Chapter 4: Hot Tears, Cold Shadows

I bite my lip as I hear. Halima no like me because of Ifunanya. Every time she see me, na to throw shade. I want reply, but dem plenty and I fear make dem no beat me, so I just endure.

I carry sand, rub my palm small, so make the pain for hand reduce. Village work na real wahala, but I no wan give dem chance to laugh me.

I hold my tears, use all my power dey cut cassava. As I dey, the blister for my hand burst again, my palm don wound. I bear am, hold my tears, dey work quietly.

Blood dey show for my palm but I no gree stop. If I slack, na talk go full everywhere say 'Makurdi girl no fit farm.'

Na then I feel one heavy eye for my body—na the same eye wey dey fear me. Na farm supervisor, Musa.

My heart skip, I grip cutlass tighter, dey work even harder. Chai, my hand dey pain me.

I even wan use left hand, but that one no get power. I just dey drag the cassava, make e no look say I dey play.

For corner, I still dey hear their bad mouth.

“See, Oga Musa don show again. I talk am, Oga Musa no like her.”

“She dey form soft, no sabi work, just dey use eye dey catch men, dey scatter everywhere. Oga Musa go soon pursue her.”

Their laugh dey sharp, e cut my ear like blade. Village people sabi use mouth wound person.

As I dey hear, I no know whether na pain or anger, but my hand dey shake for cutlass.

My eye dey hot, my chest dey tight. I dey swallow the cry, but e dey near surface.

I never work before, but when I first come, I tell myself say I go prove say I no be softie, say I fit live without Okafor family. So I dey work pass everybody. This harvest time, I dey cut cassava like say na competition, and my skill don improve. I dey work pass them, cut reach them.

My skirt and shirt don tear small, but I no care. If rain fall, na under tree I dey hide. I no dey beg anybody.

Musa and these people, why dem dey talk say I lazy? Why dem dey say I dey seduce people?

Na question I dey ask God every night. Abi my face too soft?

I tire to endure. If dem wan beat me, make dem try. I raise my eye wey don red from tears, bone face look up. As I look, na Musa black eye I jam.

He look my teary eyes, shock small. Then he lock eye for me, the thing deep. Him lips tight, face strong, he ask with him deep voice, “Why you dey cry?”

Him shadow cover my face, sweat run for my back, the whole farm quiet like burial ground.

That face—he even look more wicked.