“Yes, it is.”
* * *
Abeo had many questions, and over the next few days Taylor tried her best to answer them.
“You keep talking about the shrine; why would my parents send me there?”
Taylor didn’t know how to explain ritual servitude to a grown woman trapped in the mind of a nine-year-old. “They thought it was the best thing to do at the time.” She had a few questions of her own. “Do you know how you got those marks on your body?”
Abeo did not, and when she tried to remember, her temples thumped. “When can I see my parents?” she asked.
Taylor wanted more than anything for Abeo to be reunited with her parents, but she knew from experience that those reunions were often traumatic.
Taylor grabbed a pad and pen from her desk. “Okay, Abeo, tell me their full names, your last known address, and your telephone number.”
Abeo recited their names and her address with the unique gusto that only little children possess. She struggled with the telephone number before giving up and shamefully admitting, “I can’t remember.”
“That’s okay. We’ll find them with what we have.”
Taylor sent a letter to the address Abeo had given her and it came back two weeks later with the word Moved scrawled on the front of the envelope.
“Can you think of anyone else? A cousin or uncle?”
Abeo chewed her bottom lip. “No,” she squeaked.
33
A white woman named Fannie Horowitz who lived in New Mexico had read about what Taylor was doing in Ukemby and began sending money on a monthly basis. Two hundred dollars—exactly one-quarter of the amount she received from her dead husband’s pension. Each month, Taylor responded with a handwritten thank you note.
In the most recent donation, Fannie had included a two-page letter written in pink ink and scented with talcum powder. In the letter she explained that she was a widow and that her children had made lives for themselves in various parts of the country. She only saw them and her grandchildren during the Christmas holidays. Most of her friends had died or were infirm, leaving her quite lonely.
Fannie wrote, I am ashamed to say that I am counting the days until I die even though I consider myself to be a very young 68-year-old. She’d drawn a smiley face after that sentence and Taylor didn’t know whether she should laugh or cry for the woman.
I started making jewelry to fill the long hours of the day and I have discovered that it is very freeing and please excuse me for being forward, but do you think the young ladies would like to learn to make jewelry? I’d like to come and teach the girls to make jewelry. It is very therapeutic and I have found that while I’m doing it, I forget about my age and the circumstances that accompany it and I just think about the beauty I am creating. If I did not have this hobby of mine, I am sure I would have already succumbed to my miseries, which are far less than what your girls have been through. The truth is, I’ve never traveled out of the country, and Africa is not a place I have ever felt I wanted to visit, but now Africa, Ukemby, and your girls are all I can think about. I know it sounds crazy but I hope you understand.
Taylor did understand.
Fannie had written: I’d like to come and teach the girls to make jewelry—but Taylor knew she actually meant: I’d like to come and learn to love life again.
* * *
By the time Fannie’s supplies arrived, one month ahead of her own arrival, Abeo had been at Eden for one year, three months, and seven days.
Fannie had sent four big boxes filled with spools of wire, jigs, round-nose and bent-nose pliers, wire cutters, string, clasps, and dozens of clear plastic bags filled with a variety of gemstones, beads, and baubles.
Taylor asked Abeo and two other girls to help her sort through the items. The girls wondered at the strange tools and swooned over the pretty pebbles. Abeo was especially fascinated with a bag of pale-blue stones.
Taylor quickly addressed the curiosity in Abeo’s eyes: “They’re called turquoise.”
Abeo placed the bag of turquoise stones onto the shelf and returned to the box, but her eyes kept wandering back to them. The harder she tried to fight the attraction, the louder her heart banged in her chest.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Taylor asked.
Abeo pointed at the bag of stones and opened her mouth to speak, but only ragged breaths of air emerged. Memories had begun to come through—names, faces, places, and events. The good, the bad, and the wicked—all showered down on her in torrential sheets of recall.
Abeo pressed her hands to her head, declaring, “I remember now. It began with the ring . . .”
It began with the ring and ended with the death of Pra—after that day she’d fallen into a deep sleep and had woken up two years later at Eden, with the scent of kenkey and fish in her nostrils.
Taylor’s mouth hung slack with shock as she listened to Abeo’s rapid narrative. Taylor knew very little about the girls’ individual experiences because they usually avoided discussing their painful pasts. But now Abeo was painting a candid portrait of the dreadfulness they’d all experienced, and as Taylor listened, she realized that she could never in a million years have imagined the very worst of it—and it was those parts that she would never ever be able to shake loose, because they’d broken off in her heart like a stake.
34
Thema set her teacup down into the sink and glanced at her wristwatch. It was just past seven and she should have been out of the house fifteen minutes ago; now she would be late for work. She checked her purse for her car keys and was standing at the door when the telephone rang. Thema peered down at her watch—the time was ticking away, so she decided to let the machine pick up.
She was halfway out the door when the beep sounded and she heard the raspy voice of a stranger say: “This is Taylor Adams. I’m trying to reach Thema Wusu, a family member of Abeo Kata.”
Abeo Kata?
Thema was sure she’d heard wrong, but ran to the phone anyway, leaving the door standing wide open.
