Rejection

Fanta's "aura" haunted the villagers more than they liked to admit. It wasn't something that could be put into words easily—just a presence. If she stood in the midday sun, sweat never truly matted her clothes. If she trudged the same muddy path as the rest, the dirt on her dress seemed to brush off with a single pass of her hand. And her scent, subdued yet undeniably sweet, followed her around like a gentle breeze from a distant orchard.

By the crooked fence near the village well, a pack of children gathered in hushed excitement. Two boys, maybe twelve, poked each other with nervous elbows.

"Touch her arm if you're brave," hissed Kanja, eyes darting anxiously.

"Hmph," retorted Gowa, trying to puff out his chest. But his voice wavered. "You do it, then."

Across the dusty lane, Fanta approached with a small basket in hand, steps noiseless on the baked earth. As always, her posture stood too upright, her honey-brown skin untouched by the grime clinging to everyone else. The children fell silent, hearts hammering.

Kanja swallowed hard. "Go, Gowa! Prove you're not scared."

But Gowa's feet felt rooted to the ground. Fanta's luminous eyes flicked their way—sapphire flecked with a faint ruby glow—and the boy's nerve collapsed. He scrambled behind a friend, muttering, "I— I don't want to turn into a ghost."

Fanta heard their frantic whispers. She lowered her gaze, letting her hair fall across her face to hide the sting. Once upon a time, she might have tried smiling at the children. But now, the weight of their suspicions had crushed that impulse. So she continued on, ignoring the murmured dares and hissed insults.

Children teased each other with dares—"Touch Fanta's arm if you're brave"—but none ever did. Even the older boys, who sometimes boasted of their courage, refused to go near her. A few tried to show off by picking fights or throwing stones, but one glance at her unwavering posture or her luminous eyes left them disarmed. It was easier to mock from afar.

No one truly revered her. Awe might have been the correct word, but it manifested as fear, suspicion, and hostility, not admiration. Some part of the villagers' hearts told them that she was something extraordinary, yet their minds couldn't handle that contradiction within the dusty, mundane life of Ogamba. They twisted that feeling into negativity, labeling her cursed instead of angelic.

In the market's morning bustle, whispers echoed among the women at the produce stall.

"Her skin stays clean even in that filth," muttered Afande, adjusting a clay pot on her head.

Faru, a trader, crossed her arms. "And that smell—like berries, I heard. A real demon's trick, I say."

"She doesn't do normal chores right," another chimed in, half-lowering her voice. "It's unnatural."

If Fanta approached, conversation died. Some parted ways at her mere presence, offering cold, silent stares. A handful spat discreetly onto the ground. Others scurried off, carrying baskets of vegetables, refusing to share space with a "cursed" figure.

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At home, Fanta tried to ignore Okongo's perpetual refusal to acknowledge her existence. She'd see him weaving fishing nets or carving a wooden spear, his gaze never lifting if she approached. Sometimes she hovered by the door, hoping he might meet her eye just once. But it never happened.

She recalled once, when she was about nine, summoning the courage to say "Papa?" He didn't so much as twitch. Anayara, overhearing, rushed Fanta away with a gentle hand, tears brimming in her mother's eyes. She never tried again.

Even now, nearly a decade later, Fanta sometimes stood in the corner of the hut, watching Okongo's deft hands mend a net. The soft hush of weaving filled the space. She yearned to speak, to ask even mundane questions—"Did you catch many fish today?" or "Do you need me to fetch more twine?" But a chill in the air told her any attempt would only bring more heartbreak.

One evening, Okongo finished whittling a spear and set it aside. Fanta hovered near the entry. Summoning nerve, she cleared her throat softly. "Papa, do you—?"

He rose abruptly, brushing past her as though she were invisible. The door's reed mat flapped, leaving the hut emptier than before. Fanta clenched her fists, tears burning her eyes. In her old books, she read of fathers cradling their children, imparting wisdom or reading bedtime tales. Each mention cut her more deeply with the realization: She would never know that kind of father's love. He was a statue in her life, a presence physically but not emotionally there, punishing her for an unspoken sin of being unlike everyone else.

The witch doctor, Mojono, remained Fanta's greatest external threat. He had been the first to label her a "curse incarnate," fueling villagers' fear whenever misfortunes struck: a disease among goats, a broken well, an unexpected hailstorm that ruined half the maize. "Fanta is the root of our sorrow," he proclaimed at village gatherings, brandishing a staff adorned with feathers and animal bones. "So long as she remains, Ogamba's hardships will only grow."

At one such gathering, villagers huddled around a small fire in the evening gloom. Mojono stomped into the circle, rattling his staff.

"Listen!" he barked. "Our goats fall ill, the rains refuse us, and who stands among us with unearthly eyes?"

A low murmur spread. Fanta watched from a distance, heart hammering.

"She must be banished," Mojono roared, "or this land will become a graveyard!"

A few older men exchanged wary glances. Some wanted to protest, but fear of Mojono's influence kept them silent. One woman hissed, "She's a demon child indeed. My tomatoes all withered after she passed by." Another nodded fervently.

"For years, Elder Mudia resisted such extremes," Mojono continued, pacing the firelight's edge. "But the time for half-measures ends!"

A hush fell, broken only by the crackle of flames. Then a single voice—Elder Mudia himself—emerged from the crowd's gloom.

"Mojono," the old chief said, cane in hand, "We have had droughts before. We have faced sickness. Don't blame a girl for nature's cycles."

At that, Mojono sneered, flourishing his bone-laden staff. "Your words grow weaker with each failed harvest, old man. The villagers want action."

