“I like this place,” she said. Movenpick was already in the tree when she sat on the lower branch. She smiled for a moment, then she dropped the smile from her face and got up. She looked around until she spotted a smooth grey stone lodged beside the rotting mass of a fallen tree. She placed the seed on the hardest part of the tree’s bark and then looked down her nose at it. Oval like a palm tree seed and etched as if its surface were trying to evolve into a circuit board. Always so so intriguing. She brought the stone down on it with all her strength. Then again. And again.
“Die!” she screamed each time she smashed at it. She laughed wildly and she cried, too. “DIE!”
Finally, she stopped. She looked down. The seed was in pieces like a giant cracked kernel of maize. She blinked. No, it wasn’t. It was still whole, not even a dent. Not even her imagination could destroy it. She stood there staring at it for a long long time. She put it back in the box. Her hands felt heavy as she did so. The pull. As if it was telling her by sensation that it would never leave her again. Never. She returned to the giant tree she’d found, her face itchy with dried and fresh tears.
She sang a song with no words to herself as she dug a hole. She used a stick and then her hands and she dug it a foot deep. The she dropped the box into the hole. She buried it and patted the dirt down smooth. She stood back, looking down at the spot, half expecting a root to push it right back up. To even place it right back in her pocket. Nothing happened.
Sankofa stayed in this place for seven months. There were a few interesting things about this small patch of undisturbed forest. It was not near any villages or towns, so she didn’t have to worry much about encountering any human beings. There was a road about a quarter of a mile away, but it was the type of road dominated by self-driving trucks and drivers who drove as if they expected spirits or witches to leap from the trees. There were three farms nearby, each run by old men who’d been working the land for decades. These old men had a farmer’s code, for they had grown their vast farms on their own, and that code was one of secrecy.
One early evening, Sankofa had been out exploring further than usual and she’d smelled smoke. She followed the scent and this was how she found the three old men sitting around a fire smoking pipes and sharing stories. It was dark and she stayed in the shadows listening for a bit. They were talking about one of the old men’s oldest granddaughters who’d come home pregnant and with a master’s degree in engineering and how they didn’t know whether to rejoice or die. They’d just decided to rejoice when Sankofa had boldly stepped into the firelight.
“Hello,” she said. When none of the men had screamed or run off, she added, “May I join you?” It was the first time she’d spoken to another human being in months, and her voice came through loud and clear. They knew exactly who she was and they knew of what had gone down in RoboTown. “But we’re on the farm, so secret stay here,” was all one of the old men had said. And then one of the others made room for her and she sat down.
That night, Sankofa didn’t join in in their discussion about the granddaughter who also didn’t have a husband and didn’t want one. She was happy to just listen. However, the next time she came across the old men in this same spot where the ashes of many fires remained, she talked to them about the way the land was exhaling. The farmers told her that it was great for their crops and that it would certainly be a good year. And one of the men brought her a sack of rice, a cooking pot, salt, some boiled eggs, and a jar of palm oil. They did not know that Sankofa could take care of herself, remembering how to live in the bush from her early days of being on her own. But the supplies were good and she was entitled to them being who she was, she knew it and she was glad the old men did, too.
“We respect the spirits,” one of them said as she took the sack of goods. The next time she saw the men two weeks later, they had each brought her seeds and a plastic watering can. They called them “the basics,” tomatoes, onions and cucumbers. And the next time, they gave her three yam cuttings.
Around the fallen trees, she cultivated a garden and the yam vines snaked over the lightning tree as if to embrace it. She ate well, slept well, laughed at Movenpick’s habit of playing wildly in the grasses with dried palm fronds, and she enjoyed her time with the old farmers who seemed to genuinely enjoy her presence, too. In these days, she watched the things she planted grow and let the worst of her misadventures go. She mourned and then honored Alhaja by carving her name in the fallen lightning tree and speaking words of love to the birds, lizards, grasshoppers and spiders who were certainly listening.
She thought about her parents and brother as she always did and wondered what they’d think of all that had happened. She carved their names into the lightning tree, too. Not once during her time in the forest did she use her glow for more than killing off mosquitoes attacking her skin at night. The farmers were probably curious, but she never showed them her glow, except on that first night when they’d asked to see with their own old old wise eyes. Only on that day had they seemed to fear her.
Nevertheless, two hundred fifteen days after stepping out of her own shallow grave and making one for the seed in the box, she looked into the eyes of death… again. She was just coming from one of the evenings of chatting with the old men. She’d told them about how her garden was going and they’d all been impressed, saying that for someone who was fitted with the talent of taking life, she was also good at cultivating it. They’d all laughed. And she was still softly laughing to herself as she walked back to her home in the forest, Movenpick close behind. Movenpick went with her everywhere, even to visit the old men, but he never showed himself to them, so they only knew of him in legend.
She had a slight bellyache and she was wondering if she should eat a few mint leaves and call it an early night when Movenpick stopped and whined. He ran up a tree not far from their home. Then Sankofa noticed it, too. Every single creature in the forest had gone silent. It was dark so she saw nothing around her. Her night eyes and ears were sharp, so she usually felt safe in this forest. Until now. She froze, suddenly anxious, looking around, listening. She saw nothing. She moved faster, unsure of what she’d do when whatever, whomever it was revealed itself. What difference did it make if it was at her home or right here?
She made it to her garden and paused at her growing yam farm. She felt something creeping down her inner thigh. When she looked, she saw what might have been a line stretching toward her ankle. She squinted. She couldn’t quite see it in the dark… but she could smell it. Blood. She gasped. If she’d scratched herself badly enough for blood to run down her leg, she certainly didn’t feel it.
She was stepping up to the tree she and Movenpick had been sleeping in for months and she was about to remove her wrapper when the leopard dropped in front of her. Its arrival was heavy yet perfect. A soft thoom and then swipe just missing Sankofa’s chest. She fell back, somersaulted and was on her feet in less than a second. She ran. She knew this part of the forest so well that moving through it in the darkness was her advantage as the leopard came after her silent as a spirit. She slipped under a low branch, leapt over another. Leapt over the brook. Faster, faster, faster, she could hear it pursuing her like water flooding a creek. Focused and relentless.