KAFILAT AND THE FANTASTIC SOLAR FACTORY

© Ifeoma Chinwuba

Kafilat Ukah ambled home from school. When her mother opened the front door, the woman screamed. Her daughter’s uniform was in tatters. All the buttons were gone; in their place, holes. Loose threads dangled from the sleeve where it joined the shoulder. The lapels were hanging by a thread. The white shirt was brown and muddied.

The mother looked down to her daughter’s white trousers. Ink stains and bits of dry leaves stuck to the trouser legs, caked with dirt. Dried blood dotted a lacerated cut just above the exposed knee. Kafilat’s socks, white this morning, were a muddy colour and the buckles of her sandals were disjointed.

Mrs. Ukah suspected that her daughter had been in a fight. Again. She took the youngster by the hand and marched her to the bathroom.

‘Clean yourself up! I shall report you to your father when he returns from work.

When Mr. Ukah came back, Mama Kafilat recounted how their child had left for school, clean and sprite. And how she returned like a ruffian, dirty and haggard. Mr. Ukah was very angry. Shall I flog her? he wondered. Or give her a time-out? Flogging only made her stubborn and defiant. He chose to give his daughter a time-out, whereupon, he sent Kafilat to her room.

‘You shall not go out to play today. Neither shall you have any screen time,’ he scowled.

Kafilat sulked and slouched to her room. On the way home, Kosi had pulled her by the braids and dragged her down. She had tripped and fallen in the mud and sullied her clothes. She had tried to get up, when Yemisi shoved her down, this time into the body of water. That, she could not ignore. She had punched her classmates. A free-for-all had ensued between her friends and the other party. They had kicked and boxed and pushed and kicked.

Kafi sighed. It was wrong to fight. Next time someone pushes me, I shall report to the teacher and not fight back. But school was over, she reminded herself, and we were at the bus stop, trekking home. Perhaps, in future, I should report to an adult.

She lay down in her bed, fuming. Her favourite doll, Crolly, glared at her with glassy eyes.

-It’s not fair, Crolly,’ she said. ‘It’s Kosi Ojo and Yemisi Sambo started it. Now see what they have caused me; time-out and no T.V., no internet.’

She yawned. I should report the girls to their mothers. That’s what I should do. She yawned again. All right, all right, Crolly. I called Yemisi Adidas, on account of the three marks on her cheeks. I am sorry. She yawned the third time. Little did she realize how tired she was. Before long, her head fell on her soft pillow, and her eyes slipped into slumberland.

XXXX

Kosi and Yemisi lived a few houses away, down the road. Kafilat decided to go report the girls to their parents. I will tell them to warn their daughters, not to provoke me to fights. She felt drowsy and yawned.

In no time, she saw herself stepping out of the house. It was getting dark. She was happy that the streetlights shone bright. Soon, she passed the Sambo’s house. Yemisi lived there. She walked on. It is Kosi that pushed me first, she said. I will go first to her parents. Then, on my way back, I will branch into the Sambo’s home.

She continued walking on the road. Few cars passed. Two men were walking towards her on the other side of the road. She walked faster, telling herself to hurry, before the families turned in for the night. Then she beheld the men crossing the road to her side.

She froze. What are they going to do? I should not have left my house all alone. She tried to run but her legs would not move.

She stood stock still. The men had crossed and were walking towards her. Oh no! What to do?

Just then, a minibus rolled to a stop in front of her. A lad jumped down and Kafilat dived in. The vehicle whisked her away.

She looked back and saw the men searching for her. She watched as they gave up and turned one eighty degrees back.

Hardly had she calmed down, when she became afraid again. Where is the bus going? I must get down. I do not even have the fare. She saw the ticket collector approaching. She shot up. ‘I want to ease myself, I want to ease myself,’ she yelled.

-Stop!’ the ticket agent shouted to the driver. The van screeched to a halt and Kafilat rushed out.

She was all alone in the street now. She had passed Yemisi’s house.

She chanced upon a cherry by the roadside. She remembered that a hawker used to sit at the spot and sell fruits. This cherry must have fallen from her basket. The cherry was red and plump. Kafilat felt her stomach grumble. She bent down to examine it. Perhaps she could eat it. Then she saw that it was rotten. Zut! she exclaimed, disappointed. In a fit of anger, she gave the cherry a kick into the road where the tyres of a passing car would crush it. She was a good shot, Kafilat. She played soccer during break time and always scored for the girls’ team.

The cherry scrolled through the air and landed a few meters away, on the pavement. What! Kafilat was amazed. She ran up to it, rolled it at the end of her shoe the way Pogba used to do, then booted it up and caught it in midair. She launched it again, expecting it to land in the gutter that ran along the road. The battered cherry twirled in the air and tumbled on the walkway up the road.

Kafilat stood akimbo, surprised. She checked her shoes, looked at her ankle. What is going on? Why is the cherry disobeying me? I send it first to the road and it lands on the pavement. Then I kick it to the gutter and it rather goes and falls on the pavement. In a huff, she marched towards it like a soldier. Should I head it into the bush? Or execute a throw-in on to the tarred road? She did not want to touch it. It was dirty. She approached the fruit. She imagined himself playing in the schoolyard with her classmates. She dribbled Belema, rolled the ball back like Okocha, turned and sidestepped Awat. She bounced the ball on her foot several times, arms outstretched, on the lookout for the next tackler. She was hungry and thirsty. Sweat rolled down her face. From the corner of her eye, she saw Fatima, the goalie of the rival team, advancing to scoop the rubber. She tossed the ball over Fati’s head then rushed forward to meet it and tap it into the open net. She struck the ball with all her might. The cherry rose in the air and pirouetted like a ballerina. Kafilat followed it with her eyes. It landed smack in front of the shutters of a huge building. An old man was sitting at a table outside the door. Beside him, a woman sat on the ground, whose hands worked on a grinding stone before her.