Chapter 18

“Auma, Auma, get up, you’ll all be late to school if you don’t wake up right now!”

Mama’s voice interrupted my dreams. What was she doing up before me? Had I slept too late?

I jumped to my feet. This was still my usual way of waking up, no matter how tired I was. “Are you feeling any better, Mama?” I asked, peering through the curtain that hung in the doorway to my mother’s bedroom.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine—now move fast. You don’t have much time left,” Mama urged me. “Wake Baby up right now. And make sure you leave some porridge and water for me when you leave for school.”

I was surprised and confused. I hadn’t been able to go to school for a couple of weeks, and Mama hadn’t woken up this early in a long time. I didn’t argue, though. I knew how quickly things could turn around, so I woke up my sister and brothers, then got dressed.

The sun was peeping on the horizon, making the dry leaves look golden brown. I hurried to complete my early morning chores, cleaning the kitchen from last evening’s cooking, washing the dishes, and starting a fire. I hurried back and forth between the kitchen and the house, making sure everyone was on task.

Juma’s job was to sweep the dirt immediately in front of the house. Clouds of dirt swirled as he vigorously swept, trying to finish quickly.

“Sprinkle water, please,” I reminded him as I always did. It seemed that in his mind dirt was as good to breathe in as clean air was.

“Baby, put on your uniform, and Musa, find your shirt, or you’ll be late.”

I was getting better at taking charge, but today, with Mama acting so much stronger, maybe I wasn’t going to have to do that as much. Maybe I’d been wrong about Mama’s illness. I felt a surge of energy at the prospect. I decided to boil the last bit of cassava for breakfast, just to celebrate. I’d had enough thin porridge to last a lifetime. I inhaled the smell as it began to boil.

Mama mustered enough energy to walk to the kitchen. “What are you doing, Auma?!” she scolded, looking at the cooking pot with surprise.

“Cooking cassava for breakfast,” I answered, dumbfounded.

“Auma, do you even realize how long this cassava will need to boil?” She snatched the spoon from my hand and let out a grunt.

I felt stupid. I had completely forgotten that cassava takes three times as long to boil as millet porridge. I hadn’t cooked the cassava the night before, and there was no way it would be ready in time—if we didn’t want a spanking for getting to school late.

“Juma, please move faster,” I called. I could already feel the backs of my legs stinging, imagining the caning we would get.

We headed to school with empty bellies. I should have just made porridge and saved my ambition for something else, like track or schoolwork. By the time we got to school, the morning assembly was almost over. We’d missed the class lineup, singing the national anthem, and reciting the pledge. The headmaster was finishing the last announcement as we reached the school gate.

Mr. Ouma waited by the gate to punish latecomers. He held his patrol stick, batting and smacking it into his palm while giving students “the eye.”

My heart sank when I saw him smiling. There was no way to avoid a caning. He was probably especially angry with me, for missing the first district track meet the week before: KaPeter Primary had lost.

“Why are you late?” he demanded.

I opened my mouth but no words came out. Besides, excuses would mean nothing to him. Like all the other teachers, he refused to give orphans any special considerations.

Juma, Musa, and Baby hid behind me.

“Sir, we’ll never be late again,” I finally managed, my voice quivering with fear. I closed my eyes, ready for whatever Mr. Ouma was going to do to me, knowing the pain would be brief.

Instead I heard Baby cry out, and I opened my eyes. Mr. Ouma was moving toward her. I stepped closer to her.

“Hey, little girl, what’s your name?” Mr. Ouma said, sounding like a lion purring to its dinner.

“My . . . my name is Baby,” she stuttered, sniffling.

“Oh baby, baby, what is your school name?” He was taunting her, and I could feel my fists tighten into a ball. Whatever he was going to dish out to my brothers and sister, I had to stand by and watch. Here was one situation where I could not take charge.

“My name is Mary,” she said as she wiped at her tears.

“Now listen, Mary, you can never get to school late again. Otherwise you’ll feel this pain again,” he said as he struck her legs with the stick. Caught off guard, Baby screeched like a kitten whose tail had been stepped on.

“Run to class quickly,” her tormenter shouted, laughing. She ran as fast as her little legs could go, crying the entire way.

“Next!” He pointed his stick at Musa.

Musa moved forward. Whack, whack, whack! Then off he ran.

Juma stepped forward next and received three whacks. Now it was my turn.

Mr. Ouma glared at me. “Class Eight students are not supposed to ever come late to school. You should have been here at dawn.”

The principal had given me permission to miss the study hour as long as I still got my work done, but I knew better than to say so to Mr. Ouma. He was obviously determined to punish me no matter what.

Mr. Ouma hit me harder than the others. I bit my lip and kept my eyes open, determined not to be defeated.

I walked to class, calves throbbing, but managing not to limp. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly he’d hurt me.

In class, I struggled to concentrate. My legs throbbed with pain. At lunch, I hid around the corner of the building and smeared wet clay on my bruises, the way Dani had taught me to do when I was little. The clay felt cold for a while, but after some time it baked and crusted on my legs, pinching my skin.

As soon as Mrs. Okumu arrived to teach language, I forced my mind back to class. I realized it had been a long time since I borrowed a book for the weekend. This morning Mrs. Okumu discussed the short story we’d read the day before: “The Fattening Rooms of Calabar.” She asked questions and expected participation from everyone, but found that only a handful of us could remember the story. Abeth had brought me the story, but I hadn’t had time to read it, so I was relieved when Mrs. Okumu told us to reread it right now.

The story was about how the West African girls of Calabar were fattened in order to prepare them for marriage. I liked the idea of the plentiful food. But the problem was that the girls had no choice about when and how much to eat. They were forced to eat all day long. I was glad this wasn’t part of our culture—though some of our traditions made me just as uneasy.

I finished the story well before the silent reading time was up. As I waited on my classmates, I found myself thinking of Mama and her illness. How her unpredictable condition was affecting everything. I was exhausted just trying to keep up. Of course, it wasn’t her fault, but I didn’t see how we could go on like this much longer.