Echoes Of Fuladu 3: Grief Is An Unpredictable Companion.

It arrives without asking permission…

Monday arrived with the promise of something new.

For the first time since leaving Farato, Matou woke with a feeling other than sadness. Before she had even opened her eyes, she remembered what day it was, and a little excitement stirred inside her.

School!

She was going back to school.

And not just to any class. She was entering Class Six, the final year of primary school.

The thought was almost too wonderful to believe.

She imagined seeing Haddy Gadjo, Yassin Faal, Samba Bah and the others again. There would be stories to exchange, holiday adventures to recount, new books to inspect and the delicious business of discovering who had grown taller, who had changed and who had returned with the most interesting news. She wondered whether Mr Bojang would still teach them, whether their new classroom would be larger, and whether the teachers would begin treating them with the seriousness reserved for the oldest pupils in the school.

Class Six!

How grown-up it sounded.

Only yesterday, it seemed, she had been one of the little children looking up at the older pupils with a mixture of admiration and envy. Now she was joining their ranks. The thought brought a smile to her face even before she was fully awake.

But schoolday excitement did not exempt Matou from her morning responsibilities.

Indeed, if anything, her return appeared to have restored the household’s old expectations of her with remarkable speed.

“Matou!”

The voice came before dawn had properly broken.

She opened her eyes.

For a brief, confused moment, she expected to hear Borogie calling her to help with the morning fire. Instead, Aunty Bae’s unmistakable voice cut through the quiet.

“Matou! Are you still sleeping? Get up!”

Matou sat up immediately.

Beside her, Jane stirred, turned over and pulled the covering closer to her face.

Matou looked at her with a mixture of amusement and envy.

The other children were still sleeping.

Of course they were.

She had been back barely a day, and already the old arrangement had resumed. Matou was expected to rise before everybody else, complete the morning chores and somehow be ready for school at the same time as the children who remained comfortably in bed.

She slipped quietly from beneath the covering, careful not to disturb Jane.

The room was still dark, but the faint grey light filtering through the window announced the approach of dawn. Outside, the air carried the damp chill of September. The rains had not entirely withdrawn, and the earth still held the moisture of the season.

Matou tied her wrapper securely around her waist and went to collect the long broom.

It was waiting where it always waited.

She took it up with a familiar resignation.

There was something almost comical about how quickly her body remembered the work. Her hands found their old grip on the broom, her shoulders settled into the familiar rhythm, and before long she was sweeping the compound as though the two months in Farato had been nothing more than a dream.

The broom scratched against the ground. Shhh. Shhh. Shhh. She swept the fallen leaves into a small pile. A gust of wind scattered them. Matou stopped and stared. “Ah!”

She began again. Another gust lifted the lighter leaves and sent them dancing across the compound. “Come back here!” She hurried after them, dragging the broom behind her. If anyone had been watching, they might have thought she was chasing chickens. The September wind seemed determined to make a fool of her. No sooner had she gathered the leaves than another breeze sent them tumbling in different directions. She pressed her lips together and worked faster.

The cold air found its way beneath her wrapper, making her shiver. She had grown leaner during her stay in Farato, her body strengthened and lightened by constant movement, long walks, play and the ordinary physical demands of village life.

Her meals there had been different too. There had been maize, coos and millet, vegetables freshly gathered from the garden, fish prepared in familiar ways, and food made from whatever the family had grown or obtained that day. Rice and meat were more common in the Owens’ household, where the meals were often richer and the ingredients purchased rather than harvested.

Matou had never given much thought to the difference while she was in Farato. She had eaten when hungry, run when she pleased and slept soundly after long days of activity. Now, standing in the chilly compound, she felt the morning breeze against her thinner arms and wished she had wrapped herself more warmly. She resumed sweeping.

Shhh. Shhh. Shhh. Then, without warning, a memory rose so vividly that she stopped moving. It was Borogie’s voice. “Matou, leave that broom!”

She could almost see her mother standing in the family compound, one hand on her hip, watching Matou attempt to sweep the wide stretch of earth before the huts. “But Mama, I can do it.”

“I said leave it.”

“Why?”

“Because this compound is too big for you. And the sun is already coming up. Go and do something else.”

“I want to help.”

“You help enough. Go and see what Bubel is doing.”

Matou had protested, insisting that she was perfectly capable of sweeping. Borogie had laughed and taken the broom from her. “Are you trying to finish all my work so that I will have nothing to do?”

