Behind them, Nata stepped closer, laying a hand on Matou’s back, her fingers trembling slightly. She didn’t speak either. But her presence, warm and firm, said what words could not: I missed you. I love you. You are not alone.
Borogie said nothing at first. She held her daughter, her fingers stroking her spine with slow, sacred movements. Only when the crying softened into hiccups did she whisper, “Mi noh ɗo, ndiyam am, I’m here now, my water. You’re not alone.”
Then Nata wrapped her arms around both of them, and the three of them stood there, tangled like roots refusing to be torn apart.
From the doorway, Mrs Owens watched, her lips drawn into a thin line, her eyes wary. She cleared her throat once, but said nothing. Perhaps it was the sight of the vegetables. Or maybe it was the power of a mother’s presence — unspoken, undeniable — that silenced her.
Matou didn’t care. For once, she didn’t shrink beneath Mrs Owens’ gaze. She stood taller, even as she clung to her mother’s waist. She felt… remembered.
“Ma,” she sobbed again, pulling slightly back to look her mother in the eye, “you need to take me away from here. I can’t stay. They treat me like I don’t exist. They feed me scraps. I sleep on the floor. I miss you. I miss everything.”
Borogie looked at her daughter, and her own eyes welled up. Her voice, though cracked from age and pain, was steady. “We didn’t know it was this bad, Matou. We thought… they said… but I swear on your father’s grave, I won’t leave you here again.”
Nata chimed in, her voice loud with outrage. “We told Papa you looked sick the day they took you! But he said it would only be for a while. That it was for your future.”
Matou scoffed bitterly. “What future? I’m a housemaid here.”
Borogie’s jaw clenched. “Not anymore, you’re not. Pack your things.”
Mrs Owens took one step forward. “We agreed —”
Borogie turned slowly to face her, a quiet storm in her eyes. “You agreed with her father. Not with me.”
The two women held each other’s gaze for a long, charged second. Then Mrs Owens looked away.
Matou blinked back fresh tears, but this time they were not from despair. They were from relief.
She had been seen. Heard. Fought for.
And in that moment, surrounded by her mother and sister, she no longer felt like a ghost. She was Matou — daughter of Borogie, sister to Nata, child of Jeshwang, heart of a family who came for her, just in time.
That was her wish. But it did not turn out that way for Matou…
Borogie sighed deeply after she spoke her heart out. It was not the kind of sigh that came from frustration or fatigue — it came from the pit of her soul, where guilt and sorrow had tangled themselves into knots too tight to untie. She swallowed hard, tasting salt, not from her lips but from the tears she wouldn’t let fall. Then she lowered herself onto the plush armchair Mrs Owens had motioned her to. The seat felt too soft, foreign beneath her weight, like it didn’t belong to people like her.
Borogie was no stranger to heartbreak. Life in Jeshwang had taught her the many faces of pain — hunger, illness, loss. But nothing, not even burying her own mother or giving birth alone in the darkness of their shared compound, compared to this: witnessing her child shrink before her eyes. Matou’s skin clung to her bones in a way it never had before. Her eyes, once bright with mischief and laughter, now floated in sadness like they no longer belonged to a child.
“But my dear,” Borogie said, her voice soft, breaking under the weight of her own words, “we can’t just take you home. You’ll get used to it here. This is a good opportunity. You now live in a house with electricity and running water, and you go to school. These are things we cannot give you in Jeshwang.”
Matou’s eyes flooded instantly, but she blinked the tears away. “But Ma, I hate it here. There is no warmth. I work from morning till night. I have no joy here.”
The words struck Borogie like a slap, and she flinched. Not because she didn’t know, but because she had suspected all along — and hearing it confirmed aloud felt like failure dressed in her own child’s voice. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her throat closed around the truth she didn’t want to acknowledge: she had handed her child to strangers, hoping for a better future, only to find her wilting in silence.
Just then, as if to fill the aching silence, Mrs Owens chimed in with her usual smile. “Thank you so much for the vegetables, they look wonderful,” she said, gesturing at the bundle on the table.
Matou translated quietly, the tone in her voice distant. Hollow. All the while, she kept glancing at her mother, eyes pleading, begging her to fight — to take her away, to say, “Pack your things, we’re going home.” But Borogie said nothing.
