Dawn's First Light

Fanta awoke to the gray hint of dawn peeking through the dense canopy. She heard the rustle of gear as Mike rummaged in his pack. Her entire body felt stiff, bruises twinging with every shift. She sat up, noticing him stealthily taking pictures of her while she slept. The quiet click of his camera made her flush.

Immediately, she frowned, half covering her face. He lowered the camera, mouthing an apology. But behind his abashed smile, she saw the unquenchable desire to capture her on film. She wondered if it was purely aesthetic or if deeper fascination fueled him—the girl who smelled like fruit, with eyes that glowed.

Mike offered her a piece of ration bar again. She ate slowly, chewing the sticky lumps, finding the energy to stand. She tested her ankle—surprisingly sturdy, her uncanny healing accelerating its recovery. She forced herself to limp slightly, not wanting to reveal the truth. He gave her a concerned look, but she waved it off with a soft murmur.

Once they'd stowed the tarp and tidied the campsite, morning light spilled across the greenery. Mike lifted his camera again, turning to Fanta with an almost sheepish grin. He pointed to her, then to the surrounding forest, as if asking permission for a photoshoot. Hesitation coiled in her. She'd spent a lifetime hiding from gazes. But something about the sincerity in his eyes, the excitement dancing in those blue depths, made her relent.

She gave a small nod. He brightened, stepping back to frame the shot. Fanta shifted uncertainly, not sure how to pose. Each time she tried to stand naturally, she recalled how villagers would hiss curses or fling mud at her for looking "too perfect." But with Mike, there was no sign of condemnation—only admiration.

He snapped the shutter multiple times, circling around her for different angles. The morning sun illuminated her honey-hued skin, highlighting each subtle contour. Her violet hair glistened with droplets of dew, creating an otherworldly effect against the lush green background. Her blue-ruby eyes caught the light, appearing almost luminous, while her high cheekbones cast delicate shadows across her face.

From behind the camera, Mike murmured excited exclamations. She caught fragments of English: "Incredible," "Unreal," "Art," and "People… pay good money…." She grasped enough to glean that, in his homeland, photography of this caliber—her as the subject in a pristine forest—would be worth a fortune.

That realization sent a ripple of both pride and insecurity through her. Am I truly so striking? My own people call me cursed. Yet here was a man enthralled enough to stake his reputation on pictures of her. She found herself warming to the idea that not everyone saw her as a demon. She managed a timid half-smile, which Mike captured with a rapid flurry of clicks.

Nonetheless, each time she saw him freeze the camera on her, a pang of memory rose: how villagers' stares used to make her feel like a spectacle, some freakish idol or scapegoat. She had to remind herself: He doesn't hate me. But shame and lingering trauma made it hard to stand tall.

Sensing her discomfort, Mike gently lowered the camera, stepping closer. "Ok?" he asked in his awkward accent. She nodded, forcing calm. He patted his own chest, as if apologizing for getting carried away. She exhaled, giving him a tight-lipped smile that said: It's fine. Just… new to me.

After the impromptu photo session, they decided to press on. Mike consulted a small map—or at least, that's what it looked like to Fanta. She recognized lines and symbols that might denote streams or elevations. He tapped a portion, then pointed east. She interpreted it as him wanting to avoid heading back toward Ogamba. She nodded fervently. Under no circumstances did she want to risk crossing paths with the villagers.

With the sun climbing, they resumed their cautious trek. The day grew hotter, beads of sweat forming on Mike's brow. Fanta, though dusty and battered, fared better under the humidity—her unblemished skin somehow repelling filth more easily than most. She recalled how villagers found that trait unnatural, yet Mike seemed only enthralled by her effortless grace.

At times, he insisted on snapping more pictures. She sighed, letting him do so, still uneasy but touched by his genuine excitement. Each time the camera's shutter clicked, she felt a small flutter in her chest—someone was preserving her image not as an object of scorn but as a subject of beauty. It was surreal.

As midday approached, memories of Anayara crept into Fanta's mind. She pictured her mother's gentle hands weaving perfumes, scanning the hut's door for her daughter's return. A lump rose in her throat. Does Mama think I'm dead? She must be worried. If Fanta could have left a message, she would have. But fleeing after Handuza's assault left no room for goodbyes.

She tried to swallow the pain, focusing on the faint English lines in her head: "Even parted by distance, a mother's love endures." She prayed that somehow Anayara might sense she still lived. If ever Fanta found a chance to return safely, she'd do so—but that seemed impossible unless Ogamba's hatred subsided.

Mike noticed her somber expression. He ventured a question: "You… mother… Ogamba?" The accent was strong, but she caught his meaning. She gave a trembling nod. He exhaled sympathetically, likely understanding that something prevented Fanta from rejoining her mother.

They paused near a large rock outcropping to escape the midday sun. Mike produced a small canteen of water, sharing it with Fanta. She drank sparingly, aware that supplies must last. He took the opportunity to show her a few of the photos on his camera's screen, carefully scrolling through.

Her breath caught at the sight: pictures of herself, luminous eyes shining, hair appearing like threads of royal purple, her skin catching the dappled forest light. In each shot, she looked regal, like a model in some foreign advertisement. She hardly recognized her own reflection. The camera had captured her in graceful poses, even if by accident—turning to look at a bird, or brushing hair from her cheek.

Fanta's cheeks burned. She pressed a hand to her mouth, half mortified, half awed. "It… me," she stammered in dialect, pointing at the screen. Mike nodded fervently. "Beautiful," he repeated, eyes dancing. "In my home… many people pay big money to see such pictures. They… call it art."