A pesky fly buzzed around Nata’s face, its insistent hum blending with the oppressive afternoon heat. She swatted at it lazily, her hand cutting through the air, missing the target more times than she cared to count. The fly, much like the frustrations that weighed on her shoulders, refused to be shaken off. After one more attempt, she gave up and let it be.
Her mind was still reeling from her stepmother’s latest jab, her words slicing through the air with the sharpness of a knife. Neneh Dado had called her name, as she often did, with a coldness that made Nata’s chest tighten. She hadn’t responded quickly enough for her stepmother’s liking.
“With blackness like charcoal, why are you swaggering when I call?” Neneh Dado sneered.
Nata had frozen at the comment, her breath caught in her throat. She knew better than to answer. It wasn’t a question that required one. Her stepmother’s words were meant to wound, to sting like the fly she couldn’t escape. So, she remained quiet and obedient, her hands moving swiftly as she pounded the condiments in the mortar, just as she had been told. Her fingers gripped the pestle tighter with every thud, her thoughts swirling, but she forced her lips to stay closed. When she finished, she silently washed the dirty kitchen utensils and walked out of the hot kitchen, leaving Neneh Dado behind, still stirring the afternoon meal. It was her stepmother’s turn to cook for the family.
Deep down, Nata knew those words weren’t just meant for her. They were aimed at her mother, Borogie, too. Every insult was a jab not just at Nata’s skin but at the woman who had given birth to her. Borogie had heard it all, just like she always did. But, like always, she said nothing. She remained quiet, nursing the baby Buba, as if the words had no power over her. As if they couldn’t break through her stoic silence. Borogie had cautioned Nata so many times before: Don’t talk back to your stepmother. It’s an abomination. It can destroy your life. Her mother’s voice, calm yet firm, replayed in Nata’s mind as she stepped into the open air, away from the oppressive atmosphere of the kitchen.
Nata’s hands trembled slightly as she wiped them on her tiny wrapper, trying to shake off the weight of her stepmother’s cruelty. It wasn’t the first time she had been called “charcoal” or made to feel lesser because of her dark skin. Her mind wandered as it often did when she felt trapped, adrift in a world that seemed to value the lightness of one’s skin more than the depth of one’s character. Even in her own family, the lines of colorism ran deep, dividing them in ways she didn’t fully understand but felt keenly.
She, Nata, was the darkest of all her siblings—a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by anyone. Least of all herself. Her skin, a rich, deep brown that mirrored her mother Borogie’s, stood out starkly in the household. She knew it made her different, even in the eyes of her own blood. Her stepmother Neneh Dado, with her lighter complexion, never failed to remind her of that difference. The contrast was especially sharp with Nata’s younger siblings—Matou, Khadja Bobo, and little Buba—who all carried the fairness of their father’s side of the family.
Nata often felt like a shadow, out of place in her own home. The odd one out in an intricate family puzzle where everyone else seemed to fit perfectly. Her mother, Borogie, had inherited her own deep skin tone from Samba Mawdo, a man whose presence had once commanded respect and admiration in their village of Fulladu. Borogie had the same dark skin, the same regal air, but Borogie’s mother had been different—caramel-skinned, what people in the village called “fatumah kineh’jor.” It was the kind of skin tone that drew eyes and admiration. Nata’s younger sister, Matou, had inherited that light complexion, and people often paused to comment on her beauty. They marveled at the fairness of her skin, how smooth and golden it was, while Nata faded into the background, barely noticed. She was the quiet, dark-skinned daughter, always lingering at the edges of conversations, never the one who drew admiration or praise.
It was her younger siblings, Khadja Bobo and little Buba, who seemed to truly shine in the family. With their light skin and delicate features, they could easily pass for children from their father Yerro’s side of the family. People always commented on their fairness, marveling at how beautiful they were. It stung Nata more than she could say. Each compliment felt like a reminder of the unspoken hierarchy that ruled their lives. The lighter you were, the more you were adored. The darker, the more invisible you became.
