Blessing. Florence Ndiyah

home for a discussion.

      That afternoon Fatti Ashi stepped out of her grandmother’s hut en route to the Catholic Mission. Ashi! That was a name she endeavoured to keep on her tongue as a way of keeping it in her head. Mefo had given her the name after her return to life. She had said Ashi meant ‘gift of the gods.’ That was what the village said: that the gods’ decision to switch her back on was a gift to her family.

      As she walked from her father’s compound, Fatti took the bend that separated it from Angu Matamo’s estate. Angu Matamo was not just a close neighbour. He was her father’s best friend and the father of her close friend Susannah. He was also her worst enemy. Whenever she heard his voice, she made sure to disappear before he appeared. She could not say what it was about him that made her look in the opposite direction: his deep eyes and inquisitive stares or his compulsive manner; his stout hands or their desire to touch and own whatever they wanted. All she was certain of was that he repulsed her.

      Though Fatti did not like the man, she loved the fruits he grew. As she walked by Angu’s property, she stepped under the canopy of mango trees and emerged with some windfalls. She bit into one of the mangoes and was about to take another hungry bite when she noticed that some juice had landed on her dress. She frowned. The knee-length flowery dress hanging over her plump frame remained her favourite. How could she resist loving a dress that had travelled the privileged journey from Yaoundé, where her stepbrother Makam resided, that had arrived inside his travelling bag and landed in her open hands as a gift? The answer was even more obvious since the dress had come to add only to two others. After two years of continuous wearing and washing, the colour of the once-black collar was now only visible enough to perfectly reflect her complexion: dark but faded. Beneath the patchy glaze of palm oil, her skin appeared clearly parched. Her rough palms provided testimony to the life of an only girl in a family of thirteen. The dried blisters and wide cuts on her soles gave an estimate of the number of kilometres she covered day after day, from the stream to the farm, from the market to a neighbouring quarter or village. Yet her wide and innocent eyes never seemed to lose their gaiety. Unlike her drained body, they were a true reflection of the soul of a nine-year-old.

      After about thirty minutes of walking, Fatti arrived at the Catholic Church, the only symbol of Christianity in Nchumuluh. St. John Bosco Parish Nchumuluh was under the Diocese of Buea, the first in the territories, erected in 1950. The large, square building roofed with corrugated metal sheets was an imposing structure in a village of small, circular thatched huts. The white stones and cement blocks used to raise the walls also stood a world apart from the earth bricks of which the huts of the natives were built. The church was a place where the people were still learning to feel at home.

      Fatti stepped inside the church, genuflected, crossed herself, ‘In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,’ and stepped out. At the presbytery, she caught up with her mother who was waiting for her. Together they walked towards the parish office, and extension of the presbytery, for the appointment with the parish priest Reverend Father Maxworth Cain, known better as Fr. Max, a missionary from Ireland.

      ‘Nkem,’ Fr. Max said from behind the wooden desk, the most prominent piece of furniture in his office. Fatti and her mother were sitting on a bench across the table. ‘Nkem,’ he repeated, ‘Thank you for coming to see me. You know that I wanted to come to your compound but the head of your compound refused to hear anything of it.’

      ‘Do not worry, Father. That is how he is.’ Nkem did not feel as comfortable as she would in her compound but neither did she feel as though in the presence of a stranger. When Fr. Max had first come to the village about a year back, it was unheard of for him to have an open dialogue with a villager. It was even rarer to have a woman discussing with the white priest in the absence of a tribesman. Now Fr. Max was not simply the person who stood on the altar to say the daily Masses Nkem attended; he was also the one who sat next to her in the confessional.

      ‘Nkem,’ Fr. Max said after a few seconds of contemplation, ‘you have received baptism and that means you believe that Jesus Christ, the Son of God, came and died to wash away our sins. Is there wisdom in my words? Do you agree with what I have said?’

      ‘Yes, Father, I agree because that is what the catechist taught us during doctrine.’ Nkem kept her head to the ground as she spoke. He was not her husband but he was a man, one who had authority over her.

      Fr. Max raised his eyes from Nkem’s figure to stare at the stony wall above the two heads. ‘Fatti –’ he lowered his gaze to her face ‘– do you believe in Jesus Christ, in God who has answers to all problems? He inched forward, smiling.

      Fatti looked him in the eye but offered not a word.

      Fr. Max returned his attention to Nkem. ‘I know that we have not been in your village for a very long time and that many people still do not understand our teaching. Do you tell Fatti about Jesus?

      Does she believe in Jesus Christ?’

      ‘Father,’ Nkem said stiffly, ‘Fatti has not been baptized.’

      ‘Yes, but you bring her with you for Mass sometimes. She knows about Jesus Christ,’ he stated firmly and then continued very quickly, ‘As followers of Christ we need to always trust in God. We should trust Him at all times and praise Him in all situations for He is our sovereign Lord. He is the Creator of heaven and earth. He created you and me and all people and the animals and all the nice things that we have here on earth. He is the only true God who sent His child to come and live with us and die for our sins. We should not offer animal sacrifices since Jesus already offered His life for us. Jesus died and resurrected after three days. Fatti could not have died and resurrected as the whole village claims. She was probably just asleep or maybe in a coma. She—’

      Fr. Max’s nervous rattling ended as the catechist unexpectedly stepped into the office. ‘Father, sorry for interrupting but I have an important message for you.’

      The two men discussed for a few minutes.

      ‘I have heard what you have said, Father –’ Nkem said once the catechist walked out ‘– and I accept that your words have wisdom.’ She moved forward in her seat and raised her head slightly. It was as though she had been waiting for this moment from the time she got the invitation. ‘Your words have much wisdom, Father. But you know that our ancestors lived long before you came with your God. The fact is that Fatti’s great-grandfather, who has gone ahead, sent her back from the land of the ancestors.’ With those words, Nkem put a full stop to the conversation. Her face was blank.

      Fr. Max bade them goodbye, his countenance a clear expression of his disappointment.

      Fatti, who understood little of what had transpired between the two adults, was simply happy to be out again in the open country. ‘Mama, can I walk around. I have not gone out of the compound for two weeks.’

      ‘Yes, you can go for a walk, but you have to be home before dark. You know your father does not like it when you stay out in the dark, especially as you have not completely regained your health.’

      After reassuring her mother that she was going to return home early enough, Fatti wandered off into greenery. Masses of earth heaped into mounds, the hills rose one above the other with valleys twirling in-between as though following the course of a winding river. The hills were always green. Even in the dry season, when drops of water seeping into the earth were rare and the sun high and hot, green leaves and crops still dominated the scenery. Plantains, bananas, pears, tomatoes, paw-paws, mangoes, guavas – they often were so innocently green it appeared they had sworn fidelity to the colour. While some of Fatti’s brothers ploughed the fertile soils of Kombou in the French Cameroon, others ran after cows on ranches in Santa village in British Southern Cameroons. Still others stayed home in the boundary village of Nchumuluh, where the two neighbouring territories had spilled part of their herds and fertility.

      After walking for a few minutes, Fatti found a seat on a cool spot under the shade of a plum tree on the comb of a hill. Over treetops and rooftops, her eyes drifted through the valley and settled on one particular area: her father’s homestead. So much had changed in her life since that eventful day. The farm and stream had become out of bounds