Praise Song for the Butterflies Page 8

  Nana pretended not to hear. She tore the husk from the corn and dropped the ear down into the basket.

  “Psst, you, Nana. Where did she take Aymee?”

  Nana huffed, “To the priest, I suppose. Now stop asking me questions and do your work. All your talking will get us into trouble.”

  Later they returned to the hut to find Aymee lying on her mat, despondent. She’d gnawed her fleshy bottom lip raw.

  Nana shook her shoulder. “Aymee, Aymee,” she coaxed as she stared into the girl’s glassy eyes. “Give me a wet cloth,” Nana said to no one in particular.

  Juba unwrapped the cloth from her head, dunked it into a bucket of water, and handed it to her.

  Nana gently mopped the dried blood from Aymee’s chin. As Abeo watched, her hand floated to her own lip.

  Juba hovered nervously. She opened and closed her mouth a number of times before finally asking, “What’s wrong with her? Is she ill?”

  Nana continued to tend to Aymee in silence. She handed the bloody cloth back to Juba, then leaned back on her haunches.

  Juba pressed, “Is Aymee ill?”

  Nana shook her head in the solemn way Abeo had seen elders do during the most grave moments. “Aymee is not ill. She has been touched by the hand of God.”

  * * *

  After the hand of God touched Aymee, she was next touched by Duma. She returned wrapped in a blanket of sadness that spread among the girls like a virus.

  Abeo and Juba did not know what was being done and no one would tell them. But Abeo knew that it had to be a very bad thing, because three days later Darkwa came for another girl named Kenya, and when she returned to the hut, she was batting at her ears and muttering like a madwoman. “He put it in me! He put it in me!”

  When Nana couldn’t take any more, she threw a bucket of water at her and Kenya fell silent.

  Abeo was thankful for the quiet, but couldn’t help wondering exactly what the priest had put in Kenya.

  Later that same night, Nana’s moaning pulled them from their sleep.

  “It’s coming,” Nana groaned.

  Abeo sat up. “What’s coming?” She rubbed her eyes and stared at the shadowy silhouettes that scurried through the darkness.

  Nana was sitting against the wall, head thrown back, knees aimed at the straw-thatched ceiling.

  Abeo jumped from her mat. “What’s happening?”

  “The baby’s coming!” Juba exclaimed.

  “She must go to hospital then!” Abeo screeched.

  One of the other girls ran out of the hut and returned with two elder trokosi. They rushed into the hut carrying kerosene lamps.

  Nana hollered in pain.

  One of the elder trokosi ordered, “Bring water!”

  Abeo and Kenya watched, frozen.

  “Push!” the women commanded, pinning her flailing arms.

  Nana growled that she couldn’t, that she wouldn’t push.

  They told her she would and she could. “You must!”

  Nana screamed, and this time Abeo screamed along with her.

  “Ah, yes, I see the head,” one woman said. “Push again!”

  Abeo held her breath, clenched her empty womb, and bore down for Nana.

  “Push!”

  Nana howled like a wounded antelope and the baby burst out with an ocean of blood.

  Abeo’s jaw dropped.

  One woman covered the baby’s mouth with her own, sucked, and then spat the gunk onto the ground. She did the same to its nose and then opened its legs to see the sex. Satisfied, she nodded and handed the baby off to the other woman.

  “It’s a boy,” she announced. “The gods will be pleased.”

  19

  As Nana recovered from giving birth, Ismae grappled with nausea and stomach cramps. She had not felt well for most of the morning and had refused breakfast. A trip to the bathroom revealed spots of blood in the seat of her underwear, sending her into a panic.

  “Just go lie down and elevate your feet,” Grandmother advised.

  Ismae followed the old woman’s instructions and soon she was fast asleep. When Wasik returned home from work, he walked into the bedroom to find Ismae unresponsive in a pool of blood.

  * * *

  At the hospital, Dr. Lomi brought Wasik to a quiet room. “I’m afraid she’s lost a lot of blood and has fallen into a coma.”

  “When w-will she come out of the coma?” Wasik asked.