A tense silence stifled the clearing, leaving Fanta trembling behind a hut's corner.

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For years, Elder Mudia—the aging chief—resisted any extreme measures. He believed that children should not be condemned without proof. "We have had droughts before," he'd say. "We have faced sickness. Don't blame a girl for nature's cycles." But as time passed, Mudia's influence waned. The younger elders, spooked by mounting difficulties, leaned more toward Mojono's perspective. The ground was laid for something dire to happen.

Sometimes, near the well, Mudia would spot Fanta collecting water and nod at her with weary kindness. "Child," he once said softly, "Ignore Mojono's bellowing. He—he forgets simpler truths."

Fanta bowed her head. "Thank you, Elder. I—" But she couldn't voice the rest, the gratitude twisted with the knowledge that soon, even Mudia might not protect her.

He patted her arm gently, ignoring the scandalized whispers of onlookers. Then he shuffled away, shoulders heavy under the burden of a changing tide.

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Amid these tensions, Anayara's gentle presence remained Fanta's anchor. Each night, her mother would rub her shoulders, humming lullabies or teaching her new ways to blend perfumes. The fiasco about reading demon tongue worried Anayara deeply, yet she recognized that it gave Fanta comfort. "Just be careful," she would whisper. "Read when you must, but away from prying eyes." If Fanta pressed on, insisting how important the words were, Anayara only nodded with sad acceptance, "I know, child. The world is bigger than Ogamba. But your safety is precious."

One evening, as Fanta gingerly placed newly made perfume bottles on a small shelf, Anayara approached with a bowl of steaming stew.

"Eat, my love," she said softly. "You've had a rough day at the market."

Fanta accepted the bowl, lowering her gaze. "They parted like I carried some disease. All I wanted was thread to mend my dress."

Anayara's lip quivered, but she forced composure. "I'm sorry. Their hearts are clouded by old fears… old ignorance."

Fanta sipped the stew, flavors mingling with the day's bitterness. "Sometimes, Mama," she whispered, "I want to scream. Or to vanish."

Anayara set a gentle hand on Fanta's shoulder, warmth flowing through the touch. "You'll endure, child. The future—maybe a kinder place awaits. We just must be cautious."

Sometimes, Fanta wondered why her mother didn't reveal that her daughter had simply learned from old missionary texts. Then she remembered that in Ogamba, anything foreign was suspect, especially something that made no sense to their ears. The villagers might demand to see the books, accuse Anayara of harboring demonic knowledge. The entire matter was too risky.

By the time Fanta neared her eighteenth year, the village's hostility hung thick as dust in the air. Children who once merely avoided her now refused to even cross her path. Women at the market parted like a wave if she approached a stall, leaving her no chance to buy or trade. She'd stand there, heart heavy, shoulders squared, deciding whether to endure the silent condemnation or walk away. Usually, she walked away, ache lodged in her chest.

She carried out small chores for Anayara—fetching water, picking herbs. But she felt the stares on her back. She rarely lingered anywhere near the well for fear that the hateful gossip might boil over into violence. At night, she retreated to her reading, practicing English lines in hushed tones, her ear pressed to the door to ensure no one was listening. Then, if the urge to recite overcame her, she would slip out quietly, heading for the old tree, climbing to the highest branch. She would tilt her head toward the moonlit sky and read from the battered pages as softly as she could, letting the words fill her lonely soul.

One dusk, Anayara caught her preparing to leave. "You're off again, my sweet?"

Fanta nodded, clutching a worn book. "Just to the tree, Mama. I promise to be safe."

Anayara sighed. "Remember Mojono's warnings. Don't let him catch you chanting your 'demon tongue,' as he calls it."

Fanta tried a small smile. "He's asleep by now, I'm sure. I'll return soon."

-------------------------------------------

One night, as she returned from the tree, she overheard low voices behind her mother's hut:

"We can't wait any longer," hissed a voice, husky with tension.

"Mojono says the next full moon is critical. The spirits need a sacrifice or a banishment."

"Fanta… she must be dealt with."

The words froze her in place. She didn't recognize the speakers, but they spoke with grim determination. Sacrifice. Banishment. Her heartbeat hammered. She backed away before they could sense her presence, slipping inside to find Anayara asleep. For hours, she sat there, awake in the darkness, pressing her trembling hands over her ears.

When dawn broke, Anayara stirred to find her daughter huddled near the hearth, eyes shadowed. She knelt and gently brushed Fanta's hair aside.

"My child, what's wrong?"

Fanta's lips quivered. "They—they plan something. People… want me gone."

Her mother's face paled, tears gathering. "Oh, Fanta…" She wrapped Fanta in a protective embrace, rocking her softly. "We will find a way," she whispered. But the tremor in her voice betrayed the fear that no one in Ogamba would stand against Mojono forever.

Outside, the sun climbed over clay huts, revealing a village teetering on the brink of violence. Children shuffled to chores, men sharpened spears or repaired fishing nets, all while sideways glances and grim murmurs persisted about "Fanta, the cursed one." In the hush of morning, a hush that only meant one thing—something dark was brewing.

And Fanta, for all her quiet grace and gentle resilience, felt the weight of Ogamba's gloom choking her. She recalled lines from her beloved English books about courage in the face of impossible odds. Closing her eyes, she prayed that somewhere beyond the dusty paths, a kinder world awaited. A world that might see her not as demon or curse, but as the extraordinary soul she felt herself to be.

Yet the echo of whispered threats lingered, promising a reckoning she couldn't escape.