Sogolon is not a whore, that she say to any who will hear. But the girl is a thief, that she don’t say at all. When she leave Miss Azora, Sogolon bring all that she take from the men, and every other night since then, when Nanil get up to go find the master, she pull out the sack from where it hide, a loose tile in the floor, in the corner of the room where she sleep. Beneath the tile is a few of her clothes, and on top of that few is a rag stiff with old blood. Moonblood, she whisper once to the slave girl so that she, or whoever she tell would have too much disgust to ever trouble it. Kongori women take some strange things for truth, such as if you touch another woman moonblood you going to be barren for all your living days. And living days is all Sogolon think about. Ever since she start to count days, then quartermoons, then moons, then whatever is beyond moons, she already putting herself ahead of it, already thinking nobody going to do anything for her but her, despite being under the mistress kindness. Kindness is a word the mistress use, not her. She under the mistress pleasure, is what it is. Pleasure.
Hot night at the donga. Heat demons that chase away rain and crack the riverbed land on the city from before dawn break and by noon even the roads sweat. The kind of day where beasts either fall down or run to foul water, where people have nothing else to do but sit in shade and curse that shade don’t block this kind of unseeing fire, and where old people’s eye roll in the back of their heads as they die. Night bring nothing but discontent because when the light leave it don’t take the heat. The mistress gone to her sister, and Master go to sleep only after the cook rub him down in a leaf water that she let sit for weeks until it taste like wine. The rest of the house make do. Nobody really sleeping, but everybody fussing about they own and nobody else. She wrap herself in a blanket and leave through the front door, into the night, fighting the thick soup of turbid air until she get there.
Sogolon take her place, sweat running down her face and her tunic, between her buttocks and down her legs, leaving her fearing that she leaking on the ground. People wiping away sweat before it blind them, and the whole place working up a wicked man funk. Three fights pass, two in the style they call Kongori and one in the western style. Western style she like the least. Two men jump into the circle and attack, with whipping and thrashing and slashing and cutting, with nothing but force until the weaker one grab his bleeding forehead and switch from giving to blocking blow. The thicker one keep thrashing until the other stop blocking. Stop moving. The donga quiet as they pull the boy away, then a corner burst out cheering. The thick one win every night. But only that corner like him. They run to grab him, to put him on their shoulders when somebody shout. A man Sogolon never see before step out from the crowd and walk to the center of the ring. Sogolon ignore her own mind and move closer.
The man wear a blue skirt tied high up his waist and flowing lower than his knee. His headdress, a lion mane. He standing proud and speaking a tongue Sogolon don’t know. Closer now, among some men in the darker part of the square, but clutching the blanket tight over her head. The thick man jump back in the ring, waving to the crowd to cheer, but the whooping and hollering only come from his corner. The new man shake his head and laugh. Also this, he wielding two sticks. A long one that he grab in the middle, the other shorter. The thick man shout that he could have ninety and nine sticks it still going be only one defeat. The referee dart in the middle but the thick one push him out of the way. He start to wail and hammer the new man. Thrash, thrash, thrash, up then down on the man, who blocking them with one hand. If you only blocking then you losing but this man laughing like he winning. Then he spin the stick until it blur and every strike from thick man bounce off and slap him in the face, sometimes in the mouth. Thick man cuss. He swing and he slice and the man block and hop and block and dance. Thick man pull back then charge, but new man block the charge and whip him in the face, right then with the small stick. Right beside the mouth. Thick man spit blood. He jump down into the fight, smashing the stick quick, striking the dirt more than the man. New man hopping, he spinning, he dancing around him like a mosquito. Thick man trying to spin as fast, but drop twice. New man turn his back and raise his hands to the crowd like he win. The crowd roar like he win. Sogolon look left and see a man looking at her. The new man soaking up the cheering like they soaking up the heat.
“You bring a blanket to summer? Heat not hot enough for you?” he ask but she don’t answer.
“You the prize?” he continue. Sogolon move away.
The new man still rousing the crowd and the crowd still loving a man that they can like. Thick man get up. Even Sogolon thinking, Be like the lion in the bush, fool. But thick man thick in all his ways. He roar and charge but the new man don’t move. Thick man charging with the stick straight out like a spear. Sogolon gasp. The new man don’t even turn around, but stand there until just a blink when he drop to the ground and shove his small stick between the thick man feet. Thick man fall hard on his chin and don’t move. Long cheering and the man still don’t move until his corner pull him away. Nobody but Sogolon hear him screaming that he can’t move anything below his neck. She walk away but see the man who question her now following her. She dash down a lane, turn right down another and left down another.
When she get back, the house quiet. Mistress not yet returned from her sister, so she must be staying the night. Master, being the master, must did thank the gods for sleep in his own bed. But Sogolon unsettle her head too much to sleep. Master and Mistress keep only four doors in this house, the grand entry, the bedchamber, the back door, and the master library. She already gone through the bedchamber more than once, more than five times, and never find anything interesting in it. The master library she stay away from. But it is night and everybody sleeping. Most of the room is like any other in the house, empty mostly, but with fabric, and textile and pouf and stool. Near the one window is something all covered up with white cloth. She know what it is, for the cook talk about it whenever she wishing for a turn in her luck.
Sogolon run her hand on the canvas covering. She feel it pull against the thing underneath and worry for a second that it is a beast keeping still. Sogolon grab the canvas with both hands and pull it off. He keeping a boli in the house, the cook did say. She jump back at the sight of it, for it look like an animal. Four little legs holding up a round and fat base like a young hippopotamus. When she come in close the legs look more like that of a stool. But the shape still taking the body of an animal. The boli carry a hump on the back, and a bump to the front of the body working as the head. But the head is round like the hump, with no feature of any animal face. The boli is thick, with rough skin, like mud cracked under sun, or old leather. This is not like the sculptures she see all over the house, or a fetish, or the body of a god in the shape of beast. The boli look like a god was in the middle of creation and didn’t finish. But the way the cook and the slave whisper about it, she expecting it to be magnificent and terrible. So she touch it.
“Power might come through and blind you.”
Sogolon flinch. She jump back quick, but there is nowhere to flee to. The master is in the doorway. She bow her head and nod to him. The master walk in, not looking at her.
“Or turn you into fool for thinking you can handle it.”
He walk right up to the boli and touch the hump.