were dried and then they played word and riddle games, avoiding activities that required both hands. There were moments when they felt themselves thinking too much about the fact that Maada and Hawa were amputated, forgetting to look at their faces. Maada at one point stood up so the stump of his hand was at Manawah’s eye level. He swung himself around and his stump slapped Manawah. He laughed, falling playfully to the floor. Manawah got the point. They would get used to it eventually and would play naturally together.
When the girls returned from the river, they helped to serve the food: country rice with chicken, fish stew with onions, and eggplant cooked in coconut oil with hot pepper and spices. While the food was being spread out on large plates, Bockarie boasted, “My wife’s cooking is so good that when you smell it, you start thinking of stealing the pot for yourself, running with it into the bushes, and eating until your stomach is as tight as a drum.” They all laughed, the smell of the stew now stronger; they could taste it. The first plate was placed in the circle of the men, and they called on the boys to join them. Mama Kadie left her friends to sit and eat with Kula and the girls, who had their own plate of food. The feasting began. The adult men fed Maada, taking turns shoving rice and pieces of meat in his mouth. The boy was content sitting on the ground against his father’s leg. Hawa ate using her right hand, as did everyone else, and was assisted only when she wanted water.
By the time they finished, the sun had successfully hidden itself from the eyes of the sky and put out its fire. They decided to move to the town’s square, the adults walking slowly while the children ran ahead, hiding behind houses and jumping out with noises to scare one another on the way.
* * *
The light from the fire painted the dark shadows of everyone on the walls of the houses behind them. The young people weren’t as plentiful, and some sat reluctantly by the fire. The eager ones were the generation of Oumu and Thomas, who had heard of moments such as this from their parents, and some exceptional ones like Hawa and Maada, who, despite what they had endured, had a joy within them that such a tradition sparked even more. The other few, who had arrived in town without parents and roamed about, helping here and there to get some food, sat by themselves. They listened to the story with one ear focused on the gathering and the other on guard. Colonel and his brothers and sister were among this group. He had gathered every young and parentless individual in town to fetch wood and prepare the fire. During that work he had also told them it was their duty to make sure that things went smoothly, to prevent any outside intrusion, and had assigned each a position and task for the night.
No matter who was present, and why, the entire town had come to hear a story from Mama Kadie and from whoever else would be moved to tell. This was the tradition—the elders, mostly women, would tell a story, and other elders would join in afterward. Some nights it would go on until even children were called upon to retell stories they had heard. Tonight, Mama Kadie stood up inside the circle and walked around the fire as she told the story, adjusting the wood every so often to make the fire brighter or duller depending on the mood of the tale. Some of the boys who had sat away gradually came closer.
“Story, story, what should I do with you?” she had shouted, the call for the teller to start, and the audience responded, “Please tell it to us, so we can pass it to others.” She went on a number of times until everyone was asking to be told the story.
“Once upon a time, when the world had a common voice for all things on the surface of the earth and beyond, the chief of the humans, a woman, was a dear friend of the god of the water spirits. She would go to the river very early in the morning to have a conversation with her
When the girls returned from the river, they helped to serve the food: country rice with chicken, fish stew with onions, and eggplant cooked in coconut oil with hot pepper and spices. While the food was being spread out on large plates, Bockarie boasted, “My wife’s cooking is so good that when you smell it, you start thinking of stealing the pot for yourself, running with it into the bushes, and eating until your stomach is as tight as a drum.” They all laughed, the smell of the stew now stronger; they could taste it. The first plate was placed in the circle of the men, and they called on the boys to join them. Mama Kadie left her friends to sit and eat with Kula and the girls, who had their own plate of food. The feasting began. The adult men fed Maada, taking turns shoving rice and pieces of meat in his mouth. The boy was content sitting on the ground against his father’s leg. Hawa ate using her right hand, as did everyone else, and was assisted only when she wanted water.
By the time they finished, the sun had successfully hidden itself from the eyes of the sky and put out its fire. They decided to move to the town’s square, the adults walking slowly while the children ran ahead, hiding behind houses and jumping out with noises to scare one another on the way.
* * *
The light from the fire painted the dark shadows of everyone on the walls of the houses behind them. The young people weren’t as plentiful, and some sat reluctantly by the fire. The eager ones were the generation of Oumu and Thomas, who had heard of moments such as this from their parents, and some exceptional ones like Hawa and Maada, who, despite what they had endured, had a joy within them that such a tradition sparked even more. The other few, who had arrived in town without parents and roamed about, helping here and there to get some food, sat by themselves. They listened to the story with one ear focused on the gathering and the other on guard. Colonel and his brothers and sister were among this group. He had gathered every young and parentless individual in town to fetch wood and prepare the fire. During that work he had also told them it was their duty to make sure that things went smoothly, to prevent any outside intrusion, and had assigned each a position and task for the night.
No matter who was present, and why, the entire town had come to hear a story from Mama Kadie and from whoever else would be moved to tell. This was the tradition—the elders, mostly women, would tell a story, and other elders would join in afterward. Some nights it would go on until even children were called upon to retell stories they had heard. Tonight, Mama Kadie stood up inside the circle and walked around the fire as she told the story, adjusting the wood every so often to make the fire brighter or duller depending on the mood of the tale. Some of the boys who had sat away gradually came closer.
“Story, story, what should I do with you?” she had shouted, the call for the teller to start, and the audience responded, “Please tell it to us, so we can pass it to others.” She went on a number of times until everyone was asking to be told the story.
“Once upon a time, when the world had a common voice for all things on the surface of the earth and beyond, the chief of the humans, a woman, was a dear friend of the god of the water spirits. She would go to the river very early in the morning to have a conversation with her
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