Nata could never quite put the feeling into words, but she carried it with her everywhere. The sting of being overlooked, of being seen as lesser because her skin wasn’t light enough, beautiful enough, to command attention. She had learned to keep her head down, to move through the world quietly, without drawing attention. But every now and then, the bitterness crept up inside her, making her wonder why the world—and even her own family—seemed to place so much value on something as fleeting as skin tone. If only she was her own maker. She would be the most beautiful person in the world! How about that?
Nata couldn’t help but glance at her siblings, noticing how people fawned over them with admiration for their light skin and delicate features. She often wondered why her own dark skin, the one she had inherited from Borogie and her grandfather Samba Mawdo, was seen as something to be scorned rather than celebrated. In Fulladu, Samba Mawdo had been the chief of the village for many years, and she had been called Debo Jarrga, as the first granddaughter of the chief. There, she felt important. The people of Fulladu treated her with respect and affection, recognizing her lineage and the legacy of her grandfather. Even after Samba Mawdo was no longer chief, Nata remained a cherished figure in the village, regarded with fondness and admiration.
But Jeshwang was different. Here, she felt unimportant, overshadowed, and often left out. The quiet dignity she had once carried in Fulladu seemed to disappear in the dusty streets of Jeshwang, where the lines of colorism were more visible than ever. It was a quiet pain she carried, one she never spoke of aloud—not even to her mother. But it was always there, a constant weight lingering just beneath the surface, reminding her of how the world seemed to change depending on the shade of her skin.
With a deep sigh, Nata shook off the thoughts, her eyes narrowing as the pesky fly returned, buzzing around her once more. This time, she didn’t bother to swat it away. Some battles, she had learned, were simply not worth fighting.
The sound of footsteps interrupted her thoughts. A tall, very light-skinned man in a flowing robe walked into the compound. He moved with the kind of quiet confidence that made everyone stop what they were doing to pay attention.
“Asalamu alaikum,” he greeted in a low, booming voice.
“Wa alaikum salam, Caw,” came the reply from her father, Yerro, who had been sitting quietly on a mat in the shade. Nata’s ears perked up. She knew that voice—it was her granduncle, Ousman Bah.
Her father stood up to greet him properly, and Nata watched them, her eyes darting between the two men. They were almost identical in complexion, though Yerro’s skin had darkened with the hardship and sunburn he’d endured during their years in Fulladu. Since moving to Kombo, away from the harsh sun and daily toil, her father’s skin had begun to lighten again, revealing the same shade that Ousman Bah carried with such pride.
“Kor’hdor jay, Kor’hdor jay,” Maama Ousman called out with joy, recognizing his nephew’s family from across the compound. His face broke into a wide smile as Nata’s siblings ran to him, eager for the embrace of their granduncle. They clung to his legs, their little faces lighting up with joy.
Twelve year old, Nata, who had once mistaken him for a Berber because of his light skin and imposing stature, hesitated for a moment before joining them. She had always admired her granduncle’s elegance. There was something almost god-like about him, the way he commanded attention without even trying. He treated them kindly, his light skin and regal demeanor setting him apart from everyone else in Nata’s young eyes.
But that admiration had begun to fade in recent weeks. Ever since Neneh Dado, her stepmother, had declared that the family’s evening meals would be divided—one pot for her family and another for Borogie’s—Nata had started to see her granduncle differently. He hadn’t said anything about the division, hadn’t intervened when it became clear that the new arrangement was making her mother’s life even harder than it already was. And now, Nata couldn’t help but wonder if it was because they all shared that light-skinned bond—Maama Ousman, Neneh Dado, and her own father, Yerro.
Did they hold an unspoken alliance, one that prioritized the fairer-skinned members of the family? Was that why they could look at Borogie’s suffering and remain silent? The thoughts swirled in Nata’s mind, making her distrustful of her granduncle’s silence.
To be contd.
