Sister Speak
with Rohey Samba
Nata’s recovery was slow but steady. The physical ache in her body gradually subsided as the bruises healed and the stiffness in her joints diminished. The deep soreness that had immobilised her for so long began to fade, but even as the physical wounds healed, the emotional scars lingered. She could still feel the strain in the air, the quiet sorrow that seemed to hang over the household like a cloud. Nata couldn’t help but notice how her mother’s eyes looked different — empty, distant, as though a part of Borogie had been lost in the wake of everything that had happened.
Nata had always been keenly aware of her mother’s moods. Having spent her entire life striving to earn Borogie’s love and grace, Nata could read her mother like a book. Every flicker of her mother’s eyes, every subtle change in the tone of her voice, every sigh or silence — it spoke volumes to Nata. She knew when something was wrong, even if Borogie didn’t speak it aloud. This hollow stare was something Nata had only seen a few times in her life, and it filled her with a deep sense of unease.
The anguish in Borogie’s voice was unmistakable too. The softness, the weariness that seemed to permeate her words — everything seemed heavy, as if Borogie had lost some essential part of herself. Nata couldn’t remember a time when her mother had spoken with such a sense of defeat. It was as if the very core of her had been drained away. Nata, who had always found comfort in her mother’s strength, now saw her as a shadow of the woman she had once been.
It broke Nata’s heart.
In the yard, Nenneh Dado, Nata’s stepmother, sat on the makeshift bench under the tree where lizards scurried across the hot stones, basking in the warmth of the sun. It was a scene that Nata had seen countless times, but today there was something different about the way Nenneh Dado carried herself. The tension between them had shifted, but not in the way Nata had hoped. Her stepmother was quieter now, less brazen. The anger and pride that had once defined her seemed to have waned, replaced by a lingering unease.
Nenneh Dado had been caught in a lie that nearly cost Nata her life. The truth of the situation had come to light, and while the shame of it had subsided over the days, it was clear that her stepmother was still processing the consequences of her actions. Nata could see the discomfort in her every movement, hear the way her voice faltered when she spoke to anyone in the house. Nenneh Dado was not the same woman who had once ruled the household with an iron fist. Something had broken in her, too, though she would never admit it aloud.
As the days passed, Nata’s recovery continued, but Matou had increasingly taken on more of the household chores that Nata had once done. The workload was taking a toll on her younger sister, who was only a child. Matou’s small frame seemed incapable of handling the responsibility, and yet, despite her best efforts, she struggled. She had always been the more carefree of the two, but now, the added burden of chores and caring for their younger siblings was wearing her down. Matou woke up earlier each day, exhausted before the sun had fully risen, and still managed to struggle to get to school on time. It was becoming too much for her.
One morning, Matou returned home from school, her face flushed with exhaustion. She walked slowly into the house, where Borogie was preparing lunch after tending to the garden. The day had already been long, and the heat of the sun drained her energy. Yet, there was something more on Matou’s mind that seemed to weigh heavily on her. As she entered the house, she noticed Nata sitting up on her bed, a faint smile on her face as she observed the family bustling around. Matou’s face softened at the sight of her sister.
“Matou,” Nata called out weakly, her voice still hoarse, the remnants of her illness lingering in her tone. “What happened today?”
Matou hesitated, unsure whether to share the frustration she felt, but then she sighed and walked over to Nata’s side. “It was the headmistress, Jaja,” she explained, her words filled with weariness. “She inspected us during assembly and called me out, along with a few other girls. She told us to braid our hair. She said it was a requirement for the school uniform. But I didn’t know how to braid my hair, Jaja. I couldn’t do it.”
Matou’s voice trailed off, and she cast her gaze downward, avoiding Nata’s eyes. There was a sense of embarrassment in her words, as if failing at such a simple task had somehow undermined her dignity. Nata understood. Matou had always hated having her hair done. The tight braids pulled at her scalp, and Matou had a low tolerance for pain. The sight of her younger sister’s discomfort made Nata’s heart ache.
“I know, Matou,” Nata said gently, offering a faint smile. “I’ll help you with it. You don’t have to worry.”
Borogie, overhearing the conversation, smiled faintly as she walked over to her daughters. “Let me help you, Matou,” she said softly, though her voice was tinged with sadness. Despite the busy day in the garden, Borogie took a moment to sit with Matou, her hands moving skillfully to remove the old braids from Matou’s hair. The task took some time, but Borogie worked patiently, making small talk with her daughter to calm her nerves.
