A Day In The Life
The morning sun in Ogamba rose with fierce authority, painting the village in warm gold and exposing every fissure in its clay huts. It illuminated dusty paths that wound between dwellings, revealing a community all too eager to cast blame for its troubles. Fanta stepped outside her mother's hut, feeling humid air cling to her skin. She paused, inhaling deeply, aware of countless gazes pricking at her from behind woven curtains.
Nightmares had stolen her rest. Mojono's bitter echoes—"She is the village curse"—still lingered in her mind. Hostility shadowed her every movement, demanding a careful façade of normalcy. But chores required doing, water needed fetching, and the day pressed on.
Inside, Anayara had worked through the night, crafting perfumes meant to disguise Fanta's alluring scent. Fanta insisted her mother rest, hoping a lone figure might slip under the radar. Deep down, she knew this was futile; her presence stood out like an uninvited omen.
Stepping barefoot into the lane, she felt the sun-scorched dust underfoot, though her legs somehow stayed unmarked by dirt—a subtle reminder of her oddness. She walked carefully, trying to lessen the graceful sway of her stride, yet every step revealed a beauty that unsettled the villagers.
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Passing a group of children near a shabby fence, she noticed how their laughter died. One whispered, "Demon girl," nudging another. Their frightened eyes weighed heavily on her. Ignoring their words, she continued on, forcing calm into each breath.
She reached the river, crowded with villagers washing clothes or drawing water. A hush spread; curious eyes and tight lips replaced the usual chatter. Fanta approached the flowing water, lowering her jug into the cool current, pretending not to sense the disapproval coiling behind her.
A stern-faced man, Musamali, advanced. "Why are you here with the rest of us?" His tone dripped with accusation.
Fanta bowed her head. "Forgive me," she murmured, stepping aside.
He sniffed disdainfully. "Your so-called beauty won't deceive us. We know you're the source of our hardships."
Fanta kept her voice low. "I mean no harm," she said, although his glare remained.
A small stone splashed beside her. She ignored it, maintaining composure as she dipped the jug once more. The silent judgment around her felt suffocating.
On her return, she heard jeers from a group of teenage girls. Nabunjo, tall and defiant, hurled insults with a cutting sneer.
"That berry smell supposed to hide your evil, Fanta?" she called, and the others giggled.
Fanta's grip on the jug tightened. "Is insulting me so entertaining?" she asked, voice steady but eyes wary.
Nabunjo smirked, stepping forward. "Better watch that fancy mouth. Handuza won't like you pretending you're someone special."
A flicker of apprehension tightened Fanta's chest. Handuza—chief's granddaughter and self-appointed arbiter of who did or didn't belong—had already marked Fanta as a threat.
"I'm not pretending anything," Fanta said softly. "But if Handuza needs to prove otherwise, she can find me."
The girls shared smirks, mock pity flickering in their expressions. "Careful you don't vanish at night," Nabunjo warned, loud enough for nearby villagers to overhear. Then she turned away with a dismissive laugh.
Fanta murmured lines from her grandmother's poetry as she quickened her steps:
"Though shadows deepen, hope remains—still onward through the dark."
She clung to the verse, uncertain it could truly shield her.
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Back at the market, women parted in a show of quiet scorn if she approached a stall, refusing even basic trades. A vendor, Samira, blocked her wares. "Don't place your curse on my goods," she spat, reorganizing tomatoes.
Fanta swallowed her retort, turning away. Another figure, Yoli, muttered, "She contaminates the air." Muttering formed a low hum of judgment around her.
Her cheeks burned, but she walked on, refusing to let them see her hurt. Their words echoed as she headed to her mother's hut, a parade of stares trailing behind.
Once inside, she eased the door shut, leaning against it. Anayara, rising from a short rest, looked up with concern. "Fanta? Did they bother you again?"
Fanta set the jug down. "It's always the same," she admitted, voice trembling beneath forced calm. "Stones at the river…Nabunjo threatening me with Handuza's wrath."
A sorrowful sigh escaped Anayara. She guided Fanta to sit, brushing violet strands of hair from her face. "Stay strong, my child," she said gently. "Their ignorance can't last forever."
Despite her mother's comforting words, Fanta feared that the villagers' resentment might spark something worse. She recalled lines about fatherly warmth from her old books—words that only amplified the ache of Okongo's silent rebuff. He worked on fishing nets, never meeting her gaze, as though she truly didn't exist.
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At dusk, Fanta sometimes slipped out to an old tree by the village's edge, reading from battered texts in hushed English. The foreign syllables felt like a secret shield against Ogamba's cruelty. She'd climb high among leafy branches, reciting verses to the moon, letting the hush soothe her.
But returning one evening, she overheard whispered voices behind her hut:
"We can't wait any longer."
"Mojono says the next full moon is crucial. The spirits need a sacrifice or banishment."
"Fanta… she must be dealt with."
Shock coursed through her. She backed away, heart pounding. Inside, Anayara lay asleep, unaware of the danger closing in. Fanta pressed her hands over her ears, desperate to drown out the dire talk.
Morning's light wouldn't erase the fear of what she'd heard. She sat by the dim glow of the hut's lamp, breath unsteady. The storm, it seemed, had only begun—a fate she could scarcely imagine. But a few lines from her old grandmother's poetry lingered, faint glimmers of fortitude:
"Though shadows deepen, hope remains—still onward through the dark."
The echoes of threatened sacrifice haunted her. She could almost feel the village sharpening its knives—quiet, waiting, and poised to tear away what little peace she had left.