Bundu Trap - Windward Community College

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mother bought them and in the necklaces of cloves and spices they’ll be wearing as jewelry. But I still remember the stories Fanta’s been telling me about girls whose parents fool them to get them into the hands of Mami Sowe. Like the one about one girl who was asked to deliver some expensive gold jewelry into her auntie’s hands. The girl waited at the appointed place for about thirty minutes before her auntie appeared with two other women. Fanta said that had this girl frequented Bundu bushes before, she would have recognized the women as Mami Sowe’s assistants. Minutes later one of the women forced a large piece of cloth into the girl’s mouth. By the time the girl was able to breathe through her mouth again, she was bleeding profusely. Fanta never told me where the bleeding came from, although my brother Amadu said they broke the girl’s teeth when they forced the cloth into her mouth. My mother returns to the kitchen, holding a tray and kitchen towel. She busies herself packing two large bowls into the tray. I help her wipe excess oil off the covers and try some last-ditch delaying tactics. “I don’t know where the bush is or how to get there,” I say. My mother smiles softly. “They’re expecting you. Now, change your clothes before the food gets cold.” “Why shouldn’t Amadu take the food? He’s the older one.” “Go get dressed before I get angry.” She is shouting now as she goes down the kitchen steps. I follow her into the house. She pushes me into her bedroom and points to a dress lying on the bed. “Put that on before you come out.” She gives the orders as she pulls a red-andwhite checkered towel from the basket on the floor. I am getting nervous, but I don’t want her to notice. I figure if it is decided I should be circumcised this summer, Mother will figure out a way to get me out of the house, will or woe. But I am not going to make it easy for her. I feign a struggle, pulling the dress down over my face. She ignores me. I try conversation. “How have they been, Fanta and Mbalia and Yanati and Seray? How have they been since they’ve been at the bush?” “They look very nice in the cotton material I bought them, and they’ve all put on weight.” “What do they eat there?” I ask with great interest. “Every kind of food you can think of. Last Friday, Mbalia asked for sattie, 2 and Auntie Mbalia prepared it for them in the morning. Then Auntie Seray prepared couscous and salads for Yanati in the afternoon, and Auntie Fanta roasted a whole duck for dinner. It’s been like that every day.” This is my favorite part of the entire Bundu process—the eating and drinking to the heart’s content. The thought actually calms me down a little as I begin to imagine cassava leaves, potato leaves, obiata, 3 jollof rice, 4 plantains, okra, and foofo, 5 all lined up in front of my dietconscious sister and cousins. “What did you cook?” I ask, following my mother back to the kitchen. She replies, “Yanati said she wanted to eat some fried fish with plantains before the ceremony tonight. So that’s…” “What ceremony?” I ask jumpily, wondering if it has anything to do with me. “We’re going to do a small ceremony tonight, so the girls will be able to come outside and walk around the yard. Maybe in a few weeks they can go out into the streets.” “I’ll just leave the tray at Granny’s house, and somebody else will take it to the bush.” As the women work, they sing, moving their heads or waving the knives in their hands to the rhythm of the song. “You have nothing to worry about. Granny is there. She won’t let them touch you,” Mother says as she spreads the towel over the food and places the tray on my head. I grab the sides of the heavy tray with both hands and bite my lower lip as I make my way out toward the gate. 2 Article 27. Bundu Trap “Keep both hands on the tray,” Mother shouts as I leave the confines of her gate. Before I reach the empty lot next to Granny’s house, I hear the sound of women singing and clapping. The women sit in clusters of five to seven— one group is peeling onions, another is skinning fowls, another pounding flour in large mortars, another cutting meat. As the women work, they sing, moving their heads or waving the knives in their hands to the rhythm of the song. I try to weave my way through the enormous pots and bowls, the white powder from the mortars, the obese legs sprawled between one bowl and another. Auntie Ole, Haja 6 Khadi, Auntie Memuna, Haja Fatmata, Miss Conteh, Haja Alari. I call out those names I remember and smile broadly to the others. It doesn’t seem as bad as I had imagined. I feel as though I could leave the food with one of these aunties or hajas and return home safely, but I move on, even quickening my now light steps until suddenly I see it. Spiked stalks of dried bamboo leaves protrude from the roof of a dark hut standing ahead of me on the farthest end of the yard. Its fragile walls of straw mats are square in shape, and from where I am standing, I can see no doors. Just as I begin to imagine being locked up inside with Mami Sowe, with no way of escape, I see a woman sitting by what finally is beginning to look like a doorway to the bush. She is cutting cloth—the same cloth my mother said she bought for Fanta and the others. I remember mother saying they looked good in it, so why is it only being cut now? I don’t have time to answer my own question. The woman’s voice cuts its way through my thoughts like a butcher’s knife on brisket. “Send her over here.” My blood stops cold, my legs weaken under me, and my head begins to spin. Voices murmur around me. Ear-piercing clanks cause my head to feel as though every piece of flesh is suddenly scalpeled from the inside. A wet piece of cloth passes through my mouth. I feel the soaked sponge of red fluid on my face and neck—and then a soft voice. “Your mother is not going to be pleased.”
