1

There are stories the mothers in Kwabenafo tell to frighten unruly children who prove impossible to control. If you cried in the night, Kibamba would come and carry you away. If you stole what did not belong to you, Kibamba would snatch you up in a sand storm while you played. Kibamba was always watching, lurking at the edge of the forest that surrounded the village, waiting for children to stumble into her trap. Her stories often kept children awake at night when the nighttime sounds fed their imaginations and conjured up monsters hungry for the blood of children.

The tap, tap, tap on your window at night was not the branches of the tree behind your house swaying. It was Kibamba’s long fingers checking to see if your windows would open and let her in. The pitiful meow of the cat under the bush was a trick to lead you into the forest where she would fry and feast on your flesh.

Two weeks after the kerosene seller’s four-year-old son vanished, the mothers told their children Kibamba had taken the boy because he disobeyed his parents and played too close to the forest. The boy was never found and for weeks, the fear of Kibamba kept children in check.

No one had ever seen Kibamba but there were various depictions of what she looked like: she had two heads, and where the eyes were meant to be, there were only hollow sockets. Her head had been split into two, and she carried a pestle and a mortar to grind the bones of her victims.

There were many descriptions, but one detail, however, remained consistent. Kibamba wore a mask to hide the hideousness of her face, for anyone who saw it would be driven instantly and irreversibly mad.

But these were only stories and they could not hold the minds of children for long.  Growing boys soon realized they were just cautionary tales to keep them from straying into the vast national forest reserve that surrounded Kwabenafo, established as a final solution to protect the declining wildlife. The exuberance of childhood still sent many exploring where they were told not to. Fights still broke out among siblings over trivialities, and children cried till their mothers questioned whether motherhood really was a blessing.

The day the black sedan rolled into the village changed everything. Cars were a rare sight and the hum of the engine drew both adults and children out of their homes. They watched as the vehicle glided past and crept up the hill toward the only fenced house in the community. It was the last house in the village, perched right on the edge of the forest. A barbed wire fence encircled the property, cutting it off from the rest of the village. For years the house had stood empty and its quiet presence had become a source of speculation.

The doors of the sedan swung open and a lone figure stepped out. It was a woman. She moved to the boot of the car, opened it and pulled out two heavy suitcases. As she set them down, she paused and turned, meeting the curious faces of the villagers who stood outside their homes watching her. For a few moments, the stranger and villagers regarded each other silently.

The woman broke the trance first. She adjusted the hat she wore, pulling it further down over her face. At the rim of the hat, a delicate facial net had been sown to cover her entire face, hiding it from view. Mothers instinctively pulled their children close.

Kibamba had moved into Kwabenafo.

2

When the alarm went off at five, she was already awake. She hardly slept these days, even with the sleeping pills. The nightmares always woke her up and the lingering fear of them prevented her from drifting back to sleep. Her eye was fixed on the ceiling, tracing the slow, rhythmic turn of the fan blades. She found when she focused on a single thing long enough, the pain in her face slipped into the background.

Phantom pain was what the doctors had called it. But to her it was real. Her fingers slowly moved up from her sides and traced what was left of her face. A grotesque caricature of past mistakes and unspoken regrets.

She rolled off the bed and looked around the large bedroom. The first thing she had done upon moving into the house was cover all the mirrors. She stood up and made her way to the kitchen. Her eyes swept over the empty cabinets and a sudden dread tightened in her chest. She would have to head to the market unless she intended to starve.

She returned to the bedroom and opened one of the suitcases. Inside, a ziploc bag held the few vegetables she had managed to scrounge before fleeing from the city. She carried the bag back to the kitchen, found the blender and washed the vegetables before tossing them in. The blades came to life, spinning them into a vibrant green liquid.

She poured the liquid into a glass, then found the straw she needed before guiding it to what remained of her mouth. As she drank, her gaze wandered out the window. She had managed to cover the mirrors but the window revealed a faint reflection of her distorted face.

The gunshot had left its mark as the bullet made its way from the shotgun she had fired years ago. Her jawline was gone and what remained of her mouth was a reconstruction made from bones and flesh borrowed from other parts of her body.

Her left eye remained closed while the right, though partially opened, held a distant, vacant look. The absence of her nose was the most striking element; what was there after six surgeries was a carefully reconstructed skin that curved gently over the space where her nasal bridge once stood. 

The bullet had done everything except the one thing she had wanted when she fired the gun. It had kept her alive.

3

Xorlali was trapped in a loop of hero worship, the kind that made him follow his older brother around. He longed to be part of the older boys games but at six years old they always told him the games of the ‘big boys’ were for the ‘big boys’. So he trailed after them with tears on his face and snort escaping from his nose and his pinky finger firmly lodged in his mouth for comfort.

