*
Dora, a girl of about fourteen was crying bitterly. Her eyes were puffy from crying. Her hair, half braided and half loose, spiraled up like antlers. Next to her was her mother, a taciturn woman who was hardly seen in the company of other woman. Her wrapper sagged like they would drop and bare what lay concealed. She clutched them and occasionally re-knotted the loose ends. She and her daughter were flanked on both sides by neighbors talking simultaneously.
Excluding two shirtless kids that ran alongside with their old bicycle wheels, the flankers were Ma Peter the fishmonger whose famous white apron, tight around her wide waist, was somewhere between brown and black with two wide pockets that housed her cash; Lola the spinster with three daughters; and Sisi whose clean shaven head constantly brewed controversy until it was unanimously agreed that she was in perpetual mourning.
Ma Dora’s voice was loud and clear in spite of the raucous neighbors. It was not her words that came out clear, but the sounds that conveyed those words. It resonated like the ululation of a partying crowd. A few words dropped in-between, but whole sentences were flattened into single notes. She spoke to no one exactly, but rather pointed at an arbitrary spot in front of her, where she led the group. It seemed it was Dora, her daughter, that was being led somewhere, towards us and further to the other end of the blocks.
The little girl wiped her eyes with the overflow of her red dress that was torn along the waistline. It swayed as she trudged in the meek but dying evening sun. The sashes dangled, almost hopeless and defeated. Her feet, bare and covered in dust, marched slowly down the dirt road.
Ma Dora was visibly distressed. Her head tie perched at the tip of her disheveled hair like weaverbirds on a branch frightened by the clap of sudden thunder. The sleeves of her faded ankara blouse fell between her shoulder and her elbow, as defeated as her daughter’s sashes, revealing the twisted straps of her purple brassiere.
Sisi’s hairless scalp glittered in that dying but present sun as she excitedly, almost furiously, ran her own commentary on the go. “We will show him…†I heard her say as they passed. I wondered whom were they referring to.
As they marched on angrily, crossing the blocks, curious children joined them. I followed them with my eyes and watched as their numbers soared. More women joined, bubbling along with the moving tableau. Sisi did the storytelling, giving the newcomers a background to the unfolding script. The farther they went, the more Sisi’s scalp shimmered, as if in dazzling consonance with her wild and almost violent gesticulations.
As an individual, Sisi was a force to note and a personality to treat with utmost care. The visible sprinkle of hair on her chest, almost at the funnel of her cleavage; the loose dots of mustache between her neck and chin; and her stampede-ready calves gave her an intimidating look and a menacing signature that earned her an equally menacing title: the kegged gunpowder. She lived up to her name, and did explode from time to time. But her explosions were usually not of her own making; neither was she a spontaneous attacker. She was a self-made public defender. I have seen her punch a man to pulp for stealing a widow’s saving’s box. Now she was matching like the battle was hers. But I knew it was not. The two key players were easy to identify; their most loyal supporter, whose presence could mean victory, was also easy to identify.
The march continued. I followed them with my eyes. Then looked down for a bit. Je veux m’evader was still there, engraved in sand. What does it mean? It looked back at me in my own handwriting, jagged and porous like sand. Pa Suku looked on to where the march headed. I wiped Je veux m’evader with my left feet. Le Milieu returned. It was now familiar – I know this one. It was now as familiar as my immediate environment: the vivacity, the spontaneity, the chaos, the smell that was no longer noticed. Le Milieu.
*
I looked up and saw their backs. I wondered if there was a correlation between anger and the vibration of the buttocks, for these women seem to convulse in the rear as they matched towards the enemy camp. Not only in this instance has this been evident, but on several occasions. Whenever Sisi warred against an oppressor, which was as frequent as the nightly roar of crickets in the swamps, her whole body would shiver like that of dancers possessed by the goddess of dance. She would point at the enemy, the full length of her arm quivering. Still pointing, she would move from side to side, the shuffle of a boxer prancing before an opponent. Then she would bounce back and forth before planting her feet solidly on the ground. All this time her buttocks would be convulsing independently. I never voiced my observations; children were not supposed to see such things.
Like Sisi, I took sides with Dora and her mother without even knowing what the case was. Ma Dora and her daughter were too meek to milk a cow; and as such were unlikely to be on the offending side. Dora’s tears stabbed me. In her visible anger and swift march Ma Dora’s eyes were wet with the pain. The whole scene was as moving as the march itself.
They were crossing block M and N, and turning right at block O. I left Pa Suku with his Baldwin and Macebuh and dashed in the direction of the action, which was no longer the fierce march of a few fearless women, but a mass movement of curious men, women, boys, and girls, some of who were privy to the unfolding episode. The presence of Sisi added more juice to the plot, and was enough publicity for the cause at hand.
Ibe, the carpenter’s son was waiting at the entrance to block M. Alone, he was sitting on a moss-covered brick that was half buried in sand, almost like a gravestone. Shirtless, he was fanning himself with his shirt. He did not look excited or curious. He seemed to be waiting for someone, or something, confident that whatever or whomever it was would come to him. “They will come back here,” he declared with a certainty that was almost authoritative, as though he was the writer of the unfolding play. “They all will come back here.” He pointed to an arbitrary spot on block M, and continued to fan himself, his back slightly hunched in the likeness of his father whose hunch was from many years of wielding smoothing planes and hefting furniture.
With Ibe’s declaration I backed up to where he was. Perhaps he, as always, knew what was going on. “What is going on, Ibe?” I asked and positioned myself next to him, next to the gravestone. With one hand I collected sand, emptying into the other hand, and back into the collecting hand, and again into the other until it disappeared through the inevitable cracks between my fingers. I clapped away the remnants and waited for Ibe to spill the story.
“It is Jide,” he began, still fanning himself nonchalantly. I noticed that Ibe was beginning to sprout hairs in different places. Around his navel, several fledgling strands congregated sparingly, descending downwards. His armpit was denser, but the strands there were covered in accumulated sweat that wrapped each strand of hair, forming a brownish coating. “Jide put the thing inside Dora,†continued Ibe.
The mass movement had emerged from block O like Ibe had predicted, and were making their way towards us. Sisi was in front. Dora and her mother followed behind. They emptied onto block M, and paused in front of Jide’s door. Sisi planted her feet on the ground. Tied her wrapper. Loosened it a bit. Re-tied it until it was fastened to her taste. She stepped on Jide’s porch, and banged the door as hard as she could. No response. Ibe, still fanning himself, whispered in my ear, “He’s inside.” I believed him.