  The doctor gave him a sober look. “You cannot put a time on these things. It is in God’s hands now,” he mumbled. He left Wasik gazing down at his shoes like a lost little boy, wondering which god his wife’s fate had been left to.

  Hours later, a nurse who happened to be a childhood friend of both Thema and Ismae called Thema with the sad news.

  In the hospital, Thema could do little else but sit at Ismae’s bedside and cry. When Wasik walked in, ruffled and dazed, it took everything in her not to spit in his face. But she refrained because there was blood on her hands too. She’d told Serafine an elaborate lie, and maybe if she’d told the truth, Ismae wouldn’t be in this hospital fighting for her life. Yes, she had blood all over her hands.

  And who knew what Wasik was prepared to do to save Ismae? He might take Agwe to a shrine—Thema knew some of the shrines took little boys.

  The truth had to be told. So Thema went to the pay phone and called Serafine collect.

  “Hello?”

  “Serafine, it’s Thema. I need you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say.”

  20

  “You’re getting fat,” Juba said to Aymee when she handed her the bowl of gari.

  Aymee looked down at herself. It was true. She was gaining weight. Her breasts had ballooned in size and her waist was thick.

  “Maybe you’re eating too much gari, heh?” Juba joked.

  They all laughed.

  “Perhaps,” Juba ventured, pointing at the door, “you are eating the corn when no one is watching?”

  “Or,” Nana added, as she lifted her infant son to her shoulder, “you will be having one of these in a few months.”

  Abeo realized that she was now the only one laughing and clamped her mouth shut.

  Aymee frowned. “No, no,” she whispered, briskly shaking her head.

  “Ah,” Nana moaned, gently patting the baby’s back, “you cannot be that stupid, can you?”

  Aymee just stared at her.

  Nana pointed at the girl’s stomach. “It’s not gari that’s making you fat, it’s baby that’s making you fat.”

  “No, that cannot be,” Aymee whined, wide-eyed. She tried to back away from her swollen midsection, but it followed.

  “Well, believe what you want,” Nana spat. “In a few months’ time you will know the truth.”

  Aymee began to cry, sending Abeo into a rage: “Why are you saying these things?”

  Nana shrugged her shoulders. “Because they are true.”

  “They are not true!” Abeo screeched, and hurled her bowl of gari across the room. “You are a liar. You are just saying these things to be mean!”

  Nana’s eyes moved to the bowl and then back to Abeo. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore. Time will tell who is the liar and who is not, and then you will remember this day.” She pointed to the bowl. “Now, clean up that mess before we’re invaded by ants.”

  Several weeks later, Nana was moved to another hut with three girls who also had children.

  With each day, Aymee grew wider. She complained that her legs felt as heavy as tree trunks. She had a hard time keeping down the gari, and in the fields the sun made her sleepy and sluggish, so she could not pick her weight in corn. Abeo covered for her by picking enough for the both of them.

  When they went to the river to bathe, Abeo noticed that the area around Aymee’s nipples was very dark and that the nipples themselves were thick and elongated. Abeo recalled the changes her mother’s body had undergone when she was pregnant with Agwe, and suddenly realized that what Nana had said
about Aymee was true.

  * * *

  Toward the end of the harvesting season, the clouds gathered and it stormed for three straight days.

  Juba and Abeo stood at the open door gazing at the deluge.

  “I will be seven years old very soon, I think,” Juba offered whimsically. She looked at Abeo. “Have you ever had a birthday party?”

  “Ah-huh,” Abeo replied.

  “I had one when I was three, or maybe I was four. I forget,” Juba said. “I am forgetting a lot of things.”

  Abeo pushed her hand out into the rain.

  “It was nice, really, really nice. There were balloons and cake.”

  “You remember so far back? Three or four?” Kenya questioned from behind them.

  Juba spun around. “Yes, I do. And I remember I had a cake as big as this hut . . .”

  “As big as this hut? Really?” Aymee laughed.

  “Well, maybe not that big. But it was very, very big. As big as . . .” Juba’s eyes wandered wildly. “Ah!” she cried, pointing to her mat. “It was as big as that!”