The children had one spot that the adults had designated as the playground. It was a large empty space nestled between all the houses where parents could keep an eye on their children and shout warnings from their doorways. When the playground went silent that afternoon, mothers quickly poked their heads out of kitchens ready to threaten their children, certain that mischief was afoot. It was a silent possession of uncomfortable mothers and frightened children that watched as Kibamba returned from the market carrying polythene bags heavy with ingredients.

As Kibamba passed, the younger children began to cry as the older ones suggested she was probably going to use the ingredients to cook the children she had trapped in her house. The thought was terrifying enough to send many of the toddlers’ running back into the safety of their mothers’ arms. But not Xorlali, who was ready to prove himself to the older boys.

“Can’t he stop crying?” Noah, his elder brother’s friend asked, looking down at Xorlali.

Mawuli was embarrassed as he looked down at his brother and shoved him in retaliation. Xorlali landed on his bump in a state of shock and betrayal.

“Stop that,” Mawuli ordered Xorlali. 

As younger and elder brothers exchanged looks, Mawuli’s angry face told Xorlali exactly what would happen if he went through with crying. Xorlali managed a few more sniffs as he picked himself up from the ground and dusted off his bottom.

The older boys had begun a new game of Killers vs. Blow Man, where the good guys (blow man) had to hunt down the killers and defeat them. They began to spread out across the playground, each taking their assigned role with excitement. For a moment, Xorlali was unsure where he would go or if he even belonged in the game. He quickly decided that although he was mad at his brother, Mawuli would be the least resistant to him joining the game.

“Oh no!” Noah raised his hand in frustration when he saw Xorlali following them. “If he comes with us, he will let them catch us.”

Mawuli looked at his brother and began to contemplate how to solve this hindrance. His face lit up with excitement as an idea struck.

“Do you want to play with us?” Mawuli asked. The smile on his face spread wider as he lured Xorlali into the trap. “Then you have to prove to us that you’re strong and brave.”

Xorlali was eager. He nodded. His excitement quickly faded when he saw where his brother was pointing.

“If you can steal Kibamba’s mask, you can play with us,” Mawuli’s eyes gleamed with mischief as he waited for Xorlali to turn and run back home. His plan seemed to have worked as Xorlali turned around in tears and headed home.

Xorlali stopped, stuck with the sudden realization that if he failed this test, he might never get to play with his elder brother again. Mawuli was already finding his hiding spot and the game was already underway. If he acted fast, maybe he could steal the mask before the game ended. Then he could return triumphant and Mawuli would have no choice but to accept him as one of the big boys.

Kibamba most certainly did not wear her mask in her lair. All he had to do was make sure he didn’t see her face.

4

When she closed the doors behind her, her mask quickly came off and was discarded carelessly in a corner. She made her way into the kitchen where she set the bags on the counter and began to sort through them. She almost felt like her old self again. In her previous life, she would have had a tune going off in the background and her feet would move along to the music despite her proper lack of coordination.

Memory had been both cruel and liberating over the years but in that moment it rewarded her with the familiar tune of Mzbel’s “16 years”. She found herself nodding along to the memory of the song and before she knew it, in the silence of the kitchen, her entire body was swaying and dancing to the memory of a song.

She had no idea that in that moment a young boy had slipped between the strands of barb wire and was making his way toward the back of her house. She did not see him fearfully lift his body on his tiptoes to look through the window. From his hidden vantage point, the boy remained transfixed as he watched her dance from behind.

When she turned around, her one eye locked onto him and for a moment neither of them moved. Then he let out a terrifying scream before he turned, racing through the barbed wires behind the house as he fled into the forest.

5

When a child disappeared in the village, the adults gathered around on the communal ground. Torchlights and machetes were made available for the men who organized search parties that roamed the forest calling out the child’s name. This went on for about five days. Usually, the child was found on the first night. The women stayed behind and consoled the bereaved mother offering words of encouragement.

When the kerosene seller’s boy went missing they had stayed close to her for a week. At first, they assured her that the child would be found soon. But as the days passed and the search parties returned empty-handed, the words of hope slowly turned into condolences. No one mentioned it, but they all knew her son had become a meal for the dangerous wildlife that surrounded them.

Tonight, the search was to begin on the house on the hill where the boy had been sent. Armed with their torchlights and machetes, the men, along with a few of the women, marched toward the house, calling out the boy’s name.

They banged loudly on the stranger’s gates and their shouts carried out the urgency of their purpose. The woman emerged slowly, standing in the doorway with her face hidden behind her mask. Her hands gripped her door frame protectively and she never fully stepped outside, keeping herself just within the safety of her threshold.

