She woke up drenched in sweat, and every morning she went back to work as if nothing had happened. Maman Abé watched her in silence. She knew, but she waited. She prayed more often. One evening, while Awa was clearing the table, she stopped her gently. You look tired, Awa, are you all right? Yes, Maman Abé. Are you thinking of your family back home? I don’t know.
Sometimes, I tell myself that I have never really known who my family truly was. Maman Abé stopped. She did not answer. Then she simply said, “Sometimes family is not what we think, but God always ends up showing what is hidden.” Awa nodded, but she asked no questions. Not yet. Madame Kan, on her side, was beginning to feel different, irritable, tired for no reason.
She got annoyed more quickly, spoke less. She had the impression that something was changing in her house. She called in a doctor. He found nothing. She even had the house purified by an old woman who burned leaves and recited incantations. But nothing changed. Until the day when, while tidying a wardrobe in her own room, she found a small leather box she had not touched in years. She opened it without thinking.
Inside, a baby bonnet, a string bracelet, and a torn photograph. The memory of another time. She put everything back down with a quick gesture, but her heart was pounding. Why did Awa’s face always come back to her when she looked at that photograph? She told no one. But that night, she dreamed of a baby in her arms, of a cradle she was abandoning, and of a promise she had pretended to forget.
And meanwhile, Hawa in her windowless room held her necklace between her fingers. She did not know why, but she felt that something was drawing near, something important. The days became heavier, not because of the work. That, Awa did with almost invisible precision.
Sometimes, she had the impression that her name echoed in the silences as if it had already been spoken there long ago by someone she did not know. One Saturday morning, the cleaning woman, Jenabou, fell ill and was sent to rest. Madame Kan, who disliked having her schedule disrupted, ordered Hawa to take care of the private salon herself, that forbidden place where she received her privileged clients for beauty advice or discreet appointments.
The marble floor there was cold, the mirrors lined with gold trim, and the luxury perfumes were lined up like precious soldiers. Awa cleaned in silence, focused, when an unexpected client arrived without warning. A woman of a certain age, well dressed, gloved to the elbows, with a soft but confident voice.
“Is Kanny here?” she asked. “I’ll go get her, madam.” “No, wait. You there, are you new?” “Yes, madam. What is your name?” “Awa.” The woman paused. Her gaze lingered a second too long on Awa’s face. Awa, a pretty name. Where do you come from? From the village of Ségou. Ségou? murmured the lady, narrowing her eyes.
I know that region well. I went there a long time ago, a very long time ago. How long have you been living here? A few weeks. She smiled, but there was something worried in that smile. You remind me of someone I knew once. A beautiful woman, very proud, but very alone.
Before Awa could answer, Madame Kan entered the room, elegant in her midnight-blue tunic. “Oh Yandé, you’re early.” “I always do that when I feel the day will be long,” the woman replied with a smile. She briefly laid a hand on Kanny’s arm, then added, “By the way, I just spoke to your new girl. She is unusual.”
“She’s a village girl, discreet, clean. That is all that matters to me.” But Yandé remained silent for a moment, her gaze lost in Kan’s earrings. You know that the things we bury always end up growing back somewhere else, don’t you? Don’t start again, Yandé, sighed Madame Kan.
What is done is done. You judged me enough twenty years ago. I am not judging. I am observing that the air has changed in your house, and I am simply telling you to be careful. Awa heard all this from the other room without understanding. She did not yet know that the murmurs between those two women were speaking, without saying it, of a past she carried in her veins.
The following evening, she decided to write a letter to Maman Sira. It was not really a letter to send. There was no address, but rather a way of putting words down. Mother, I have the impression that I have arrived at the place you never wanted to name to me.
You raised me with kindness, but you never wanted to tell me where I really came from. Here, things are beautiful, but everything feels locked up. I feel as though I am walking on fragile ground, as if each step could bring something buried back to the surface. There is this woman. She is strong, impressive, but there is something in her.
Something I feel without knowing what it is. Have you ever seen her face too? Is there something you wanted to hide from me to protect me? She folded the letter and slipped it into her bag between her notebook and the handkerchief containing the necklace. The next day, she decided to go alone to the market at Maman Abé’s request.
A simple task: buy fish, onions, and fresh spices. But that day, she got lost. Not in the streets, no. In the memories that rose up at the turn of a stall. An old woman was selling fabrics. As she passed by, Awa saw a worn red wrapper with cowrie-shell patterns that struck her like a slap.
She stopped without understanding why her heart was beating so hard. “Do you want to buy it?” the old woman asked. “No, well, I feel like I’ve seen this cloth before.” “It is an old pattern. It was often worn by the river, back in the days when midwives tied it around babies.” Babies? Yes, to protect them. It was a birth cloth.
