Chapter 1: The Day Everything Scatter

I dey look as dem drag the most beautiful girl for our village enter one corner.

As I stand there, I just dey shake head. Sun dey shine, people dey waka for road, but nobody send. Dust dey rise for foot, smell of fried fish and ogiri from Mama Chinedu shop dey float for air. For this our village, if wahala no reach your side, you go close eye. Na so life be here.

I no too reason am, because even her papa and mama see am, dem no even shake body.

E shock me small, but for here, if elders no talk, who I be to make mouth? Her papa dey for one side dey chew kola, her mama dey count cassava for market, as if pikin no dey cry. He spit red for ground, eye dey far, like say e no even get pikin.

Her cry bend ear like market bell, but everybody just bone face.

E be like say her voice dey drag wind, dey touch everybody ear, but nobody even look that side. Na only small pikin dey peep from window, but im mama slap am, "Face your book!" Like say pain na normal story for here.

The small area boy wey drag am come tire, choke am until she faint, then he count two hundred naira, drop for their hand, like say na pure water money.

The boy no even look back, just waka go dey play draft for under mango tree. The money wey he dash her parents no reach price of goat, but dem collect am like say na blessing.

After small time, the girl wake up. She pause, touch her head, eye dey lost—then smile break out, as if nothing happen. She waka go meet the area boy with smile for her face, dey beg am make e no dey play cards up and down, say make e try dey hustle.

People wey stand for junction dey nod head, dey reason say maybe na love, maybe na craze. Nobody dey sure. She even help arrange his slippers, dust am. If you see am, you go think say she dey play, but the pain for her eye dey deep.

Truth be say, she no remember anything at all.

Na everyday story. People dey talk say e get something for her head wey no connect again, but her body dey waka fine, and her voice dey soft like breeze for rainy season.

Her name na Little Butterfly. Everybody dey call am that name because she fine and her heart pure.

You need see as she dey waka for road—her cloth always clean, hair dey shine like oil, always dey smile greet old women. Even children dey follow am play. If she smile, your spirit go just calm.

After she finish secondary school, Little Butterfly stay for village dey help people grow small business, dey find market for their farm produce. Everybody dey respect her.

Her hand dey for everything: garri processing, palm oil market, even helping old women dey sell pepper. She dey help peel yam for Mama Nneka, dey grind pepper for market women. She dey keep record for people, dey help dem count money when dem finish for market.

Until one day, heavy wind blow—serious harmattan. As she dey rush help people pluck mango, tree branch fall knack her for head.

The mango tree big pass normal. E get one big branch wey just snap, fall for her skull. That day, dust full everywhere, even goats dey run. Everybody gather, shout, but Little Butterfly no talk again—just collapse. Old men dey rub hand for chest, dey pray under breath: "God abeg, no let am die."

From that day, her brain scatter. Nobody sabi say, na this small fall go turn the whole village story upside down. She no craze, but her memory no dey work again.

Her eyes dey shine, but sometimes e blank, like person wey dey look spirit. She go dey ask, "Mama, where my red slippers?" Even when she no buy red slippers before.

Anything wey happen, once she sleep, na so she go forget. Everyday wey she wake up, she no sabi wetin happen the day before.

You fit tell her story hundred times, once she sleep reach, e don wipe. Even if she dey cry before, when morning reach, na so she go dey laugh like say nothing spoil.

The accident happen for September 7th, so every day wey she open eye, she go think say na still September 7th.

Na so her calendar freeze. You fit tell am, "Today na November," she go say, "Abeg, today na September 7th." If rain dey fall, she go ask why harmattan never reach.

But she still be that kind Little Butterfly. Every morning, after she wake, she go dey waka from house to house, dey remind everybody say harmattan dey come, make dem quick pluck their mango.

People dey dodge her sometimes, but old women dey happy as she greet dem. She go dey clap for children, call dem her pikin. For junction, you go hear her voice: "Mama Nkechi, abeg, your mango don ripe o!"

At first, everybody dey pity her, because every kobo wey enter for village, na her hand dey inside.

People dey whisper for market, "That girl na Godsend, see as she help us count money." Some dey remember when her papa get sick, na she raise money for him treatment. But now, pity dey turn to another thing.

But as dem dey talk, "Pikin wey sick too long, even mama go tire"—and she no be their pikin sef.

Village na place wey if your problem too long, people go begin complain for back. Some dey talk, "Her own too much." Dem no go talk am for face, but if dem see her waka, dem go shift.