“Hello? Hello?” she panted into the receiver.
“Good morning, I’m looking for Thema Wusu.”
“Yes, yes, that’s me. Did you say something about Abeo?”
“Yes, I have Abeo here at the Eden Rehabilitation Center in Ketak and—”
“You have Abeo? Abeo Kata?” Thema tightened her grip on the phone and planted her back against the wall to keep from falling over.
“Yes, Abeo Kata.”
Thema shook her head. “I-I . . . don’t believe it. And you are who again?”
Taylor was used to the reaction. The first contact always took the relation by surprise. Taylor began again, this time speaking very slowly: “My name is Taylor Adams. I run the Eden Rehabilitation Center in Ketak—”
“A rehabilitation center?”
“Yes, for former trokosi.”
It was all very surreal—the first call and the one that followed later that evening. When Thema heard Abeo’s grown-up voice on the other end of the line saying, “Hello, Auntie,” she thought she would never stop crying.
* * *
Weeks later, one bright Sunday afternoon, Thema and her husband Joseph made the drive to Ketak. Thema was so anxious and nervous that she chewed her thumbnails down to the nubs.
A simple wooden sign nailed to a tree announced that they were now entering Eden. Joseph drove the car slowly past mud huts and cinder-block buildings with walls decorated with painted images of flowers, running vines, and smiling children.
Girls of all ages, holding hands or clutching dolls and books to their chests, strolled around the compound. At least two girls, from what Thema could see, were on crutches and one moved around with the aid of a sensing stick.
“Which one is it?” Joseph asked as he inched the car closer to the main buildings.
“I think that one.” Thema pointed to the canvas sign over the doorway that read, WELCOME.
Two teenage girls wearing simple white cotton smocks gre
eted them at the door and handed them each a program. The older of the two girls was missing an ear, and Thema found herself unable to pull her eyes away from the gaping hole on the side of her head. Joseph caught her staring and nudged her in the ribs.
Once inside the building, they were met by a tall, willowy young woman with an infectious smile. “Welcome, my name is Naja,” she said. “Please follow me.”
She led them down a hallway of classrooms that were empty save for chairs, desks, and various commendations taped to the walls. Thema and Joseph followed her into a large classroom where a dozen or so guests were already seated and waiting.
“The ceremony will begin in just a little while,” Naja announced before leaving them.
Guests continued to stream in until only standing room remained. The air grew thick with the scent of colognes and perfumed lotions. The heat felt like straight pins on their skin and people shifted uncomfortably and impatiently in their chairs, throats were cleared, and the thin paper programs were put to use as fans.
Thema fidgeted with excitement. She checked her watch and crossed and uncrossed her legs a dozen times. She was about to stand up when Taylor rushed into the room dressed in a traditional scoop-neck purple-and-green frock.
Taylor bubbled, “So sorry for the delay, ladies and gentlemen . . .”
Thema was struck by the woman’s appearance. She was shorter, wider, and lighter-complexioned than her voice had let on.
“I had a little problem I needed to attend to in town. But I’m here now and I hope you accept my sincere apologies . . . Oh my goodness! It’s so wonderful to have you here with us today!” Taylor went on to share the story of how Eden came to be, how many girls had been rehabilitated since its inception, and the plans she had for its future. Then she clapped her hands. “So, without further delay, I would like to introduce Eden’s graduates . . .”
She called the girls by name and they filed in one by one. They varied in height, scale, and hue. Some wore their hair cut close to their scalps and others sported braided styles. They were all dressed in white jumpers with handmade purple-and-yellow butterfly broaches pinned to the bodices of their dresses.
When Taylor called Abeo’s name, Thema shot to her feet. She strained to see around the large headdress worn by the woman in front of her, who had also stood up. When Abeo turned to face the audience, Thema raised a trembling hand and waved.
Abeo saw Thema and her entire face broke into a smile.
After the ceremony, Thema rushed to Abeo, threw her arms around her neck, and hugged her tighter than Abeo could ever remember being hugged in her life.
The last time Thema had seen her, she was a happy little girl. Now. Well, now they were both women, with histories and battle scars and more than a little touch of sadness in their eyes.
Hand in hand, Abeo and Thema moved toward the white tents where the reception was being held.
A soft afternoon breeze rustled the palms and a new litter of mewling kittens followed their mother away from the crowd of strangers and into the tall grass.
Thema couldn’t stop staring and every so often she’d raise her hand and run her fingers along the neat cornrows that lined Abeo’s scalp. “You’ve grown into such a beautiful young woman,” she commented over and over again.
Joseph, who had said very little up to that point, clutched his plastic cup of lemonade, rocked back on his heels, and nodded in agreement.
There was so much to say, but there would be plenty of time for that. For now they would just enjoy the day, enjoy one another, and wait for the years that separated them to flake away.
35
On the drive to Port Masi, Thema rode in the backseat with Abeo, holding her hand and catching her up on her life. “I’m a grandmother now!” she announced proudly.
When they arrived in the city, Abeo’s posture straightened. It seemed to Abeo that Port Masi had swelled in size, that there were a great many more shops and vendors lining the sidewalks and thousands more people than she remembered. She turned to Thema and asked, “May I roll down the window?”
