Pussy-Eyed Girl

Chapter One

Ajegunle, 1994

Poverty has three faces.

The washed, Sunday best face polished to a glisten in oil, the pitted face of a skinhead, and the face steeped in feces, left to dry and dipped in more shit.

Harriet was born in that face—the third face.

Throwing her eight-year-old legs on the pockmarked floor of her face-me-I-face-you compound, she turned to peek at the proximity of her pursuer, saw the woman gaining on her, and pumped her feet.

"Stop that winsh!" Her pursuer said in vehemence.

Harriet ran faster down the dimly lit passageway, her gaze fixed on the threadbare curtain of her house, her breath gushing out in sharp, hissing gasps.

When her running foot hit the threshold of her one-room apartment, she jerked the curtain apart, hurdled across the mattress where her mother slept, and huddled up close to a bookshelf.

"Where that winsh?" her attacker screeched, dashing into the house and boring down on her.

Harriet's mother, rudely awakened by the clamor, bounded off the bed in time to keep the woman from snatching her daughter off her hiding place.

"Wetin happen?" She asked.

The fat woman placed a hand on her chest, arched her waist, clutched her knees, and panted like a dog.

"Dis your," she wheezed, then glared at Harriet. "Winsh pikin..."

Harriet cringed at the woman's scorn and the reprimanding stare of her mother. She squeezed further into the confines of the paint-worn bookshelf.

Her mother pursed her lips in disdain. "Harriet, wetin you do?"

Harriet, with face drenched in sweat and grey eyes shooting sparks, looked from one woman to the next and jutted out her chin in defiance.

Having stilled her racing heart, the woman tied and retied her wrapper across her waist, pointed a fat arm to Harriet, and screeched.

"She beat my pikin. Dis black winsh wit pussy eye beat, and injure my Chidiogor."

Harriet's mother gaped in disbelief. "So, na because of Chidiogor, you dey pursue my pikin?"

"Wait," the woman said, "Wait, make ah call Chidiogor. Make ah show you wetin dis Ogbange do my Chidiogor."

The woman loosened her wrapper, tied it in a knot, repeated the process, and screamed out her son's name.

"Wait, make hin come," she said, trying and untying her wrapper, "Just wait."

In response to the fat woman's beckon, a small-statured, fair-skinned boy of thirteen walked in. His timid looking elfin face bore markings of a scratch. A long trail of caked blood lined the scar.

"You see, am?" The woman said, shuddering in agitation and throwing a venomous glance at Harriet's glowering gaze.

Harriet's mother frowned at the scarred boy, turned to her daughter, and in quick strides, landed a loud smack on her face.

"Why you injure am?" she asked a still glowering Harriet.

At the sting of her mother's slap, the whites on Harriet's eyes turned fiery red, and the irises an icy shade of glass. She sniffed to rid herself of the burning tingle and stayed holed up by the shelf.

"No be you ah dey follow talk?" Harriet's mother said, furnishing her with another slap and pulling her out the shelf. "Why you pinsh, Chidiogor?"

Harriet rubbed her face, sniffed some more, and gritted.

At her sullen silence, her mother raised her arm to ram the third cuff into her face when the eight-year-old regarded her in blazing fury and said with as much venom as she could manage.

"Hin put hin hand for my toto."

"Tah com'on sharrap dat ya dety mout," the fat woman spat.

Harriet's mother chuckled in befuddlement. "Wait, ah no hear well. You say wetin?"

Harriet wiggled her nose, ran her arm across it, and sniffed.

"Hin put hin hand for ye." She motioned to her private part.

The fat woman pulled her son behind her and took several steps back when she noticed the fuming look of Harriet's mother.

"Na small children, na," she said in a sheepish chuckle, "You know say den sabi play small pikin play."

Harriet's mother turned to her daughter. "Na only pinsh you con pinsh am? You for chook hand for hin eye, and bite dat hin Fido-dido fingers join."

Bolstered by her mother's support, Harriet threw a bristling gaze at Chidiogor—hidden behind his mother—and clenched her fist.

"Who you be wey you put hand for my pikin..." Harriet's mother bellowed, charging towards Chidiogor.

The fat woman bundled up her son and raced out of the apartment.

Saddened at the unfortunate turn of event that led to her living in the slums of Ajegunle, Harriet's mother cuddled her daughter and tearfully apologized for hitting her.

"Ah no blame dat stupid boy," she said, "Na Abacha I blame. Naim cause all this nonsense."

Harriet wrapped her small arms around her mother, clenched her teeth to keep from crying, and waited for the words she knew would soon follow.

"If say no be dat useless Pascal, I for no dey this Ajegunle," her mother said, "I for dey Ikoyi. God go punish dat Pascal."

Harriet raised consoling eyes to her mother, saw her weeping heartbroken, and the tears she'd been holding back poured out her eyes in grand torrents.

God no go punish Abacha, Pascal, and Chidiogor, Harriet thought. Ah go find all of dem, and ah go kill dem.

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