One night, when the moon was full and orange like a ripe tamarind, Sod had a strange dream. She was standing on the riverbank, but she was not alone. Two girls identical to her—blotchy skin, sparse hair, intense eyes—were standing in the water up to their waists. They smiled, but it was a sad smile.
One of them reached out a hand and whispered, “Come, Sod. You are one of us.”
Sod tried to scream, but her mouth would not open. The wind whispered through the leaves, “Daughter of water, daughter of regret.”
She woke with her face wet, not from sweat, but from tears.
Bimbo came running from the other room.
“Sod. What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
“I don’t know, Mama. I dreamed of the river. There were two girls. They called me.”
Bimbo’s face went pale. Her bones froze, as if the river had flowed into her soul.
“It was just a dream, my daughter. The river keeps secrets. But you are safe here with me.”
But she was not safe. Not at peace in the village.
Sean had become the pride of the people. He married Ireetti, a kind and lovely young woman. The ceremony was beautiful, simple, but moving. Sod danced, smiled, applauded.
On the outside, everything seemed normal.
But inside, something had begun to gnaw slowly at her heart: loneliness.
The young men of the village still looked at her with fear or with repulsion disguised as politeness. Some tried to be kind, but they never came close.
Sod pretended not to notice. She had learned to laugh in silence, to joke about herself, to turn pain into drawings and poems.
Still, the neighbor women would ask Bimbo, “Has no one come for that daughter of yours?”
“She is a good girl. But you know, those eyes…”
Bimbo would smile faintly, but inside her guilt was a deep well she pretended had been sealed. What she did not know was that the well was still full, and every one of Sod’s tears was another drop that made it overflow.
On Sundays, mother and daughter would return together from the market. Bimbo insisted on walking with Sod even when Sod said she could go back alone.
“Mama, I’m an adult. You know that.”
“And I’m old. Did you know that?” Bimbo would reply with a playful smile, carrying the cloth basket.
As they walked through the mud houses and narrow alleys, people looked at them with restrained respect. Sod was known for her gentleness. She knew the names of the children, helped the elderly carry water jugs, and even spoke kindly to the village drunkards. But she felt like a badly assembled puzzle, as if she were missing an essential piece of her soul.
One afternoon, Bimbo found Sod sitting by the riverbank again, just as she had since she was a little girl, scribbling in her old notebook, now almost completely filled.
“You know, Mama, sometimes I feel like there’s something in this river that belongs to me.”
Bimbo stopped. The wind swirled a few dry leaves around. The sound of the water seemed louder than usual, almost like a muffled scream.
“What do you mean by that, daughter?”
“I don’t know. But when I’m here, I’m not afraid. I feel nostalgic for something I don’t even remember.”
Bimbo sat beside her, stayed silent for a long moment, and then said, “The past is like the river. Even when it looks calm on the surface, there is always a current underneath. Sometimes it is better not to dive in.”
Sod looked at her mother.
“Are you hiding something from me?”
“No,” she answered too quickly.
Sod did not insist, but her eyes said: I know you are.
The following nights became even more unsettling. The dreams returned. Sometimes the river girls were crying. Sometimes screaming.
One night, Sod woke up screaming her own name.
“Sod!”
Bimbo rushed to her.
“Are you scared?”
“No, Mama. I think… I think she is me. They are all me.”
Bimbo could not take it anymore. The pain in her throat grew like thorns.
The next morning, she went alone to the village church. She sat in the back pew and began to cry.
The pastor approached.
“Sister Bimbo?”
“Pastor, I committed a sin that has been drowning me for over 20 years.”
The pastor did not interrupt.
“I threw my daughters into the river. Not once, but twice, because I thought they were ugly, that they would shame me. And God—God left me alive.”
Even then, the pastor gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
“And even so, He gave you a third chance with Sod. But she is remembering. She dreams of them. The other two. It is as if the river wants to collect.”
“Maybe the river does not collect,” said the pastor softly. “Maybe it only returns.”
Bimbo returned home in silence. She saw Sod sitting on the porch, sewing the sleeve of her torn blouse. She looked at her as if seeing her for the first time.
“You are beautiful,” she said.
Sod laughed.
“Now you say it.”
“I always believed it. But now… now I see it with the eyes of my soul.”
Sod did not understand, but she felt something—an invisible weight shifting in the air.
The following week, Bimbo wrote a letter.
“My daughter, you do not know where you come from, but you need to. Before you, there were two—also my daughters, also your sisters. I threw them into the river because they were different. Because I was blind. You are the miracle God gave me to teach me how to see. Forgive me, even if I never have the courage to say it out loud.”
She hid the letter inside her Bible, tucked into the book of Proverbs.
But the village winds were stubborn, and the river was too.
The days started getting darker earlier—not because of the weather, but because of a new shadow Sod could not name. It was as if the air had changed. The lightness she and her mother used to carry on the walk home from the market had vanished.
Now every time the sun began to set, Bimbo made excuses.
“Oh, I can’t go pick you up today, daughter. I’m visiting Aunt Lara,” she would say with a forced smile.
“But Mama, you went yesterday and the day before.”
“Now she is opening a pharmacy,” Bimbo replied, her eyebrows raised. “Don’t question me, Sod. You’re a grown woman now. You don’t need a babysitter. Go alone and come straight home.”
Sod nodded, but something inside her no longer rested in peace. At first, she thought it was just her mother’s tiredness or maybe a health problem Bimbo was hiding. But no. It was something else. Something with the scent of a secret.
One muggy afternoon, the market buzzed with voices, cloth bags, rushed laughter, and flies dancing over fresh fish.
Sod was finishing packing the last bunches of plantains at her stand when she saw a familiar figure in the distance. Her mother, Bimbo, was there, but she had not come for her. She stood with her back turned, speaking with someone, a figure leaning against the tobacco stall, wrapped in a wine-colored scarf that covered part of her face.
Sod narrowed her eyes, tilted her head, trying to make out the silhouette. The conversation looked tense. The woman was gesturing nervously, and Bimbo seemed to be trying to calm her down. Before she could get closer, the woman slipped away down the side of the market, vanishing between sacks of rice and herb vendors.
Sod ran to her mother.
“Mama.”
“Oh, Sod, are you done already? I just came to buy tobacco for your uncle,” she answered too quickly, her eyes darting like she had ants in her shoes.
“Who was that woman you were talking to?”
“What woman?”
“The one with the scarf leaning on the stall. I saw her. Mama, you were talking to her.”
“Sod, please don’t start. It must have been some vendor asking me for change. I didn’t even see who it was. Come on, let’s go home. It’s already getting dark.”
Bimbo grabbed the basket and hurried away, leaving no room for further questions.
Sod stood frozen for a few seconds. The smell of dried fish felt sour. The air seemed stuck between the teeth of time.
A lie.
And a bad one.
In the days that followed, Sod could not forget that moment. Her mind became a sleepless mill.
Why was her mother hiding things? Who was that woman? Why did she look so scared?
Until one muggy Thursday, the truth began to peel away like yam skin.
Sod was crossing the packed dirt alley, returning from Dona Qualommo’s candy stand, when her eyes locked with that same woman.
She was standing next to the village well, a bucket in hand. She wore a simple burnt-orange dress and a white scarf over her poorly braided hair. But what caught Sod was her face.
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