Chapter 9: In the Healer’s Hut

When I wake, I find myself inside hut wey dey smell like agbo medicine.

The air heavy with herbs, smoke dey rise for small calabash. I cough, chest dey pain me. For corner, I see raffia mat, medicine bottle, old stool. The kind place wey people dey come for healing, or for last prayer.

One old man with white hair and beard dey treat the wound of one man wey wear shining agbada with silver embroidery.

The man tall, chest broad, even as he dey bend, I fit see say power dey for his hand. The embroidery fine, silver thread dey shine small for firelight. Old man steady, his hand never shake as he dey tie wound. Old man mutter, "Allah ya ba da lafiya" as he clean wound.

I look the man face, e too familiar. Before I know, I call out by mistake.

His cheekbone high, nose sharp, mouth set like person wey never smile for years. My heart rush—something for his face remind me of home, of mama story.

“Mama...”

The word escape, soft, almost like whisper. I dey hope say somehow, na her, or say she dey near. My eyes dey search, red, tears dey fight to come out.

I know say e no be her, but my eyes red as I dey look am.

The pain for my eyes no fit hide, even as I try pretend. I dey remember mama face, the way sorrow dey cloud her own features. The ache for my chest dey squeeze small small.

The man look me with cold eyes and frown.

His eyes hard, like stone for village path. E clear say kindness no dey for his own world. The kind of gaze wey dey make pikin silent.

“You dey blind?”

The question sharp, voice no soft. I dey shake small, but I gree look am, no wan make am think say I be coward. For my mind, I dey wonder why grown people dey always ask question wey fit wound small pikin heart.

Him injury dey waist, and as him remove half agbada, I see say na man, not woman.