‘ARE YOU ALL right?’
We’re in Grandma Baby’s boudoir. The doors locked, the windows shuttered. Outside a squall hurls leaves in the air, dashing them against the house. The cotton tree is singing its song: that high-pitched refrain of splintering wood and fading petals. ‘Weee,’ the tree hums. ‘Weee.’ Over and over as the moist scent of river licks my nostrils.
‘What’s the matter with you, child? What’s she done?’
I try to explain, but as soon as I open my mouth to describe the night before, no sound emerges. Shivering, determined to talk, I close my eyes.
Once again, I open my mouth. But this time, from the depth of my throat, Ma’s chatter gushes, tangling my tongue, until I’m tweeting helplessly, her little chick.
Tears glide down my cheeks.
Cradling my body, Grandma Baby guides me to her bed. ‘You don’t have to say anything, dear. Don’t talk. She’s tied your tongue to stop you sharing her secrets. Calm down, Sheba. I’ve got you.’
She undresses me, peeling me out of my new kaba cloth. Then, smoothing her fingers over my arms, legs and body, my junior grandmother anoints me with oil.
‘Ginger and lavender to revive and calm your soul,’ she murmurs. ‘And now orange to warm the sweetness in you.’
Her fingers pummel and squeeze, rub and tease. When she’s done, when my breathing is more relaxed, she wraps me in a cover cloth and easing me on to her lap, rocks me back and forth. The motion, soothing as a long-ago lullaby, steadies my pulse.
‘There,’ Grandma Baby says. ‘That’s better. Don’t speak, child. Not yet. Not until we understand Sika’s hold on you. Breathe. Keep breathing.’
A sob jolts my chest. What’s happening to me, Grandma?
I want to tell her that this is worse than anything my friends and I imagined in the scenarios we created in our battle with Queen Sasabonsam. In fact, this is a nightmare; a dream that refuses to release me.
Snuffling a necklace of fear from around my neck, Grandma Baby loosens it by drawing me closer. ‘Fear in small doses can be useful,’ she tells me. ‘It sharpens your wits and whets your courage. Always remember, Sheba, your gift is the breath of your soul. Learn to use it, and I promise, you’ll save yourself.’
She places my hand on her head. Nana braids her hair while Grandma Baby shaves hers, leaving bristles sleek as a seal’s skin on her scalp. I finger them, and as my palm tingles with the throb of her love, she says:
‘Sister told me she was planning to take you to see her old friend, Maanu, today. Sika must have got wind of it somehow. Don’t be afraid, Sheba, we’ve got you. We’ve looked out for you and your sisters from the moment you were born. Nothing is going to stop us now, I promise.’
Feeling as fragile as a snail without a shell, I gulp down tears. Never felt less safe in my life than I do now.
‘Go to sleep, child. You need sleep to gather your wits. Sleep. These old bones of mine are still strong enough to carry your weight. Close your eyes.’
Lulled by the tenderness in Grandma Baby’s voice, my lashes flutter, then fall, as sleep gathers me in her arms.
I wake up alone. Outside, the silent tussle at the breakfast table has turned into cries of: ‘Sika, you promised! You promised!’
I try the door. Still locked. From the outside, this time.
I place an ear against a mahogany panel. Too thick for eavesdropping, it fails to block the tornado of rage rampaging through the house. Red-hot, it flings me away.
I tumble to my knees and a vision of Snake, emerald eyes glittering, flashes before me. I reel as terror jangles my bones. Every bit of me, inside and out, trembles petrified of the Snake and Ma.
And when Nana shrieks: ‘Sika! Sika! How could you?’ as if Ma’s name is a curse she can no longer live with, I taste fire and bile in my mouth.
Run Sheba, run.
I dash to Grandma Baby’s wardrobe. Right at the back is Maybe’s picture of me – his portrait of the girl on fire with the heart of a lion. Though faded now, it still speaks to me, hinting at the person I want to be – courageous, defiant. Me. The very best of me. I touch the girl’s face and her eyes sparkle, reassuring me that if I can only hold my nerve, all will be well. I return the portrait to its hiding place, fish out one of Grandma Baby’s nightdresses and pull it on as I turn to the windows. Flinging them open, I lever myself on to the ledge outside.
Just below is the tree I climb to pluck mangoes for Aunt Clara’s relish. Never climbed it from top to bottom before. Never leaped from a window into its arms.
I am a girl who walks with lions, I mutter to myself. A huntress. With the help of Nana Gyata su and all that’s good and true in me, I shall use my arms and legs to swing and jump.
I can do it. I have to, because the best kind of magic, Nana always tells me, is belief in myself and my ancestors.
I repeat my mantra. After saying it a third time, with my hand clasping the ledge, I extend a leg to the nearest branch.
It groans. Twigs splinter. I test it again.
Won’t hold longer than a second; two, at the most. Desperation gnawing at my gut, I edge towards the tree, head, soul and heart crying loud and clear: better fall and end up limping than stay here a moment longer.
Stay, and sure as the sweat on my palms, my elders will crack Ma’s spell and interrogate me. Then, they’ll force me to take sides in a battle I can’t yet win.
I seize the moment and lunge at the tree.
Branch snaps. Arms wrapped around the trunk, I cling on, my foot probing foliage beneath.
Soon as I find a limb sturdy enough to support me, I twist and turn, and within minutes I’m perching on it. Then, looping an arm around it, I clamber down, until I’m close enough to the ground to jump.