  Abeo smiled. “Yes, yes, that was a very big cake. You must have been a very, very good girl.”

  Juba beamed. “I was. I was very good. And smart! I did very well in school.”

  “No ruler for you?” Aymee teased, slapping her fingers across her knuckles.

  “Not for me!” Juba exclaimed. “That ruler was for the wicked children, not Juba!”

  They all bubbled with laughter.

  “Stop it,” Aymee cried. “You are going to make me wet myself!”

  For the moment they sounded like happy, well-fed, well-loved children. It wasn’t as if laughter never rang at the shrine. The smaller children laughed all the time. But that joy disappeared when they reached the age of six and were forced to exchange their bliss for hard labor.

  Finally, Abeo’s laughter dwindled to giggles and hiccups. By the time Aymee and Juba were able to get their own crowing under control, Abeo had moved out of the hut and into the rain. She raised one foot and then the next until she was dancing in the muddy puddles. Soon, she was whirling like a top. Spinning so fast that the rain flew from her body in sheets. Abeo closed her eyes and chanted the words from her favorite movie: “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home . . .”

  “Hey you!”

  The blow to her gut sent her stumbling. She tripped over her wet feet and fell down with a splat while the world continued to loop. When she blinked the water from her eyes, Duma swam into view. The brim of the canvas hat he wore was weighted with water. The spillage cascaded over his face like a wet curtain.

  Abeo coughed and sprayed gari and blood-tainted saliva into the downpour.

  “Get inside! You’ll get a fever out here in the rain. And then how will you work?” Duma shouted.

  The girls watched quietly from the doorway as Abeo hurried toward them. Thunder boomed across the sky and Abeo imagined that the gods were laughing at her.

  21

  The ten-hour flight from New York to Ukemby, her passage through immigration and then customs, the time she spent waiting for her luggage to appear on the carousel—all of this happened in a fog. Reality didn’t take hold of Serafine until she exited Toko International Airport and stepped into the blistering-hot chaos of Port Masi.

  Men swarmed from all directions. “Carry your bag, miss? Carry your bag?”

  Serafine waved them away, then stuck a Marlboro between her chapped lips and lit it.

  People stared. It was unusual to see a woman smoking in public. Serafine ignored the attention, smoked the cigarette down to the butt, dropped it to the ground, and mashed it beneath the sole of her Italian leather pump.

  In the taxi, the driver spoke to her reflection in the rearview mirror: “Sister, you live in America a long time, huh?”

  Serafine ignored his question and repeated her destination: “Filster Hospital.”

  * * *

  She hated hospitals. Hated the smell of them. The sick and dying all reeked the same no matter their race or religion. Serafine paced the corridor outside of Ismae’s room until she could summon the nerve to enter. She was conscious of the sound of her heels against the linoleum floor and the beeping of the machinery keeping Ismae alive. Those sounds, combined with the drumroll of her heart, unnerved her.

  Serafine gazed down into Ismae’s serene face. She looked dead. Fighting back tears, Serafine lowered herself into the chair next to the bed and took her sister’s limp, warm hand in her own.

  “You’re just resting, that’s all; and soon you’ll wake up and be as good as new,” she proclaimed aloud.

  Serafine filled her time with Ismae with loving tasks: she combed her hair, clipped her fingernails, and ran ice chips over her parched lips. She hummed as she worked; sometimes she spoke in low tones, reminiscing about their childhood. She hoped and prayed that Ismae could hear her from way down in that black hole she’d slipped into.

  After some time, jet lag plummeted down on her. “I’ll come back tomorrow morning,” she promised as she gathered her things. She leaned over and planted a soft kiss on Ismae’s forehead. “I love you.”

  * * *

  When the taxi came to a halt in front of her sister’s home, Serafine was surprised to see that the place still looked the same. She’d half expected the house to be covered in vines with a family of crows perched on the rooftop.

  She took a deep breath, climbed the steps, set her bag down, and knocked on the door. Grandmother opened it with Agwe in her arms.

  “Wasik didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  “He didn’t know.”

