The Dense Green

Fanta awoke to the soft rays of morning light dancing through the lush canopy. For a moment, she forgot where she was, confusion tugging at her senses. Then, the weight of yesterday's events settled in: fleeing Ogamba, meeting Mike, and surviving a night in the forest together. She exhaled, blinking away remnants of sleep.

Mike was already up, crouched near the charred remains of the previous night's fire, carefully coaxing a new flame from smoldering embers. Even from a short distance, Fanta saw him sneaking glances, his gaze drifting to her purple braids cascading around her face. Heat fluttered in her chest, unaccustomed to being observed with anything other than fear or disgust. She bit her lip and offered him a slight nod, acknowledging his watchful concern.

He rummaged in his pack, pulling out a small pot to boil water. Fanta noticed how meticulously he handled each piece of gear—camera, tarp, lantern—stuff she'd only read about in the tattered English books. He glanced over, a faint smile curving his lips. "Good… morning," he said, each syllable deliberate, testing the local dialect for her sake.

She responded with a polite nod. "Morning," she whispered in the same language. An awkward hush lingered, both of them aware that their communication remained limited by her apparent grasp of English and his halting attempts at the village dialect.

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They shared a scant breakfast of leftover rations, sipping hot water that Fanta found oddly soothing. Mike pointed to the sky with a thoughtful expression. "We… move soon," he said carefully. "Deep… forest." His accent twisted the words, but Fanta understood the gist—he wanted to push onward, presumably to find a safer or more resourceful area away from Ogamba's borders.

Fanta nodded readily. She had no interest in returning to the village that had nearly killed her—Handuza's cruelty still haunted her every blink. Even so, her chest tightened with thoughts of her mother, Anayara. Could Mama be searching for me? Does she fear me dead? The guilt weighed on her, but returning to Ogamba was unthinkable. She swallowed that sorrow and focused on the day ahead.

They packed up their makeshift campsite, folding the tarp, gathering twigs from the smoldering fire. Fanta tested her ankle, realizing with relief that the pain had almost vanished. Cautious not to reveal her rapid healing, she allowed a slight limp to remain. Mike offered his arm for support. She accepted, warmth fluttering in her stomach at the gentle contact—an unusual closeness after a life starved of affection or even casual kindness from men.

They set off on a narrow trail that cut through thick ferns, the morning sun overhead painting the leaves in vivid shades of green. Birds flitted across the canopy, releasing trills that echoed in the humid air. Fanta felt an undercurrent of tension in Mike's posture—like he had something to say but struggled to find the words. After half an hour of hiking, he paused by a fallen log, motioning for them to rest.

He fumbled with a canteen, then cleared his throat. "I… talk… you," he began in the local dialect, mixing in broken English. He tapped his chest. "Me… from far. Another continent." He paused, searching her face to see if she grasped. She nodded, letting her expression remain somewhat blank, as though she followed only fragments.

He continued, voice halting but earnest. "I… used to… photograph… models," he said, pantomiming a camera snapping pictures. "Beautiful people. Fashion." His cheeks reddened slightly, recalling memories. "But… something dark… happened." His words slowed, as though reluctant. "A woman… wanted… my downfall… for… her own gain." He shook his head, not elaborating. "So I left. Became… nature documenter. Travel… see animals, landscapes, cultures."

Fanta's eyes flickered with genuine curiosity. She recalled reading about city-based model photography in old magazines—a world beyond Ogamba's mud huts. Her mind conjured images of men and women in glamorous clothes, bright lights, extravagant cities. She feigned partial understanding with nods and murmurs, though every syllable sparked her imagination further: He lived among tall buildings and runway lights, capturing people who wore lavish apparel, and now he's here in Okiya Forest with me?

He pressed on, evidently compelled to share. "I… come to jungle… exploring. Searching… new images. Real animals, real cultures. Not… staged fashion shoots." His gaze drifted to her. "But you… so… incredible. Like… goddess." The last word emerged clumsily, but the reverence in his tone was unmistakable.

Her cheeks flamed. She lowered her gaze, hugging her arms. Goddess? She'd only ever been a demon or ghost in Ogamba's eyes. "No…" she whispered in her dialect, shaking her head. She half wanted to respond in perfect English, to tell him she understood every nuance of his speech, but caution prevailed.

He gave an apologetic shrug, as if unsure how else to express his awe. "Sorry… if I… say too much. Just… you… different. People at… my home… they see… your photos, they… love it." He gestured with excitement, as though describing cheering crowds. "They pay money. Big interest. Like… art." His face lit up, the passion for photography rekindled thanks to her. A small spark of joy danced in his eyes, overshadowing the painful memory of his past betrayal.

Fanta listened, heart pounding. She realized that in his world, her outcast beauty might be celebrated, not despised. Could that be real? The thought tugged at her chest. She pictured towering buildings, wide avenues, people who might not recoil at her violet hair or luminous eyes. Slowly, a fragile sense of hope bloomed. Perhaps there's truly a place for me out there.

Sensing the conversation's weight, Mike cleared his throat and rose. "We… keep going," he said gently. She nodded, tucking away the swirl of emotions his revelations triggered.