When Fanta turned eight, she discovered a trunk of old books in the corner of their hut, left behind by traveling missionaries generations past. Some were Bibles in a language she didn't yet comprehend; others were tattered storybooks, journals, or scraps of dictionaries. Fascinated by the foreign shapes of letters, she asked Anayara about them. Her mother explained that her grandmother had taught her a little about reading, but not enough to master these texts. So they remained, collecting dust.
Fanta was intrigued. She recognized a few words from old notes Anayara sometimes read. Over time, the puzzle of letters and phonetics pulled her in deeper. She studied at night, tracing her fingers along lines, comparing pages from simpler references. Bit by bit, she began to parse meaning from the tangle of letters. She tackled children's stories first, then parts of the Bible. As months turned into years, she found she could read more comfortably.
Her mother aided where she could, but Fanta's drive went beyond mere curiosity. She devoured entire sections by lamplight, gleaning that some words were from a language called "English." She discovered phrases describing lands of towering buildings, metal roads, great seas. It fueled an unspoken hope that perhaps beyond Ogamba, there was a place she wouldn't be seen as cursed.
But reading quietly wasn't enough. She felt a need to speak the words, to hear their cadences, to taste the foreign syllables on her tongue. That's when she began reciting them aloud, in secret. Under the hush of night, or perched behind the hut at dawn. The language held a sort of melodic magic to her ears—too melodic for Ogamba's villagers. If anyone had found her doing so, they'd likely have thought her summoning dark spirits.
As she grew older, Fanta sought solitude to practice. She discovered a large tree not far from the village's edge, with sturdy branches that spread like welcoming arms. Its trunk was massive, and a few low branches provided a path upward if you were agile enough to climb. And Fanta was indeed agile—her steps light, her body strong from carrying water daily.
So, she began sitting in the highest forks of this tree, well out of sight of passersby. She'd bring a battered dictionary or a storybook, practicing the strange words. She'd shape them with her lips, letting them roll into the breeze. For the first time in her short life, she felt something akin to peace—no eyes on her, no one to cower from her presence.
Yet villagers soon noticed odd sounds drifting from the leaves: a language none of them recognized, carrying intonations that sent a prickling chill down their necks. Some thought it was the wind's trick. Others, braver, stood at the base of the trunk, trying to confirm.
They'd hear Fanta's voice: "And the man said, 'Be not afraid…'" Or bits of foreign prayers from the missionary Bible. She was too absorbed to notice sometimes.
It didn't take long for rumors to swirl that she was chanting spells. "I heard her conjuring devils," claimed one man. "She sits up there calling on demon tongues," said another. The label "demon tongue" stuck, because no one in Ogamba recognized English. They concluded it must be unholy incantations.
There were a few attempts to catch her in the act. A small group of men, spurred by Mojono's warnings, marched to the tree one afternoon. Fanta, nestled among the thick foliage, was murmuring verses from an English novel about explorers crossing the sea. She didn't hear them at first. The men circled the trunk, peering up, hearing the melodic words filtering down.
One man, bracing himself, climbed to the first branch. He hissed for her to come down, threatening that if she was indeed chanting curses, they would forcibly remove her. The moment Fanta spotted his figure climbing, she froze in panic. She quickly closed her book and scrambled to the other side of the tree, sliding down the far branches with practiced ease. Before the men could circle around, she slipped into the brush, her footsteps eerily quiet. By the time they reached the top, they found only rustling leaves, no sign of the "witch."
When word spread that she'd escaped, the story grew more outlandish. Some said she vanished in a burst of smoke. Others insisted she floated away, leaving the tree unscathed. The only truth was that she ran, heart pounding, tears burning at her eyes. She might have been reading about strangers crossing unknown lands, but she had nowhere to go except the few spots that provided temporary safety from Ogamba's relentless gossip.