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Horror held her. Pure, raw horror.

Ama’s wide eyes took in the scene that held her transfixed, feet slightly apart, eyes glazed with fear and yet awe. Her mother was thrashing on the ground, screaming deliriously, and shaking. Ama whispered, softly, to the younger sister perched on her hip, “The spirits”. Who were these mysterious beings, Ama did not fully know. But she had lived long enough in the rainforest to know that they were the cause and reason for countless horrible things. Her mother’s sickness was one of them. Now, the soiled woman was stretched out unconscious. Ama timidly but nonetheless gently pulled her back onto the thin mat.

“Kamapeenoma!” She whirled around, terror once again surging to her eyes, clutching her hands to her breast, cringing at the cruel use of her full name. How she hated that name which meant ‘this thing I refuse’! There stood Ama’s father, towering above his little ten-year-old. “You! I am leaving for ndoki to remove the spell our neighbour’s have placed on that woman. You must work hard. Very hard! We will need many pigs to pay for the removal of the spell.”

Ama’s heart fell. She knew her father had suspected their neighbours, but now he knew – somehow – that it was surely them. She could no longer play with her little friend. Not that there would be time for that anyways, she thought. Ama knew what ‘hard work’ meant. And she knew that her father was not going to ndoki out of love for her mother. No – her mother was a good worker, and deaths cost a lot both in damaged reputation (people would wonder if her father hadn’t killed his wife) and in money for all the guests. Better be on the good side of the spirits anyways.

And so the daily dirge of Ama’s life became even drearier. Her little mouth was fixed into a sad little frown. The only joy of her life was Jaja, her younger sister. Ama’s parents had ignored the latest addition to the large family, so Ama took the baby, named her, loved her, and cared for as she yearned to be cared for. Ama spared nothing to make Jaja happy, and the little fat toddler had a fascination for colour. She would point out butterflies to Ama with her fat little hand, clapping and crooning until Ama laughed out right.

~

With a swish, the thick, crudely carved stick scraped through the thick fufu Ama was cooking. The wooden logs mercilessly poured out smoke until Ama’s eyes were blurred with tears. Glancing up, she spotted Jaja merrily playing in a mud puddle. Just then, the thick curtain of smoke shifted and Ama gasped. A little distance from the cooking fire, a tall cloaked man stood. He was staring at Jaja. Ama was frozen, a cry caught in her throat. At the small gurgling noise, the man, without even looking around, strode quickly and quietly away, leaving Ama to sickening dread.

~

Two days later

Ama’s long, bitter scream rent the air. She opened her mouth for another, when her father slapped her in the face. Ama reeled backwards, blood rushing to her, tingling cheeks. “I hate you!” she screamed again, “I hate you! I hate the spirits! I hate my mother! I hate everybody!” Whack. Once again, her father slapped her; harder, this time. “No!” Ama fled, panting, gasping for air, ignoring her stinging face. She flung herself down under an old palm tree, and began to sob. The tears would not stop coming and she struggled to breathe. Jaja, her butterfly, her darling, was gone. Gone! Ndoki had asked for a spirit, and Ama’s father did not refuse. The coward! Yet, what was Jaja to him? It was tradition. It was culture. Jaja’s name had been given, and she was gone. Gone! Ama thought of her crumpled, cold body and another scream was wrenched from her body. No, no, no! Ama’s sobs quieted, but she was not comforted. Her sorrow was hardening, changing form, and gripping her. She was filled with a new feeling, a new driving force, a new experience. Hate.