The butt of his rifle or maybe someone’s fist keeps her from screaming, but it isn’t necessary because she refuses to give them the satisfaction of her screams or her tears. After the boys have all left themselves inside her, they use their knives to carve their desperation in her as if she were a tree where their signatures would be large and indelible. They pour their agony into her, thrust after thrust, driving it back through time to the ancestors that had bequeathed it to them. Lying at the edge of the clearing among the shocked trees, she feels the life draining out of her, feels the earth receiving and recognizing itself, welcoming her back. The broken, blood soaked twigs and the shattered branches dig into her bare flesh. Unable to move, she grows accustomed to the contour of her deathbed. She hears the people of her village calling her name, thinks she can distinguish the voice of her best friend, Beatrice, from among the desperate shouts. She knows that if there had been any dogs left in the village, they surely would have found her by now, but they have been gone for some time, eaten during the last wave of starvation. Even the leaves used to cover the dead have been eaten. Even the grass.
She feels the snakes being called into her, feels them enter her and slide up through her wounds. She feels the rapid, tiny gusts of cool air that precede each flick of the tongue as they lick her blood, reading the story that has been inscribed in her flesh. Each ancient caress carries her away from this place, bearing her like the sacred vessel they know her to be. They are careful not to spill a single drop of the redemption she may be carrying.
This story was given to me by Beatrice, a young woman from Sierra Leone who was the best friend of the girl in this story. When they found her, she was able to tell them what happened, including the way the snakes had entered her. She was taken to hospital and died a short time later. The speculation and the interpretations are mine.
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