“Of course!”
The scents and sounds of Port Masi rushed in, setting all of Abeo’s senses afire. “I’m home,” she moaned softly.
* * *
“I remember your house!” she exclaimed when Joseph turned the car into the driveway.
Once inside, Joseph carried Abeo’s small suitcase into his daughter’s old room.
In the living room, Abeo gazed at the framed photographs that covered the walls. “Is that Ebony? Is that her husband?”
Thema grinned. “Yes,” she said, pointing at another photo, “and those are their two children.”
“Two?”
Thema nodded to another photo. “Yes, a boy named Ramla and a girl named Aisha.”
“They are beautiful. They look like her.”
“I think so too. Come, let me get this dinner heated up.”
Abeo followed Thema into the kitchen. It wasn’t as she remembered it. The walls were a different color and the appliances were silver, instead of the pale yellow from her youth.
“Can I help?”
“No, no, please just sit down. This will be ready in a minute.” Thema poured the cold stew into the waiting pot, removed a box of matches from the shelf above the stove, and lit the pilot. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Do you still like orange soda?”
Abeo was touched that Thema remembered. “Yes, thank you, I do.”
Dinner went smoothly as they deftly avoided the elephant in the room and instead discussed the growth of Port Masi as well as the people Abeo had known in her childhood. When the dishes were cleared and Joseph had retired to the living room, Thema placed the kettle on the stove, sat down, and reached for Abeo’s hands. Their fingers locked.
“I’m so happy to have you here.”
“I’m happy to be here, Auntie.”
“Well, it seems we have a lot to talk about. But I don’t know if we should tackle it today? Perhaps tomorrow would be best when we’ve both had a good night’s rest. What do you think?”
Abeo didn’t want to seem rude, but she had waited for so long to hear the truth. She didn’t want to wait another minute and certainly not another day. “I was hoping we could talk . . . now.”
Thema understood. “Of course, Abeo. When we spoke, I told you that Ismae and Wasik had moved, but that is not exactly the entire truth.”
Suddenly, Thema’s hand felt as hot as the screeching kettle.
When Thema released her hands to prepare the tea, Abeo sighed with relief.
Thema set the hot cup of tea before Abeo and lowered herself back into the chair. She gave Abeo a long, tender look. “The truth is,” she started in a quivering voice, “and this is so very hard for me to say . . .”
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Abeo whispered.
Thema was taken aback. “Uhm . . . yes. Yes, she is. I’m so sorry, Abeo. How did you know?”
Abeo wiped a tear from her cheek. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I just felt she was dead, because if she were alive she would have come looking for me. She would have come looking for me and she would have found me.”
Who would it serve to tell Abeo that Ismae didn’t search for her? The devil, that’s who, and Thema had never been his disciple and wasn’t going to start now.
“That’s right, Abeo.” Thema nodded.
“When did she . . . When did it happen?”
“A year or so after you left . . . I mean . . .”
“And Papa and Agwe, where are they?”
A shadow fell over Thema’s face. She flicked an invisible crumb from the table. “He has taken a new wife.”
“A new wife?” Abeo looked wounded.
“Yes. He has made a new life for himself and Agwe in Togo.”
“And what of Grandmother?” Abeo asked.
Thema picked a piece of invisible lint from the table. “She died two years ago
,” she muttered.
Abeo took a moment to process the information. “Oh,” she breathed, and then: “Will he see me?”
“Who?”
“Papa. Will Papa see me?”
“I don’t know, Abeo . . .”
“Well, I will write him a letter and let him know that I forgive him and that I am still his daughter and even though he did this thing that was wrong, I still love him in spite of—”
Thema raised her hand. “He doesn’t keep in touch with me, but I’m sure we can find someone who knows his address.” Her tone was tight.
Abeo’s voice brightened. “And what of Auntie Serafine?”
“Last I heard, she was well.”
“Still living in America?”
“I guess so.”
“Are you not in touch?”
“No, we’re not.”
“So, she doesn’t know that I am . . . okay?”
Thema looked down at her fingers. “No, she does not.”
Abeo eyed her. “Is there something else?”
Thema thought, Am I so transparent? “Come with me, Abeo. I want to show you something.”
In Ebony’s former bedroom, the white walls were plastered with photographs that chronicled Ebony’s life from childhood, through the purgatory of adolescence, and finally adulthood. Abeo felt a tinge of envy; the photographs were just another reminder of the time she’d lost.
Thema retrieved a mahogany jewelry box from a shelf in the closet and sat on the side of the bed, holding it in her lap. “There is something very important you need to know.” She raised the lid and removed a thin green booklet.
Abeo studied the cover, which was embossed with gold letters that read: United States of America.
Thema handed it to her. “Open it.”
Inside was a black-and-white photograph of a grinning toddler wearing gold ball earrings and a white barrette that clung to a tuft of dark hair. Below the picture was the name Abeo Vinga.
“Who is this?”
“It’s you. You are Abeo Vinga.”
Praise Song for the Butterflies Page 12