“Don’t worry, Matou,” she reassured her. “You’ll learn to manage. It will get easier.”
As Borogie carefully combed Matou’s hair, she applied a bit of water to soften the strands. Matou winced slightly as her mother worked, but the pain was more bearable now. The comfort of her mother’s hands was something Matou cherished, and in the moments of quiet, the bond between mother and daughter seemed to grow stronger.
After Borogie finished removing the old braids, she carefully braided Matou’s hair. Matou could feel the tightness of the braids, but she didn’t want to complain. It was a necessary task. Borogie worked steadily, taking her time with each section of hair. Matou felt the weight of her mother’s love in every delicate movement.
Once Borogie was finished, she looked at Matou with a faint smile. “That’s it, Matou. You look beautiful,” she said gently.
But later that evening, when Matou went to lie down for the night, the tightness in her braids became unbearable. The discomfort from the braids pulling at her scalp kept her awake for hours. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t sleep. The pain was too much to bear. Finally, Matou gave in. She reached up and began to undo the braids. Slowly, painstakingly, she released each strand of hair until it was free again. With a deep sigh of relief, Matou laid back down, finally able to sleep.
The next morning, as Borogie opened the door to let in the morning light, she was shocked to find that Matou’s head was completely unbraided. The neat, tight braids that Borogie had spent so much time perfecting were gone. For a moment, Borogie stood frozen, her heart racing as confusion and anger flooded her. She had put so much effort into braiding Matou’s hair, and now it was all undone.
“Matou,” Borogie called, her voice stern with concern. “What did you do? Why did you unbraid your hair?”
Matou sat up slowly, her face flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Nenneh,” she whispered. “The braids were too tight. They hurt so much that I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t bear it.”
Borogie’s expression softened as she saw the genuine discomfort in Matou’s eyes. Her anger dissipated, replaced by a deep understanding. She placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder and spoke gently. “Matou, you should have come to me. You didn’t have to suffer alone.”
But the disappointment in her voice remained, and for a moment, Borogie stood silently. She didn’t want to show Matou that she was angry, but the effort she had put into making the braids, the hope she had that her daughter would appreciate the care she had taken — this was not something she could easily ignore.
Without saying another word, Borogie walked to the corner shop, purchasing a razor blade. When she returned, she found Matou already dressed in her school uniform, ready to leave for school. Borogie motioned for Matou to sit down, this time with a firm resolve in her actions.
Matou, her heart racing, sat down hesitantly. “Mama, what are you going to do?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
Borogie didn’t answer immediately. She simply began to cut Matou’s hair, the sound of the razor blade slicing through the strands filling the quiet room. Matou watched in stunned silence, the realization of what was happening hitting her like a wave. As her mother shaved off her braids, Matou felt a mixture of fear and disbelief.
“I won’t have you humiliated again,” Borogie said quietly, her voice filled with an edge of authority that Matou had never heard before. “No more suffering because of old braids. It ends today.”
When Borogie finished shaving all of Matou’s hair off, the room was still. Matou sat frozen, her mind reeling with shock. She had never expected this. Her mother’s decision, though swift and final, left her with a strange sense of helplessness.
“Now go to school,” Borogie said firmly. “Nobody will humiliate you for old braids.”
Matou, overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events, wiped her eyes as tears welled up. “Oh, Nenneh,” she whispered softly, the anguish of the situation spilling out of her in a single breath. She quickly grabbed a headscarf from her mother’s bed, tying it around her head before running out the door. She was already late, and there was no time to explain.
As Matou reached school, she approached her teacher, who looked at her with concern. “I have a wound on my head,” Matou explained, her voice soft but steady. “My mother applied medicine to it and tied this scarf to protect it. I’m not supposed to remove it until the treatment is complete.”
The teacher nodded understandingly, though her eyes lingered on Matou’s bare scalp. The day passed uneventfully, but in the back of Matou’s mind, the shame of what had happened at home weighed heavily on her. Yet, despite the rawness of the situation, she felt a strange sense of resilience. Her mother’s actions had been harsh, but in them, Matou had found something — strength, determination, and an understanding that even in the most difficult moments, she could move forward.
When Matou returned home, Borogie met her with open arms. “You are strong, Matou,” she said softly. “Even when things are hard, you find a way to move forward.”
Matou smiled, her eyes filled with gratitude. Despite everything, despite the difficult lessons learned, she found comfort in the fact that, with her mother’s love, she could endure.
