The Cinnamon Tree Read Free Page A

herself against the front seat with her crutches to avoid being thrown about. Mother sat in the back, leaning forward and shouting at the driver to be careful. For the last week, Yola had thought of nothing but coming home, imagining this moment, returning to her family, to normality at last. The taxi drew up outside the compound; the engine coughed to a halt and Yola could hear the blare of music coming from inside. There must be a party going on, that was Uncle Banda’s ghetto blaster.
    ‘Mother?’ she began, feeling panicky now, but Mother had bustled in ahead of her. She heard the music stop in mid-beat. That’s it – kill the music, she thought.
    Yola leaned forward on her crutches, but for some reason her leg wouldn’t follow. She tried again, but it just wouldn’t move! It seemed to be rooted to the beaten earth. Nobody come out … don’t look! she willed as she struggled against … what? Suddenly she realised that it was shame. She never felt shame! But this was different – it was shame of her body. In hospital everyone had been sick or injured, their injuries were often a source of pride and each new skill they learned a triumph . But now Yola felt naked. She had liked her body, it was a beautiful, strong body, but now it was spoiled and everyone would see that. She hadn’t even thought to ask Mother to lengthen her dress.
    She turned, she would go back to the hospital, back to where people without legs were normal. The taxi would take her. But where had it gone? It had slipped away and was already halfway down the hill, free-wheeling to save precious petrol.
    At that moment she heard a cough and turned back. Gabbin stood in the compound entrance, standing very straight, with anew herdsman’s spear at his side, a lethal-looking point glinting on the shaft. Someone had painted two white streaks on his cheeks – a boy’s mark. Of course! he was now ten years old, and obviously taking his new status very seriously.
    ‘Gabbin!’ she exclaimed, ‘I’m stuck!’
    She had not seen him since her accident and wanted to hug him, but clearly for him this was some sort of ceremonial occasion. She quenched her grin, lowered her head as she would to someone very senior and made to move towards him. Fortunately , this time her leg obeyed her. With a stiff nod of acknowledgement , Gabbin turned and walked solemnly ahead of her into the compound.
    They advanced slowly across the open space. Yola wondered what on earth was happening but, as is proper, kept the customary three paces behind her man. She glanced up briefly and out of the corners of her eyes saw that the compound was full of people. Why were they here, she wondered, but she focussed her eyes on where Gabbin was leading her.
    In the very centre of the compound, under the great tree that had figured in her dream, sat Father in his robes on his ceremonial chair, his chief’s fly-switch in his right hand. She had forgotten how frightening Father could look on formal occasions. The small noises about the compound died down. A baby cried, but that only added to the sense of quiet. Yola noted the knot of women – the gossips, as she called them – eyeing her closely. There were girls in the hospital who had been thrown out by their families. Perhaps this was how it happened.
    Yola sensed everybody watching her, but tried to concentrate on Father and the two people seated on either side of him. Sister Martha was there on his right; she was headmistress of Yola’s school. The little Irishwoman looked like an alert pink-and -grey parrot on a perch. Why was she here? On Father’sother side sat Senior Mother, hunched like a vulture, eyes darting left and right.
    Suddenly, from among the gossips, came a hoarse whisper, ‘Who’d give a bride-price for that!’
    Senior Mother whipped around with a hiss of disapproval. The comment had not been loud, but Gabbin had heard it. Yola nearly bumped into him – he had stopped rigid, drawing himself up to his full