It was ridiculous.
There was nothing else that Amaka could say of the missing firewood. Everyone's eyes were on her and a dreadful pit formed in her stomach. Amaka didn't dare to look up and meet Papa's gaze. She knew that he was looking, judging her for being worthless. His eyes were cursing her to death nine times over.
How could his ancestors have given him an abandoned who coveted another's lifeblood?
Okon, the chief priest, squinted his beady eyes in an attempt to squeeze out what value remained of his defective vision, his focus on Mama Peter, who stood aside, arms akimbo, in a pose that was aimed to kill any who came near. She was swearing in her local dialect, letting all know that Amaka had taken her son's firewood, which was why he lay dead. His chi, his personal god, had cried out to her for justice in her dreams. He turned back to Amaka, scrutinizing her carefully before his eyes widened slightly in shock, fingers trembling at his revelation.
She was empty. The bottomless kind, never to be filled.
Amaka looked up from the red mud, and her eyes met those old, knowing ones that were now filled with horror. Any docility she might have expressed while crying denial fled at that moment, and she couldn't even hear the curses around her, focused only on his turbid eyes. Amaka didn't look back to Papa before she stood up and ran, eliciting surprise from the village folk who took chase after a split second. But they didn't know all the places that she did in this village. They didn't know her hideouts away from Papa and his heavy gaze.
Amaka dashed through the short path and made it to the river, where she stripped herself bare and jumped into it, trying to wash every inch of her body. She vigorously dipped into the water as if this would exonerate her from taking the firewood as if this would placate her chi into coming back to her.Â