As time dey go, people come dey tire for her, no even wan hear her wahala every morning again.

Na so e be for here: first, everybody dey pity, then later, dem dey avoid you like leprosy. Even small pikin dey hide behind mama wrapper as she waka pass.

For Mama Nkechi canteen, women dey whisper, "If na my pikin, I for don carry am go church deliverance."

Until one day, one old bachelor wey get one bad leg, get one wicked idea.

This man dey live for end of village, im house near the big palm tree. Im leg bend, but im eye sharp. People dey call am "Uncle Ladoja," but children dey fear am—e no dey laugh, always dey form important for village meeting.

This girl no dey remember anything after she sleep—e mean say anybody fit do anything to am?

The man dey reason: if she no fit remember, na free meat be that. Nobody go talk, nobody go remember. Na so im mind dark reach.

That day, Little Butterfly make new walking stick, waka go the uncle house, dey play say, "Uncle, harmattan dey come o, I make you new walking stick."

She use local wood, carve am fine, even draw small butterfly for handle. She dey laugh, "Uncle, make you no use old stick again!" The man look am, open gate, call am inside.

The man drag her enter house.

E just lock door, use one eye look window, carry her inside room. Na only God know wetin happen, but we dey hear cry sometimes.

Every day, she go carry new walking stick go give the uncle.

People for village dey wonder, "This girl get mind o! Everyday she dey carry gift go meet old bachelor." Nobody know wetin dey happen inside.

Every day, the uncle go drag her enter house.

Na so e turn routine: once sun dey shine, you go see her for that man compound, then after small time, her cloth go rough, her voice go low, she go waka comot.

Every day, she go dey cry inside the house, dey feel pain wey fit break person heart.

Neighbors begin dey ask, "This one no normal again." Some dey hear her cry, but who wan talk?

How many times person heart fit break before e go die finish?

I go dey ask myself sometimes, maybe na only God fit answer that question. Because the way her own dey go, e get as e be.

At least, Little Butterfly don chop that pain more than eight hundred times.

If you count, e pass one year—almost two years of the same wahala. Each day, her body dey collect, but her spirit no dey break finish.

After she wake up, she go still be that sweet girl, hug the new walking stick, happy go meet uncle, dey reason how the man go happy as she bring am.

You go see am for road, dey smile, dey show children how to carve stick, even tell dem, "If you treat old people well, blessing go follow you."

Until her belle begin rise, na so everything cast.

Village gossip no dey waste time. One woman see her for stream, her cloth tight, belle don dey show. Dem run go tell mama Ngozi, "Little Butterfly don carry belle!"

Her parents cry, say dem wan carry the old bachelor go chief’s court, but e no pure like that.

For here, if you no get proof, chief no go side you. Old bachelor get mouth, get small money. People dey fear him eye. Dem reason, "Make we no disgrace our family for nothing."

The victim no dey remember anything—who wan prove say dem force am?

If you ask Little Butterfly, she go just smile, say she no even know the man well. E pain the parents well well.

Dem swallow their shame, carry Little Butterfly go remove belle. Dem talk say the day wey dem do the abortion, na that day Little Butterfly run mad.

For village health center, nurse dey fan herself with old calendar, sweat dey drip for her face, as she dey shake head for Little Butterfly wahala. The girl dey cry, dey fight everybody. When the pain too much, she run outside, tear cloth. People rush hold am, say na evil spirit.

She no know why she get belle, no know why dem dey remove belle from her body.

She dey ask, "Mama, why dem dey do me like this?" But nobody fit explain. Her eye red, voice crack. E pain everybody.

She run mad, but she still dey alive.

For night, old women dey gather, dey burn incense, dey pray say make God return her memory.

But the next day, she forget everything again, turn back to that happy Little Butterfly, dey shout from hospital bed say she wan carry walking stick go give uncle, wan remind villagers about harmattan, but e be like say her period don come, her stomach dey pain her die.

Doctor dey try calm am, "Rest small, e go better." She dey shake leg, dey laugh with nurse, dey talk about mango and harmattan.

After some time, her parents forget about court—so far as those area boys dey remember to pay small money.

Everybody dey reason say, "Wetin you wan do? If pikin no remember, who go fight?" Life move on. People begin dey count their own wahala.

Because every day, Little Butterfly dey wake up happy. Even though she dey fall from happiness enter wahala every day, one night sleep go wipe everything away.

Sometimes e resemble miracle, sometimes e look like curse. But if you see her morning face, you go wish your own life fit start afresh every day.