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Authors: Aminatta Forna
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no fins and bulging eyes.
At first I donât notice her, standing half hidden in the shadows on the sharp line where the trees meet the river, in front of the abandoned fishing hut. Her hair is scattered about her shoulders in tangled ropes. Her dress is tattered, torn at the neck so it hangs down like a flap of skin. One breast is naked, tilted up, pointing at the sky. She is watching me.
I climb down from the rock, slowly. Afraid of startling her. She is so very still.
âMama,â I cry. I start to run. She jerks slightly. Takes a step towards me, extending clasped hands, like she is begging me for something, imploring me. âMama,â I run faster, I catch my foot on a rock. She steps into the sunlight.
That day some boys from the village on the opposite bank had crossed to set some traps on our side. Now they see her.
âHai! Hai!â One of them bends to pick up a stone.
âLeave her alone!â But Iâm too late. Like a hounded stray my mother cowers, starts to back off. She is gone before the stone hits the branch of a nearby tree. A shower of splintering bark and leaves. I race to the boy nearest me and push him in the chest. Hard with the heels of my hands.
âSheâs a crazy woman,â he touches his temple and laughs loudly, âCraz-y. Let her go from here.â
I run after her. I run behind the fishermanâs hut. She is nowhere. Inside the hut a tree grows through the middle, out through the roofless roof. The mud is crumbling away from the walls, leavingwooden poles exposed like ribs. Inside there is a place on the floor, like the warm spot underfoot where a chicken has roosted for a while.
Pa Foday: he brought my mother back. As soon he came back from the plantation and heard the news. Without even a lamp, he searched all night until he found her. I remember that night because of the dry thunder. The lightning lit up the sky as bright as day. I prayed it would help Pa Foday.
And it did. He walked into the village leading her gently. And my mother walked behind him as though she had only just learned how, as though the soles of her feet were tender as a newbornâs and had never touched the ground.
Pans of boiling water. Balls of soap. Comb. Clarified palm oil. Fresh clothes. Under the supervision of Ya Namina the two junior wives entered and left the chamber where they kept my mother. We waited outside like we had the time before. Later I heard them whispering to each other at the back of the house. But when they saw me hovering close by they stopped talking. They stood up and walked away, gathering their
lappas
around them, as if to cover their indiscretion. Little hurried steps. Shuffle, shuffle.
I crept up to the back of the house. I took a stool and placed it beneath the window. I braced myself when it creaked under my weight. Half up. Half down. On one leg. In the room at the end of the house I heard Ya Namina and my father talking. I thought maybe I would creep along the wall to listen. But I wanted to see my mother. I pressed my sloping eye against the crack between the plaster and the window shutter.
Still to this day I can picture her, so clearly I could keep her there for ever. They had shaved her head. What else to do? Hair so badly matted it shattered the teeth of the comb. They threw the locks on the fire. Days later I found a singed lock lying in the ashes. I stole it, hid it in a crevice in the rocks â at the place Bobbio and I once hung out eating green mangoes. A long time ago.
Alone in her room, she was dancing. No faltering footsteps, no baby gait. Body curved like a palm tree yielding to the embrace ofthe wind. One foot crossing the other. Crossing the other. Arms extended. Chin lifted. Head tilted: naked, shaved head. Fingers fanned backwards. Turning a perfect arc. Round and around.
Round and around.
In the end Bobbio, the Boy with No Voice, was the only person who dared to break the silence.
Early evening. The light, heavy
At first I donât notice her, standing half hidden in the shadows on the sharp line where the trees meet the river, in front of the abandoned fishing hut. Her hair is scattered about her shoulders in tangled ropes. Her dress is tattered, torn at the neck so it hangs down like a flap of skin. One breast is naked, tilted up, pointing at the sky. She is watching me.
I climb down from the rock, slowly. Afraid of startling her. She is so very still.
âMama,â I cry. I start to run. She jerks slightly. Takes a step towards me, extending clasped hands, like she is begging me for something, imploring me. âMama,â I run faster, I catch my foot on a rock. She steps into the sunlight.
That day some boys from the village on the opposite bank had crossed to set some traps on our side. Now they see her.
âHai! Hai!â One of them bends to pick up a stone.
âLeave her alone!â But Iâm too late. Like a hounded stray my mother cowers, starts to back off. She is gone before the stone hits the branch of a nearby tree. A shower of splintering bark and leaves. I race to the boy nearest me and push him in the chest. Hard with the heels of my hands.
âSheâs a crazy woman,â he touches his temple and laughs loudly, âCraz-y. Let her go from here.â
I run after her. I run behind the fishermanâs hut. She is nowhere. Inside the hut a tree grows through the middle, out through the roofless roof. The mud is crumbling away from the walls, leavingwooden poles exposed like ribs. Inside there is a place on the floor, like the warm spot underfoot where a chicken has roosted for a while.
Pa Foday: he brought my mother back. As soon he came back from the plantation and heard the news. Without even a lamp, he searched all night until he found her. I remember that night because of the dry thunder. The lightning lit up the sky as bright as day. I prayed it would help Pa Foday.
And it did. He walked into the village leading her gently. And my mother walked behind him as though she had only just learned how, as though the soles of her feet were tender as a newbornâs and had never touched the ground.
Pans of boiling water. Balls of soap. Comb. Clarified palm oil. Fresh clothes. Under the supervision of Ya Namina the two junior wives entered and left the chamber where they kept my mother. We waited outside like we had the time before. Later I heard them whispering to each other at the back of the house. But when they saw me hovering close by they stopped talking. They stood up and walked away, gathering their
lappas
around them, as if to cover their indiscretion. Little hurried steps. Shuffle, shuffle.
I crept up to the back of the house. I took a stool and placed it beneath the window. I braced myself when it creaked under my weight. Half up. Half down. On one leg. In the room at the end of the house I heard Ya Namina and my father talking. I thought maybe I would creep along the wall to listen. But I wanted to see my mother. I pressed my sloping eye against the crack between the plaster and the window shutter.
Still to this day I can picture her, so clearly I could keep her there for ever. They had shaved her head. What else to do? Hair so badly matted it shattered the teeth of the comb. They threw the locks on the fire. Days later I found a singed lock lying in the ashes. I stole it, hid it in a crevice in the rocks â at the place Bobbio and I once hung out eating green mangoes. A long time ago.
Alone in her room, she was dancing. No faltering footsteps, no baby gait. Body curved like a palm tree yielding to the embrace ofthe wind. One foot crossing the other. Crossing the other. Arms extended. Chin lifted. Head tilted: naked, shaved head. Fingers fanned backwards. Turning a perfect arc. Round and around.
Round and around.
In the end Bobbio, the Boy with No Voice, was the only person who dared to break the silence.
Early evening. The light, heavy
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