Yerro was not a happy man.
He had listened carefully to all the different narratives from the women, including his daughter Nata, but nothing really made any sense to him. The stories were fragmented, as if everyone was holding something back, unsure of how much to reveal. He had sat quietly, absorbing the words, trying to piece together a truth that felt elusive. He had never been one to jump to conclusions, but today, his mind was filled with doubt.
Nenneh Dado looked bad. Her face was swollen, bruised, and the redness of the swelling spoke volumes—this was no mere slap or careless accident. It was something far more severe. Her lips were cracked, and her eye was barely visible, hidden under the puffiness. Yerro knew that the marks on her face couldn’t just be dismissed. Without a police report or any explanation beyond the hushed whispers that filled the house, there was no way to justify what had happened.
But she needed medical attention urgently. Nenneh Dado did. Yet there was no way to explain the injury in a way that wouldn’t cast doubt on the truth. It was late in the morning, and there were no immediate options for seeking outside help. The entire night had been especially hard for Nenneh Dado. Yerro had heard her moaning from the pain, the sound cutting through the darkness and piercing his thoughts. It was an agonising sound, one that left him unsettled.
But even as he processed the situation, Yerro felt a growing confusion. He knew one thing for sure: Borogie was not the instigator here. The fierce, protective energy he had witnessed in her over the years had never led to violence. Borogie had always been the calm one, the steady presence in their chaotic lives. Yet now, Yerro’s mind was clouded by the uncertainty of what had transpired the night before. What had caused the eruption? What had happened to drive Borogie to such extremes?
He had been gone to the fields when it all unfolded, but he knew that his absence had not been the cause of this disaster. One set of events happened, which led to another, and another, which eventually led to the fight.
In fact, Nata’s involvement in the fight with her mother spoke volumes. The way she avoided his eyes when she explained the events that took place, the way she stumbled over her words when he sought clarification, made him uneasy. He had raised Nata to be strong, but there was something in her demeanor that troubled him.
The whole situation was absurd. How could things have escalated to this? How had Borogie—a woman who never raised a hand in anger—been dragged into a fight that was clearly born from resentment, not self-defense? Yerro’s thoughts whirled as he recalled the words he had heard earlier, the tension that had thickened the air in their home. The insults, the accusations—those were nothing new. But the violence? That was new. It was as though something had snapped in his wife.
His mind drifted to the interactions he had seen in the days leading up to this incident. Nenneh Dado and Maama Debo had always been hostile toward Borogie, but he never thought it would come to physical confrontation. The house had been filled with unspoken animosity for months now, the bitterness simmering beneath the surface. He knew that Borogie had been bearing the weight of that for far too long. But to lash out, to strike in such a way—was that even possible?
His heart clenched as he thought about the years he had spent beside Borogie. He had seen the way she cared for their children, the way she worked tirelessly to keep the house running, the way she had always put the needs of others before her own. Yerro had never known her to be anything other than patient, kind, and strong. She was a rock—a woman who held everything together without ever asking for help.
But now, standing in the middle of the chaos, he had to face the possibility that his wife might be caught in a situation where her strength had been turned against her, where her patience had been tested beyond measure. Yerro wasn’t sure what had happened or why it had happened, but one thing was clear: Nenneh Dado’s injury couldn’t just be blamed on Borogie alone.
The truth was harder to face than he anticipated. Yerro had always prided himself on being the just one, the one who could see both sides. But today, his usual calm demeanor faltered. His heart felt heavy with the knowledge that his family—his home—had reached a breaking point.
Looking at Nenneh Dado’s battered face, Yerro knew that the next steps would be crucial. He needed to understand what had happened, and he needed to find a way to heal the rift before it tore their family apart. Yet, despite all the uncertainty, one thing remained certain: he would not let the truth be buried. Whatever had happened, it needed to come to light. The weight of the situation was too great to ignore.
So he called on Nata, who should not have fought with her stepmother of her grand uncle’s wife no matter what. He would make of her a scapegoat for which he hope unity and respect would return to the family.
Stepping out of the bedroom he had shared the night before with Nenneh Dado, Yerro called out for Nata, who was sweeping the compound of the dry leaves that fell relentlessly from the trees. It was a task that seemed endless, the leaves scattered across the ground like a blanket, waiting to be gathered once more. The house had to be swept morning and evening, thanks to the trees that lined the compound. But today, there was an edge in Yerro’s voice—a sharpness that cut through the stillness of the early morning.
Nata, who had always been quick to respond to her father’s call, felt her stomach tighten at the sound of his voice. She knew, with a sinking feeling, that Yerro was not a happy man. His tone was enough to make her heart race. As she hurried to approach him, she saw the whip in his hand, the long, leather tendril swinging loosely from his grip.
Her fear spiked in an instant. The sight of the whip, the coldness in her father’s eyes—it all made her blood run cold. She had never been on the receiving end of such anger before, but today, everything felt different. There was a storm brewing, and she was the one standing in its path.
“You will give me every detail of the altercation yesterday without lying!” Yerro barked at her, his voice booming in the morning air. “And I will teach you not to fight your elders ever again!”
The words cut through Nata like a blade. She tried to find her voice, but it was trapped, frozen by the fear swelling inside her. She knew that her mother was away, that no one was around to help her, and for the first time, she felt utterly alone. She opened her mouth to explain, to plead for mercy, but before she could form any words, Yerro’s hand came down on her with a sharp crack. The sting of the whip sliced through the air and found its mark on her back as she turned to run.
She cried out in shock and pain, but the lashings kept coming, one after another. Each strike sent waves of fire through her skin, each one more excruciating than the last. The whip was relentless, and with each strike, Nata’s resolve crumbled further. She had always known her father to be strict, but never had she imagined him to be cruel. This wasn’t punishment—it was something far darker, something that terrified her.
Frozen in place, Nata’s breath came in ragged gasps. She wanted to scream, wanted to fight back, but the sheer power of her father’s anger kept her still, paralyzed with fear. The sound of the whip snapping through the air was deafening, echoing in her ears, but it was nothing compared to the pounding of her heart.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a sharp bark from her granduncle cut through the chaos. Yerro’s hand froze in midair, and he turned, startled by the interruption. Nata, already crumpled on the ground, gasped for air, her body shaking with the aftershocks of the assault. She could barely see through the blurriness of her vision as she felt the ground beneath her, her mind spinning from the pain and the fear.
Her granduncle was standing there now, his face stern, his voice commanding. “Enough, Yerro!” he shouted, his tone brooking no argument. “Stop this at once.”
Yerro, as though waking from a trance, stared down at his daughter’s broken form. It was only then, as he looked at Nata—mangled and lying on the ground—that the reality of his actions hit him like a freight train. The whip had come down too many times. His daughter, his flesh and blood, was lying at his feet, bloodied and broken, her body trembling in pain.
Yerro stood motionless for a moment, his mind a blur of conflicting thoughts. He had been consumed by his anger, by the need to punish, to control—but now, looking at Nata’s battered body, he realized the full weight of what he had done. The fire he had stoked had burned everything around him, including his own daughter. And in his heart, a deep, aching regret began to settle in.
As Nata lay there, unable to move, her granduncle reached down and gently gathered her in his arms, cradling her broken body against him. Nata’s body went limp in his embrace, and for a moment, he feared she might be gone. The pain, the trauma, it was all too much for her to bear.
To be contd.