ANNUAL EDITIONS Other voices intervene. “You were not paying attention. What happened to you?” “Leave her alone, she was just afraid, coming to a Bundu bush.” “You mean she is still not…?” “Oh yes, don’t you know her? She’s Siminie, Mariatu’s daughter.” Inside the Bundu bush is the smell of burned, perfumed palm oil and the sound of the women’s Mandingo songs. “Take her in to Granny Yamakoro. She’s inside.” “Wait, let her rest a little out here first.” “No, let her go inside and rest.” “Let her take the empty bowls with her.” “No, let her go for now.” “Where’s the food?” I gasp when I manage to remove the palm-oil-soaked towel from my face. Just as I am asking the question, I see Mother’s bowls, bottoms up on the floor, mud-red pieces of fish and plantain on the ground. The voices continue: “Let her go wash her face.” “Someone give her some soap.” “No, just water will do.” The setting inside the Bundu bush is similar to the one outside, except for the strong smell of burned, perfumed palm oil and the vivacious claps accompanying the Mandingo 7 songs. About a dozen more aunties sit on the mud floor, which is covered with straw mats similar to those used to panel the windowless bush. Granny is sitting on her special wide bench, the only seat that can contain all of her behind. As soon as she sees me, she motions for me to enter. Still mute from the food accident, I enter like one drugged. Granny places my skinny body between her thick legs. The warmth relaxes me a little, and my eyes begin to search for Fanta and my cousins. They’re all sitting on the floor, with straightened backs and stretched-out legs, like Barbie dolls. The tallest of the four, Fanta, sits at the far end of the room. Mbalia is sitting next to her, then Seray; Yanati, the shortest, is at the other extreme end. They’re all topless to their waists, which are wrapped in the blackand-blue cotton cloth Mother had bought. Their heads are tied with the same cloth. Between the head-tie and the waist wrap, their bare breasts—full and firm, garnished with palm oil and dried, beaded cloves—jump up and down as the girls clap their hands. The girls’ breasts carry the same vigorous rhythm of the dancing heads of the women sitting opposite them. While the aunties seem to be enjoying the songs, the girls look as though they would be happy to leave any time. I notice my cousins have all put on weight. Fanta’s face looks sour, the way it does when she’s eating tamarinds. I’m dying to ask her why, in all her seventeen years, she did not suspect anything when Auntie Iye came to take her shopping. But I dare not leave the security of Granny’s legs. Standing in front of the Bundu girls is a short, fleshy woman with extremely tiny eyes and sharp, almost loony eyeblinks, leading the song with a long, thin stick that she waves over their heads. She is dressed in ordinary, even dirty-looking, clothes, but something about her holds me hostage. Maybe it is her baritone voice, which supports the song when the other women forget a line, or the looks she throws out when the girls mispronounce an old Mandingo word. Or, maybe it is her grandly gesticulating manner and the flabby piece of extra flesh waving under her arm, or the way she uses the stick to control the song and at the same time separate Fanta’s tightly set legs or straighten Yanati’s slouch. As soon as the song ends, the woman with the stick starts another, pausing slightly to look over to where Granny is sitting. When Granny smiles and nods her head, the woman continues with added confidence, then gives the silent girls on the mat a strong look. Seray slouches and lowers her head on her chest. The woman gives her three quick taps on the shoulder, and her back straightens again. Fanta frowns, and Auntie Mbalia admonishes her with a tight wink. Yanati and Mbalia mouth the words, anxiety crowding their faces. Sensing the impending judgment, the mothers and aun- 3 ties quickly double their enthusiasm and, adding to Granny’s frail voice, carry off the song. The girls begin to clap again, their breasts following energetically. I can actually feel the relief I see on their faces. Yanata and Mbalia smile at each other. I find myself thinking that I will get Granny to teach me all the Bundu songs before my time comes, because I wouldn’t want to offend this peculiar woman. I’m thinking I’ll ask Fanta to teach me all she has learned when she returns home. That way.… “Come this way with me, Siminie.” A large hand grabs mine, axing my thoughts at the same time. I turn around to see the face of one of three women in the bush I do not recognize. Something about her face cuts a vein in my heart. I try to climb onto Granny’s chest, clutching at her. “Don’t let her take me away, Granny.” Granny peels my fingers off her clothes. “You’re going to choke me.” My aunties and cousins, meanwhile, are rolling over one another with laughter. Only Fanta looks worried. The woman with the stick allows a smile to escape. “What are you afraid of?” she asks aggressively, feigning a confrontation. “She’s lucky we’ve waited this long. At her age, I had already forgotten what Bundu was like,” Auntie Mbalia says. “Don’t listen to them,” Granny says, putting her arms around me. “I am your father’s mother. While I’m alive, I’m the only person who can give consent for you to be brought into this Bundu society.” “Oh, but I’m your father’s sister. I can do it too,” Auntie Mbalia insists. “No, you cannot. Granny is older than you. She won’t let you,” I scream from the safety of Granny’s lap. Everybody laughs again. I notice that the girls on the mat are beginning to lose their straight backs and Barbie legs. Fanta is resting on the palms of both hands behind her back, Yanati is slouching, Seray has one hand on Yanati’s shoulder; only Mbalia maintains a straight back. Even the woman
Page 1: Article 27 Memuna M. Sillah Bundu T
Page 5 and 6: ANNUAL EDITIONS “Can the hospital

Bundu Trap - Windward Community College

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