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mattered was that I‘d danced in the village
square.
They took me home and Papa left
Mama to wash me. She clothed me, took
me to the room at the back of the house
and said, ―You are not to leave this house
again.‖
―But why?‖ I asked.
―You‘re sick, child,‖ she said, her
voice hoarse from her crying.
I touched my forehead; it wasn‘t hot.
I shook my arms and my legs; they moved.
―I don‘t feel sick, Mama,‖ I said.
Tears misted her eyes, and she gazed
up towards heaven. ―Your sickness is a
strange one, my daughter,‖ she said, facing
me. ―It‘s best you stay in the house from
now on so you can get better.‖
She moved towards the door, and I
sat down on my mat, wondering about
what she‘d said.
―Are you thirsty?‖
I nodded.
She opened the door; her shoulders,
drooping as she exited through it. That was
when I saw him: The yellow man with a
yellow hat, holding a yellow stick.
I should have shrunk back in fear; I‘d
never seen him before and didn‘t hear him
come in. But I wasn‘t afraid. He smiled.
So tall. So yellow.
I smiled back.
He pointed his stick at me. ―You are
the girl that danced in the village square.‖
It wasn‘t a question, but still, I
nodded. ―They say I have a strange
sickness. My father won‘t talk to me, and
my mother doesn‘t want me going outside
to play again.‖
The corners of his lips turned down
and his brows knit together. ―It‘s not a
sickness,‖ he said.
―It‘s not?‖
―Ordinary people say it‘s a sickness.
People like me, we call it beautiful.‖
―I don‘t understand.‖
―The gods have your mind, my
daughter,‖ he said. ―You can now see
things ordinary eyes cannot see, and hear
things ordinary ears cannot hear. In ancient
times, the forefathers would have made
you a priestess, serving only the gods of
our land.‖
Mama walked in with a cup of water.
She sauntered past Yellow man.
―What?‖ She raised one eyebrow and
gave me the cup.
I drank the water and stared back at
her. ―Don‘t you see him?‖
―Who?‖
I pointed to Yellow man. ―This man.
This man standing here.‖
Her eyes followed the direction of my
finger. ―Which man?‖
I pointed again, but Mama buried her
face in her hands.
―There‘s nobody there,‖ she sobbed.
―There‘s nobody there my daughter.‖
Yellow man shook his head slowly,
gazed at the floor, then looked up at me. ―I
told you,‖ his voice was quiet. ―You can
now see things nobody can see; hear
things nobody can hear.‖
―Are you a ghost?‖ I asked.
―I‘m not a ghost,‖ Mama answered.
She held my arms and shook me. ―I‘m
here. I‘m your mother.‖
―I wasn‘t talking to you Mama,‖ I
said. ―I‘m talking to Yellow man ….this
yellow man here wearing a yellow hat.‖
Mama shook me again, but Yellow
man smiled – a small pitying smile. I don‘t
know who he pitied: me or mama. He
wandered up to a wall, and slid through it.
I faced my mother. ―Mama, I‘m not
sick.‖
Mama released my arms.
―Yellow man says I have a mind that
belongs to the gods,‖ I told her. ―I see
things you cannot see and I hear things
you cannot hear.‖
Her eyes narrowed and she gave me
a long stare. She collected the cup from
my hand and strode to the door. ―It‘s
called madness, my daughter; a very
strange kind of sickness.‖
She walked out, and bolted the door
behind her.
Saraba | Issue 13 | Africa 56