THIS RICH WOMAN HIRES A MAID WITHOUT KNOWING THAT IT IS HER OWN DAUGHTER
Before Awa could answer, Madame Kan entered the room, elegant in her midnight-blue tunic. “Oh Yandé, you’re early.” “I always do that when I feel the day will be long,” the woman replied with a smile. She briefly laid a hand on Kanny’s arm, then added, “By the way, I just spoke to your new girl. She is unusual.”
“She’s a village girl, discreet, clean. That is all that matters to me.” But Yandé remained silent for a moment, her gaze lost in Kan’s earrings. You know that the things we bury always end up growing back somewhere else, don’t you? Don’t start again, Yandé, sighed Madame Kan.
What is done is done. You judged me enough twenty years ago. I am not judging. I am observing that the air has changed in your house, and I am simply telling you to be careful. Awa heard all this from the other room without understanding. She did not yet know that the murmurs between those two women were speaking, without saying it, of a past she carried in her veins.
The following evening, she decided to write a letter to Maman Sira. It was not really a letter to send. There was no address, but rather a way of putting words down. Mother, I have the impression that I have arrived at the place you never wanted to name to me.
You raised me with kindness, but you never wanted to tell me where I really came from. Here, things are beautiful, but everything feels locked up. I feel as though I am walking on fragile ground, as if each step could bring something buried back to the surface. There is this woman. She is strong, impressive, but there is something in her.
Something I feel without knowing what it is. Have you ever seen her face too? Is there something you wanted to hide from me to protect me? She folded the letter and slipped it into her bag between her notebook and the handkerchief containing the necklace. The next day, she decided to go alone to the market at Maman Abé’s request.
A simple task: buy fish, onions, and fresh spices. But that day, she got lost. Not in the streets, no. In the memories that rose up at the turn of a stall. An old woman was selling fabrics. As she passed by, Awa saw a worn red wrapper with cowrie-shell patterns that struck her like a slap.
She stopped without understanding why her heart was beating so hard. “Do you want to buy it?” the old woman asked. “No, well, I feel like I’ve seen this cloth before.” “It is an old pattern. It was often worn by the river, back in the days when midwives tied it around babies.” Babies? Yes, to protect them. It was a birth cloth.
You know, my daughter, some cloths remember more than people do. Awa bought a small piece. She did not know why. She folded it, ran it through her hand, and returned home with a strange feeling, as if she had drawn closer to something. That evening, while she was putting away the groceries in the kitchen, Maman Abé entered without a sound.
