke, crying for his mother’s milk. Abeo listened to the suckling sounds and tried to imagine herself in his place. The vision of being held, rocked, and nursed comforted her. She slipped her thumb between her lips and soon fell into a fitful sleep.
Before morning could completely conquer night, the roosters began crowing, drawing the girls from their slumber. Abeo sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and felt the sadness and fear from the previous day creep over her once again. She’d dreamed that her father had come for her. The dream had been so vivid that she found it hard to believe it wasn’t true. The tears returned, yet not one of the girls offered to comfort her. Nana rose from her mat, hitched her son to her hip, and started across the hut to the door.
“Come on, new girl,” she called over her shoulder.
Abeo followed Nana and the other girls through the morning mist, down to the river’s edge, where they rinsed their mouths, washed their faces, and filled buckets with water.
Back in the hut, Juba once again doled out the gari and they ate. The gari bubbled up Abeo’s throat like lava. She pressed her lips together and forced it back down.
“Do
they feed us nothing else?” she squeaked.
Juba licked her fingers. “Sometimes we get pig’s tail.”
“Not often though,” another girl piped.
Abeo stared down at the white paste; the scent alone turned her stomach. She could not imagine a lifetime of eating nothing but gari.
* * *
During Abeo’s first full day in the field, she watched in horror as Duma pounced on a girl who he’d seen slip a kernel of corn into her mouth. The punishment was brutal. He pummeled her face and shoulders with his fists and when she crumpled to the ground, he continued beating, kicking, and stomping until blood seeped from her eyes and mouth. When Duma was done, he simply walked away, leaving her body sprawled out on the dark earth like a broken doll.
There was nothing anyone could do for her, and even if they could, they wouldn’t—lest they suffer the same fate. And so they continued to work, stepping over the girl as if she were a twig.
Abeo saw this and her already fragile psyche cracked. After that, the shock set in like August heat, evaporating every bit of moisture Abeo had, even the spit in her mouth. Finally, dry-eyed and numb, she questioned the girls as to what had brought them to this horrible existence.
“My mother died when I was born, and then while my father was away on a business trip, his second wife, my stepmother, died. Both times I was there.”
“My father started looking at me in the same way he used to look at my mother.”
“My brothers and I were in a tro-tro that drove into a gully and exploded. I made it out alive, but they didn’t. My mother was pregnant at the time. The grief caused her to miscarry. It was a boy child.”
One heartbreaking story after the next.
If what the old priest said was true, it seemed from the number of girls at the shrine that there was plenty of bad luck in Ukemby.
“And you, new girl, what bad luck befell your family?”
Abeo honestly didn’t know. She was a child, and not made privy to complex family matters. Wasik had been suspended for weeks before Abeo noticed he was home more than not. Wasik, of course, had explained it away by saying that he had chosen to work from home for a little while.
Praise Song for the Butterflies Page 6