Bororo

It was one of those days where everything seemed to go right. The weather was warm and airy, the children were well-behaved, and her husband was less demanding than usual, choosing to slink behind his newspapers and listen to the BBC on his transistor radio. Doshima even had time to think, plan her lesson notes, and even put some nail polish on her fingers.

“I wish everything was as perfect as this all the time,” she thought to herself, and she hummed while applying the bright red paint to her nails.

“Mummy, Mummy,” little Iverem came hopping into the room.

“What is it, my love?” she asked. “There is a scary woman at the gate. She is just standing there doing nothing.” “Woman?” Doshima asked. She hurriedly put the nail polish away; her husband was already snoring in the parlour, the glass of beer by his side empty.

She saw the woman staring fixedly at the house. Her gaze turned to Doshima as she opened the door. She was a tall, thin woman wearing a dark-colored shirt and wrapper; her hair was plaited in the Bororo style, which was sectioned into four parts. She had black kohl that ran from her forehead down to the tip of her nose; the kohl also ran from the base of her lower lip to her chin. She was extremely fair-skinned and beautiful, prettier than other Bororo women Doshima had seen. Her eyes captivated Doshima; they were unlike anything she had ever seen. They were blue and grey, almost translucent; they locked you in, and you felt hypnotized.

“Sannu,” the woman said in Hausa.

“Sannu,” Doshima said, startled out of her reverie. “What are you looking for?” she asked the woman. “I plait hair. Zane. I plait it very well.” “Oh. We are not plaiting our hair today, but… I think we may next week. Come back next Sunday.” “Okay,” the woman said, smiling, and turned to walk away. Her strides were swift and graceful; she left a trail of musky, smoky scent trailing behind her. “Who is she?” Iverem asked.

“She is a Bororo woman. They go around plaiting hair from house to house. She will plait us next week.” “I don’t like her,” Mhoum said. She was standing by the window, watching the woman. “There is something strange about her.” “You always think there is something strange about everyone, Madam Thinker,” Doshima told her absentmindedly. Mhoum was a sensitive girl of thirteen; she was hurt by her mother’s blasé tone. “Yes, Mother, I do think people are strange because they are. They are often layered like Matryoshka dolls, with different versions when you look deeper.”

“Indeed,” said Doshima, her mind already wandering. She loved Mhoum, but the girl could be a handful and mouthy. “Mother, really, there is something dark about that woman — strange and evil.” Iverem added, “Mummy, why are her eyes so different?” Doshima smiled at Iverem. “Dear, some people have different eye colors; it was how she was created. Don’t you think they were beautiful?” “Yes, Mama, and she was beautiful too.” Mhoum sighed in despair and walked away. The week was a blur, and the weekend came as fast as a whirlwind. On Friday night, Iverem ran into her bedroom screaming. “What is it?” Doshima asked her. Her husband snored through the disruption.

“Mummy, I had a nightmare. A very tall shadow was watching this house, and when I was alone, it entered my room and told me to come to it. When I tried to run away, it grabbed my hair and cut off my head!” “That is a terrible dream,” Doshima said and tried to soothe her. “Did you watch any scary movies when I was at work?” “Yes, Mama,” Iverem said guiltily. “We watched Children of the Corn, but we did not watch it all.” “I have told you to stop watching those types of movies; now you can’t sleep. Oya, come and sleep with me.” She hushed and soothed her until she fell asleep. On Saturday, she had washed her daughters’ hair and straightened it with the hot comb, and by Sunday, she was ready for the Bororo woman. Mhoum said to her mother, “Mother, the Bororo woman is here again… watching.”

“Oh, that is great. Iverem will plait first. Mhoum, take the mat and the stool under the tree and tell her to begin to plait your sister’s shuku.” “Yes, Ma,” Mhoum said. “Stay with her.” “Yes, Ma.” Doshima was in the kitchen when Mhoum came in.

“What is it?” “I need to go ease myself.” “Okay, do it and hurry back.” Under the tree, the Bororo woman was happy the silent, watchful child had gone. She used her long iron spike to section the little child’s hair. The child looked just like Fadimatu. Fadimatu, who could never sit still. Fadimatu, whose little hands would soothe her after she had gone far and wide to sell her chebe leaves. Oh, Fadimatu, the woman thought. Fadimatu, so I would never see you again. Her heart pounded and her hands shook as the memory overwhelmed her.

That day, Fadimatu and her aunt had gone to the market to sell Fura de nunu. She had not been feeling too well that day; she had waited and waited for their return and she did not see them. She had gotten up from her sickbed in search of them. She had seen the crowd and seen the shaking heads and sorrow. She had gone towards the gathering and seen the car, splashed with blood. She had seen the woman shaken and crying, with her kids in the car. She had seen Fadimatu and Zara crushed on the road; Fadimatu’s hand had been torn apart.

The woman took her iron spike and sunk it into the skull of the little child, whose blood-curdling scream brought the whole house to where she sat. She pushed the dead girl away from her. She remembered how she wailed and wailed, and how the woman looked at her in pity. She had followed the case obsessively. The police were paid off, the courts were paid off — everyone moved on and forgot Fadimatu.

She did not. She watched and waited and bided her time. Time did not comfort her; no, it did not. The memories calcified her need to take her pound of flesh back. She did not feel the blows; she did not see the crowd gathering. She did not see herself in the police van.

She only saw Fadimatu.