“Did a boy come here today?” one of the men asked.

“Yes,” her voice was like a smuggled squeal pulled through painful chokes and gasps. The sound was unnatural, harsh and inhuman.

“Is he still here?” The follow-up question had been slow to come. The gathering had all been taken aback by her voice.

The hat shook vigorously.

“Then where is he? He’s not home!” The challenge came from one of the women amongst them. “Where is the boy?” The intensity of her tone and the rising suspicion among them made it clear that the search for the missing child had reached its boiling point.

Slowly, the stranger lifted a bony finger and pointed towards the forest. The gathering had registered faces of doubt. They began banging loudly on the gate, demanding she let them in so they could search her premises.

“Why would he go into the forest?”

“Did you trick him?”

The demands were numerous and she had no answer for them. Finally, with a defeated sigh, she finally let go of the door and took a few steps forward where she could be seen clearly. Then, with trembling hands, she reached up to her head and took off her hat. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Several people recoiled immediately. Her face was now fully revealed and it was unlike anything they had imagined. If the child had seen that face, he would not be in his right mind.

6

At 2am, long after the name calling and shouts in the forest had subsided, she made her way to the back of the house. She approached the section of the fence where she had seen the boy crawl through earlier and with the torchlight in her hand, she scanned the scene. He had escaped in such a hurry that a piece of his clothing had been caught in the barbed wire. As she picked it up, she realized it was stained with blood.

She grabbed and pulled two of the barbed wires apart and slipped through. The movements of unseen creatures, the chirping of crickets, and the occasional snap of a twig underfoot all seemed to draw closer. This was no time to be frightened, she told herself. She was responsible for the child’s race into the forest.

She was not exactly sure what she was to look out for. She simply walked a straight line when she first entered the forest. When she finally lost sight of her house, she figured it was time to start marking her path. She swept her torchlight across the forest floor, searching until she found a stone. She carved an ‘X’ into the bark of the nearest tree, turned to her left and continued. After every few steps she would stop and make another mark.

An owl hooted from above, causing her to scream out of fright. What was she doing? It was too late to turn back now, she thought. Here she was on her own, in a dark forest, searching for a child. She instinctively pressed a hand to her belly. She placed a hand on a tree to steady herself as the waves of emotions came at her, reminding her that at one time in her life, her belly had held two heartbeats.

The two she had carried, the two she had loved, the two she thought would outlive her, the two in the ground after a careless mistake of driving through the yellow light, the two gone. Her moans came out like grating sounds. She could not stop once the flood gates came open. Her penance was to live and how cruel it was to outlive your children.

She heard the growl, and for a moment, it seemed to echo the same sound that came from the tube that helped with her breathing. But when she calmed down, she realized the growl came from somewhere farther away. Her whole body tensed as she tried to remain still. She listened intently, trying to gauge how close the animal was.

The animal was not too far from her but it was retreating into the depths of the forest. Whatever the animal was hunting, it was not her. She wondered what beast it was and what prey was unfortunate enough to find itself in its trap.

And then it hit her. The men of the village who were in the forest moved in groups and made noise to drive any animal away from them. There was only one possibility: the boy was still moving around in the forest trying to find his way home.

She moved away from her spot and slowly tried to follow after the animal. She knew it was foolish to be wandering the forest alone and unprotected.

The forest seemed to hold its breath as she pressed forward. There was dead silence all around her and besides the animal’s growl, no other sound came at her.

It was a lion, closing in slowly on its prey. The boy was wide-eyed and trembling, knowing he was not going to survive the night. The terror of the situation had left him paralyzed. Without thinking, she started running until she was in-between the beast and the boy. Her mask had fallen off in her haste. She started yelling, a high-pitched sound that sounded like the wail of an oncoming train. The lion flinched, momentarily confused by the unexpected noise, but it recovered suddenly and gave out a fierce roar.

The lion moved from side to side, surveying this new challenge. Its muscles coiled, ready to spring into action.  Her feet were shaking as she watched the lion. She began to wave her hands in defense while still screaming. The lion eyed her with a predatory gaze and then the beast turned on its heels and fled into the forest.

She exhaled loudly, astonished that she was still alive. It was only when she turned that she realized they were surrounded by the village men. Fear gripped her for a moment, but before she could react, the boy rushed toward her and threw his arms around her. Even as the men closed in, calling out his name, he refused to release her.

The woman bent down and lifted him, as she had done with her own children when they cried. She held him in her arms as they made their way through the forest back to the village. When she finally placed the boy into the arms of his grateful, tearful mother, a weight seemed to lift from her shoulders. In that moment, Ewurajoa could hear the sweet, comforting sound of redemption.