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Aisha flittered through the night, fighting the urge to fly into the flickering torches illuminating the streets of Marai. She cursed Bagule in every language she knew but it still wasn’t enough. Her shape shifting powers had been returned, but not at full strength. She had to resort to lesser means to find Amber which hampered her search. Instead of soaring over the city as an owl or lurking the street as a cat, she was a moth. She struggled to the city streets, careful to not land where she would be smashed or crushed then transformed to her human form.
She was exhausted and it was too late to search for the girl now. Everyone would be secure in their compounds for the night. Aisha was certain Amber was in the city, but after some thought it made sense that she would not be with her great grandfather. She didn’t know the way on her own. But then, where was she? Lost, most likely. Aisha spent the day searching alleyways, compounds and less savory areas of the city with no results. Someone had probably taken her in, but whom?
Aisha’s stomach growled and she frowned. First things first, she thought. She took to the alleys, working her way to Central Market. There was always some merchant working late in preparation for the next day, and that merchant usually possessed something to eat. As she entered the craftsmen district she saw light leaking from one of the stone houses. Aisha knelt, grabbing a handful of dirt then rubbing it on her face. She tossed it generously about her clothes then took a pinch of goat dung to add a little aroma to her disguise. Her confident stride became a stumbling walk. She entered the shop noisily, falling to the floor then looking up at the weathered old man sitting before a loom with feigned shock.
“I’m so sorry uncle,” she apologized. “I’m so sorry!”
The elderly man stood then squinted at her. He wore a fine pair of pants, a purple loose shirt and a cowrie studded cap on his bald head. A wealthy man despite his humble shop, she surmised. His children probably counted the days waiting for their inheritance.
“No beggars,” the man said softly.
“I’m no beggar,” Aisha said. “I’m only hungry for this night. All I ask is a bowl of sorghum and I’ll be on my way.”
“If I feed you tonight you’ll be back tomorrow,” the old man said.
“I won’t,” Aisha said. “I promise.”
The old man shuffled away then returned with a bowl of cold sorghum. Aisha took the bowl, sat on the man’s floor then began to eat.
“I thought you said you would go away,” the man fussed.
“I’m going to want another bowl,” Aisha said.
“You’ll have to work for it,” the man replied.
Aisha contemplated strangling the man to unconsciousness. She looked at his stern face then decided to play along.
“What do you wish me to do?” she asked.
“I have an order for ten rugs to deliver in the morning,” he said.
Aisha sat the bowl down. “You want me to deliver the rugs?”
“No. I wouldn’t trust you with that. You’ll help me make them.”
An emotion overtook Aisha, one she hadn’t felt in a long time. Her eyes glistened as an old memory emerged from deep inside.
“I will help you,” she whispered. She walked over to the loom then sat before it.
“You can weave?” the old man asked.
Aisha nodded. She ran her hand over the warp as memories of her father sitting before his loom captured her thoughts. He was a weaver, the best in Ghana, his carpets and clothing prized from the Joliba River to the Sahara.
“I will weave,” she said. “You change the yarn in the shuttle as needed.”
She began, quickly falling into a rhythm, the opening of the warp, passing the shuttle across with practiced speed.
“Slow down!” the old man puffed as he filled the shuttles with yarn.
“You want to be done by morning, don’t you?
The old man nodded.
“Then keep up. I want more sorghum before then.”