“No!”

“Then go. You are still a child.”

You are still a child.

The words returned to Matou now with an unexpected tenderness.

In Farato, Borogie had allowed her to help with cooking, washing utensils, feeding animals and the many small tasks that kept a household running. But there had always been limits. Her mother seemed to know when work became too heavy, when the sun was too fierce or when Matou had done enough.

Sometimes Matou had resented those restrictions. She wanted to prove that she was capable, that she was no longer a little girl. Now she would have given anything to hear Borogie tell her to put down the broom. She looked around the Owens’ compound. There was nobody coming to relieve her. The leaves still needed sweeping.

Aunty Bae would expect the work to be finished before breakfast. Matou swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and bent to her task again. She swept harder, almost angrily, until the compound was finally clear enough to satisfy her. By then the sky had begun to brighten.

She carried the broom away and went to the backyard, where the previous evening’s utensils waited near the tap. There were plates, cups, cooking pots and spoons to be washed. She arranged them beside her, turned on the tap and began working through them. The running water was another thing she had nearly forgotten to appreciate.

In Farato, water had to be drawn from the well or collected and carried. Here she needed only to turn the tap, and water came rushing out. She watched it splash into the basin. Such ease. Yet even this convenience brought another memory. In Farato, she and Bubel sometimes competed over who would carry the smaller containers, although Bubel usually managed to spill half his water before reaching the kitchen. Nenneh Dado would complain that he was watering the footpath instead of bringing water home.

Matou smiled.

Then she remembered the previous evening’s laughter around the family compound, and the smile faded. She washed the plates carefully, rinsing each one before setting it aside. The cooking pots required more effort. She scrubbed away the grease and food remnants, working quickly because she knew the other children would soon be awake. By the time she finished, the morning had become busy.

Doors opened. Voices sounded from inside. Somebody called for a towel. Another child complained about a missing sock. Aunty Bae began issuing instructions from somewhere within the house. Matou gathered the clean utensils, arranged them neatly and hurried towards the outdoor washroom.

She filled her bucket from the tap. The water was cold. Very cold. She dipped her fingers into it and withdrew them immediately.

“Ah, Allah!”

She looked towards the sky, as though the morning itself might explain why she was expected to bathe in water that felt as though it had spent the night in a refrigerator.

Then she remembered the trick she had developed over the years.

Instead of pouring the cold water over her entire body immediately, she first rubbed soap over her arms and legs, scrubbing her limbs before wetting herself fully. That way, she told herself, the worst part would be over quickly.

She began with her arms.

Then her legs.

She worked the soap over her skin, delaying the inevitable moment when she would have to lift the cup of water.

At last, she filled it. She raised it above her shoulder. Hesitated. Then poured. The cold struck her so sharply that she gasped. “Ah!”

She jumped sideways, splashing water against the washroom wall. For a moment she stood trembling, teeth clenched, waiting for her body to recover from the shock. And suddenly she remembered Farato again. Borogie was always among the first to rise. Long before the children stirred, she would be tending the morning fire, setting water to heat and preparing for the demands of the day. Even when there was much work to be done, she made certain that Yerro and the children had warm water for bathing, particularly on cold mornings. Matou remembered the comforting sight of steam rising from a basin. She remembered Borogie testing the temperature with her fingers. “Not too hot?”

“No, Mama.”

“Then hurry before it gets cold.”

Sometimes Matou would linger, enjoying the warmth while her mother called impatiently from outside. Now, standing alone in the washroom, she found herself wondering whether the water was truly colder in Bakau or whether it was her heart that had become cold again. The thought brought tears. She had not expected to cry that morning.

She had awakened excited about school, about seeing her friends and beginning Class Six. She had even laughed while chasing the leaves across the compound. But grief was proving to be an unpredictable companion. It arrived without asking permission, sometimes in the middle of laughter, sometimes while sweeping, and sometimes beneath a cup of cold water. Matou wiped her face with the back of her wet hand. It was useless. More tears came.

She thought of Borogie bending over the morning fire, her wrapper tied securely, her face lit by the flames. She thought of Bubel still sleeping while the adults began their day. She thought of the hard bed, the thin blanket and the familiar sounds of the compound waking around her. She missed them so fiercely that for a moment she could hardly breathe. Then a voice screeched from outside.

“Matou!”

She froze.