Fanta's earliest memory was of silence. The hush that fell whenever she passed, the way men and women paused their conversations to stare, the children shrinking behind their mothers' skirts. She couldn't have been more than five then, but she remembered how unsettled their gazes felt—like they were witnessing something they couldn't explain, or dared not name. When she asked her mother, Anayara, why everyone acted so strangely, her mother only stroked her hair and told her not to worry. But worry crept in anyway.
Fanta's father, Okongo, wouldn't look at her. No matter how many times she tried to catch his eye with a small wave or a timid smile, he turned away, arms folded. Other fathers in Ogamba might scold or guide their children, but Okongo acted as though Fanta simply did not exist. He recognized Anayara, speaking with her now and then, but the moment Fanta stepped into the same space, he'd freeze and find an excuse to leave.
She was too young to know precisely why. She only sensed an undercurrent of unease swirling around her, intensifying whenever she entered a public space. Neighbors sometimes muttered, covering their mouths: "She's unnatural," "Her eyes don't seem human," or "There's something about her scent…" All half-whispered, as if naming the strangeness openly might bring a curse upon them.
Even as a child, Fanta noticed that no dirt truly stuck to her skin the way it did on other kids who played in the dusty paths. She'd trail them, curious, but they scattered, refusing to include her. After a day of chores under Ogamba's relentless sun, she would come home with barely a trace of grime. The laundry-women would mention seeing her clothes in the river, nearly as clean when they were put in as when taken out. Some claimed her skin emitted a faint sweet fragrance. And that, more than anything else, unnerved them.
Anayara became Fanta's sole refuge. She recognized that her daughter was different—and in Ogamba, being different was an invitation to suspicion. So, she tried to shield Fanta from the worst of it. She taught her small trades, like picking certain herbs at the forest's edge for making perfume. "Better they think the sweet smell is my craft," Anayara would say with a gentle smile, "than suspect it's coming from you."
Yet the perfume rumor only partly subdued the villagers' unease. For every person who complimented Anayara's skillful scents, another insisted that no mere fragrance could explain the fresh aura that clung to Fanta even when she was exhausted or sweaty. "A demon's trick," some whispered.
Anayara heard their mutterings. She saw how children avoided her daughter. And at times, she glimpsed the heartbreak in Fanta's eyes. She tried to console her with quiet assurances: "There's nothing wrong with you, my precious child." But it was hard to override an entire village's fear. Especially when her own husband refused to speak a single word to Fanta.
Although many factors made Fanta an object of suspicion—her unusual cleanliness, her intangible grace, her faintly sweet scent—her eyes were the subject of the most fevered gossip. Even in the dimness of a hut at dusk, they seemed to catch and reflect any stray light. Some found them mesmerizing, beautiful in a haunting way. Others claimed that if you stared too long, you felt chills run down your spine. These rumors led to worried parents instructing their children: "Never look at her directly," as if she could curse them with a single glance.
She discovered this the painful way when she was around six. She tried to join a group of kids playing near the well. They'd begun a game of throwing pebbles at small targets drawn in the dirt. Fanta, lonely but curious, approached quietly. One of the girls looked up, met Fanta's eyes, and let out a tiny squeak of alarm. Immediately, the entire group scattered, as though Fanta's presence spelled doom. The memory stuck: their terror, the way they fled like she was a wild animal.
She returned home that day, head bowed, dust clinging to the hem of her dress (though nowhere else). Anayara found her curled on a stool, silent. Without a word, her mother braided her hair and hummed a lullaby. They never spoke about it, but Fanta knew then: she was an outcast, whether she'd chosen to be or not.
Her lips always looked like freshly picked raspberries. Rumor had it that the cups she used were a tainted tattoo of her lips that always seemed moist even in the intense heat of the sun. It seemed as though she stayed hydrated without making an effort to drink water.