That was when Bimbo understood. Her daughter was light, even if the world called her a shadow.
Time passed like the Harmattan winds—dry, persistent, sometimes nostalgic.
Sod, now nearly 22, had grown into a discreet woman with gentle movements and an attentive gaze. She still bore the unusual features from childhood: skin marked with indecipherable patterns, asymmetrical eyes that sometimes gleamed like amber and sometimes darkened like the river itself. She was an adult, yes, but the questions inside her had only grown.
Why did her father still treat her with such silence? Why did some of the elders whisper when she walked by? And why did the river always seem to call her, as if it had known her name before she was even born?
One night, when the moon was full and orange like a ripe tamarind, Sod had a strange dream. She was standing on the riverbank, but she was not alone. Two girls identical to her—blotchy skin, sparse hair, intense eyes—were standing in the water up to their waists. They smiled, but it was a sad smile.
One of them reached out a hand and whispered, “Come, Sod. You are one of us.”
Sod tried to scream, but her mouth would not open. The wind whispered through the leaves, “Daughter of water, daughter of regret.”
She woke with her face wet, not from sweat, but from tears.
Bimbo came running from the other room.
“Sod. What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
“I don’t know, Mama. I dreamed of the river. There were two girls. They called me.”
Bimbo’s face went pale. Her bones froze, as if the river had flowed into her soul.
“It was just a dream, my daughter. The river keeps secrets. But you are safe here with me.”
But she was not safe. Not at peace in the village.
Sean had become the pride of the people. He married Ireetti, a kind and lovely young woman. The ceremony was beautiful, simple, but moving. Sod danced, smiled, applauded.
On the outside, everything seemed normal.
But inside, something had begun to gnaw slowly at her heart: loneliness.
The young men of the village still looked at her with fear or with repulsion disguised as politeness. Some tried to be kind, but they never came close.
Sod pretended not to notice. She had learned to laugh in silence, to joke about herself, to turn pain into drawings and poems.
Still, the neighbor women would ask Bimbo, “Has no one come for that daughter of yours?”
“She is a good girl. But you know, those eyes…”
Bimbo would smile faintly, but inside her guilt was a deep well she pretended had been sealed. What she did not know was that the well was still full, and every one of Sod’s tears was another drop that made it overflow.
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