  She waited for the old woman to move out of the way; when she didn’t, Serafine stepped around her and rolled her suitcase into the house. She stopped briefly at the closed door of Abeo’s room before continuing on to the guest bedroom. Grandmother followed close behind.

  “How long will you be staying?”

  “Until I find Abeo,” Serafine huffed, and then quietly closed the door in the old woman’s face.

  22

  At the shrine, Aymee gave birth to a copper-colored boy, who she named Ofi. Abeo and the rest of the girls fussed over him like he was their very own.

  Two days after Ofi was born, Juba walked into the hut, closed the door, and pressed her back against the wall. The muscles in her face were tense; sweat covered her brown forehead and trickled down her temples.

  “Are you okay?” Abeo asked, sidling up to her.

  Juba gave her a cryptic look. “Shhh.”

  Aymee plucked her nipple from Ofi’s mouth. “What’s wrong,” she whispered.

  Juba parted her feet, and a mango plopped down to the ground. “A gift for you and Ofi,” she breathed.

  They all stared at the mango as if it were a brick of gold.

  “You stole it?”

  Juba grinned. “It fell off the truck and rolled to the side of the road. I didn’t steal it, I rescued it!”

  The girls exchanged fearful looks.

  “You should have left it there,” Kenya warned.

  All of their eyes bounced nervously between the door and the mango.

  Aymee hissed, “They’ll beat you if they find out.”

  Abeo put her finger to her lips and the girls went silent. A shadow had appeared beneath the door. In a flash, Juba kicked the mango across the hut; Aymee swiped it up and hid it behind her back just as the door swung open.

  Duma swaggered in. “What’s going on in here?” He posed the question to Juba, who lowered her eyes and shook her head. “Heh?” He looked at Abeo.

  “Nothing,” she mumbled.

  “Nothing?” he mocked, then strolled over to Aymee and peered down at Ofi. “I make pretty, pretty babies, don’t you think?” He reached down and stroked Aymee’s collarbone. “I said I make pretty babies.”

  “Y-yes,” Aymee responded.

  “Ha!” Duma clapped his hands and spun around. He approached Abeo and caught her by the chin. “Maybe one day,
you and I will make pretty babies together?”

  Abeo gulped and shifted her eyes to the window.

  Duma chuckled, turned around, swept his gaze around the hut, and left without another word. When they were sure he was gone, Aymee produced the mango from behind her back, pressed it lovingly against her cheek, brought it to her nose, and inhaled.

  “Hurry,” Juba urged.

  Aymee quickly peeled the skin and took a bite. She closed her eyes and savored the sweetness. She had not had a mango in months. “Here,” she said, pushing the fruit toward Juba.

  “No, it’s for you,” Juba said.

  “Take a bite. All of you must have some,” Aymee insisted.

  Juba took a small nibble.

  “Come on, Juba, a little more,” Aymee pressed.

  This time Juba sunk her teeth in and pulled off a thick wad of the sweet stringy flesh. Eyes twinkling, she moaned, “It’s so good.”

  She passed the mango to Abeo, who took a bite and then passed it on to Kenya.

  “Tomorrow, maybe I will rescue an orange,” Juba laughed.

  * * *

  The next day, Juba rescued two bananas, which the girls mashed and mixed in with the gari—it was a meal fit for queens.

  23

  Wasik pulled the car into the driveway, turned off the headlights, and just sat there, savoring the silence. He’d called the house and Grandmother told him that Serafine was there, so he knew he would be walking into a fury.

  He lowered all of the car windows and the quiet night seeped in. He was scrutinizing his tired face in the rearview mirror when the darkness in the backseat shifted. Wasik lurched around in surprise, but there was nothing there, save for a black umbrella and a day-old newspaper.

  Inside the house the phone rang twice and then Serafine’s chilling screams hacked away at the hush like a rusted saber.

  * * *

  Abeo had dreamed that her belly swelled as big as the sun. In the dream she peeled away her brown flesh to reveal a smiling, pink-gummed baby.

  The dream remained with her all through the day, and that evening, as Wasik stumbled from his car, she pondered it further while she sat eating her gari.

  “What are you thinking about?” Aymee asked.