Nata stood by the wall, fingers fiddling with the frayed hem of her dress. She was taking in the grandeur of the house — the tiled floor, the wide windows, the smell of disinfectant in the air. But her gaze kept drifting back to her sister, visibly shaken.
Then, finally, she broke her silence. “Are you sick?” she asked, stepping closer.
“My head is paining, and my body is weak,” Matou replied, her voice low and weary.
Borogie’s eyes widened in alarm. She leapt from her seat and rushed to her daughter, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. “Ah! You’re burning up!”
Mrs Owens’ smile dimmed. “Matou, are you unwell?”
“Yes, Aunty,” Matou said demurely, almost mechanically.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why wait for your mother to come before saying anything?”
“I don’t know,” Matou whispered, eyes fixed on the floor.
Mrs Owens left the room, returning shortly with a packet of paracetamol and a glass of water. “Take this. It will help with the fever and headache.”
Matou obeyed.
For the next hour, Borogie and Mrs Owens sat together, speaking about the garden, the weather, the market bazaar — everything and nothing. Borogie nodded politely, making soft comments, but her eyes followed Matou and Nata as they disappeared around the back.
Behind the house, Matou showed Nata the compound — the concrete backyard, the cracked wall she was supposed to paint, the rags she used for cleaning windows, the water tank she fetched from, and the line of shoes she scrubbed each week.
“You do all this? Every day?” Nata asked, shocked.
Matou nodded, lips pursed.
“But why don’t you say something?”
Matou paused. “What good would it do?” she asked, eyes empty. “They won’t listen.”
They sat on a low bench under the avocado tree. For a moment, Matou allowed herself to believe that maybe things could change. Her mother was here. Her sister was beside her. The smells, the sounds of home — they were close again. She wanted to lock that moment in her heart, to make it last.
But somewhere deep inside her, she knew. This visit was a passing cloud. The sky would return to its colorless grey soon enough.
Her mother was watching her from the veranda, hands folded in her lap. And though she smiled faintly when Matou looked up, it did not reach her eyes.
Later, when Mrs Owens retired inside to prepare lunch, Matou returned to sit by her mother’s feet.
“Ma, please,” she whispered. “I want to come home.”
Borogie hesitated.
She ran her fingers slowly through Matou’s hair, now brittle and dry from over-washing. Her lips trembled as she tried to find the words — words that wouldn’t hurt, yet none came.
“Matou,” she finally said in Fula, her voice thick with emotion, “you think I don’t want that too? To carry you in my arms and take you home today? But you must understand — this life, it’s not fair. We do what we can to survive. And sometimes, survival means sacrifice.”
Matou’s tears flowed freely now, silent and heavy.
“I see you’re hurting,” Borogie continued, wiping her own eyes quickly. “And I swear, if I thought they would harm you, I would not have left you here. But this is not forever. One day, this will end, and you will come out stronger. You are already strong, my daughter.”
Matou buried her face in Borogie’s lap. She did not speak. She didn’t trust her voice not to break apart.
Borogie sat still, rocking her gently, humming the lullaby she used to sing when Matou was a baby. The song about rivers that never stop flowing, about trees that bend but do not break. She knew Matou remembered it. The rhythm soothed them both, even as their hearts broke in tandem.
When it was time to leave, Borogie stood, straightened her wrapper, and kissed Matou’s forehead.
“Be strong, Matou,” she said again. “This world is not always kind. But you are not forgotten.”
Matou nodded.
Nata hugged her tightly, whispering, “I’ll tell Bubel you said hi. He misses you.”
“I miss him too,” Matou said. “And Khadjel. And Nenneh Dado. And Papa. Everyone!”
She followed them to the gate, holding onto her mother’s hand like she used to when crossing the busy market road. When they finally let go, she felt the ache settle in her chest like a stone.
She watched until the corner swallowed them whole, then turned back, her eyes welling up tears.
The avocado tree looked lonelier than before. The bench was empty. Her chores, unkind and patient, waited for her.
The silence welcomed her like an old friend. And as she picked up the broom, her small hands trembling, she whispered to herself:
“This is not forever. I will endure.”
And somehow, somehow, she would…
