Saturday morning, at breakfast, your mother knows you haven’t rested. She asks you what you are thinking about, looks slowly at your uncle, and back at you. You understand immediately that you need to be careful.
<img src="https://www.cultureword.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/windmill-1-table-Chi-oludele.jpg" width="400" height="500" alt="beakfast table">
Both your mother and your uncle went to the Evangelical ReAlignment Centre, so did your father and your brother. Your father and brothers did not come back, your mother did. She returned with a language for resistance, she has the ability to speak between sentences, the woman disobeys with the precision of an assassin. Something that used to be your uncle returned and when he moved in, he brought the eyes and ears of the state into your home.
You answer your mother with care. Something like, 'The windmills are still not turning.'
Your Uncle responds, 'They are undergoing repairs, the engineers will sort it out, Tunde, you shouldn’t cut through on the way to school. It will be dangerous.'
'Yes, it’s just… odd. They have never broken like that. All at once.'
'Things break all the time.'
Your mother interrupts him as he searches your face. 'Fumi is an engineer, I’m sure she will tell you all about how windmills work.'
Your uncle holds your gaze. 'These things are better learned in school.'
'Yes, but I need you to collect ghee and sugar from Fumi. Will you go for me on your way to school? She works in the evenings, we need to prepare shortening first thing tomorrow morning.'
She places his plate in front of him and he is momentarily distracted. Your mum turns away from you and it is almost as if nothing has passed.
Before Saturday school, you pass by Fumi’s small terrace house.
A. Your mother rarely sends you on errands, this is important. [[Knock on Fumi's door]]
B. Heed the implicit warning, avoid Fumi. You can buy butter for your mum from pocket money. [[Go to school]]
Today’s reading is Genesis 39-41.
They teach you how to interpret this.
The class has a spirited discussion that descends to escalating declarations of love for their god, for the god that is supposed to be yours too. And for you, with indecent melanin and unruly hair, your declarations must be more emphatic.
And they are, you are very good with words, your performance brings tears to your eyes, and not all of it is because of shame.
To close the school day, you all pray together. It is Hebrews 13:17: //Obey your leaders and submit to them, for they are keeping watch over your souls, as those who will have to give an account. Let them do this with joy and not with groaning, for that would be of no advantage to you.//
In formation and silent, you file out and scatter once beyond sight of the doors. You find your group. Amongst the devout, you hide in plain sight. It makes your prayers easy; they sing, you hum.
The bus is waiting, and behind it, the land undulates, peppered by the tops of the windmills. The blades are still, the birds are not, and you remember Amir’s story. You think of Jude.
The journey home is unremarkable, you leave the bus, walk home and as you enter, your uncle motions you into the living room. Sitting in the winged chair by the window is a cleric and beside her is a novitiate. You are invited to sit down to discuss concerns your uncle has about your education. The bag drops from your hand, and you find yourself seated on a dining room chair brought in just for you.
You hear the door close and little else.
END
TALK TO FUMI
The words you find come easily, you talk to yourself more than to her.
Jude’s disappearance was not uncommon, people went to the ERAC all the time. They would stay for a week or two, but it has been a month, and no one has asked why. You know better than to ask, questions have been known to be fatal. The weight of the unasked and unspoken sits like a boulder in your stomach.
They came for her in the morning, and you both sat in silence watched by your uncle. You said nothing, she said nothing, and in the space where comfort would have been offered, the weighted gift ungiven pinned you to your chair.
To any who care to observe, your life has remained unremarkable. And if you don’t pay attention, your life at times feels peaceful. There has been no one missing, no one taken screaming in the night for days now. There has been no interruption to food supplies, no raids, or marches of the faithful.
It was Wednesday when the lights went out, no one asked why, but they didn’t have to.
When the town was first taken over by the Enemy, the rebels disrupted the power lines. You thought of Jude, the first time she was taken away, it was for 3 days, it was enough. The second time they took her, she tried to escape almost immediately. She was gone for 8 days. When she returned, she had aged a decade, she joined the rebels shortly after.
The power cut felt like a prelude to war, Amir fed your suspicions. Yesterday, he told you what happened at the windfarm. Amir told you about the secret massacre, how rebel fighters were annihilated by the local authority. They left one rebel alive, tied to a windmill as a warning and a threat. Amir tells you about the broken blade of that windmill and the birds circling, he tells you that the birds are waiting for the rebel to die.
You finish by telling Fumi about the nightmare last night, you dreamt of someone wailing, you dreamt of a crown made from birds in flight, of Jude tied to a stake driven into bloodied ground and when you woke up, the sound of her cries stuck to your ribs and have not left.
a. You are late for Saturday school. You hear the bus pulling up. You dash out. [[Catch the school bus]]
or
b. [[Go to the wind farm]]
You take the butter and sugar home with the image of body lashed to a windmill waiting to die.
Your Uncle drops you into town so you can catch your bus to Saturday school. No one has to go, but everyone understands what is expected.
You leave his car and join the group gathered at the bus stop. You find the children of the pastor, they are supposed to be your friends. ‘Peace be with you’ you reply. They wear soft muted tones and modest cuts, they like to sing on the bus journeys, praises to their god who is meant to be your god too. They provide the perfect cover for your own prayer, you quietly hum just under your breath, the first part of a meditation that keeps your mind clear.
The bus collects the others, leaves the town and three miles from the school, it breaks down. The driver calls for a replacement but some of the students decide to walk the rest of the way. The short cut takes you past the wind farm.
a. You have no desire to pass the windfarm. There is a long route to Saturday school that avoids it. You take [[the long route]]
b. You don't mind passing the windfarm. If you go over the hill there is a shortcut. You opt for [[the shortcut]]
You join the group gathered at the bus stop. You find the children of the pastor, they are supposed to be your friends. ‘Peace be with you’ you reply. They wear soft muted tones and modest cuts, they like to sing on the bus journeys, praises to their god who is meant to be your god too.
<img src="https://www.cultureword.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/windmill-3-bus-Chi-OLudele.jpg" width="500" height="500" alt="bus">
They provide the perfect cover for your own prayer, you quietly hum just under your breath, the first part of a meditation that keeps your mind clear.
The bus collects the others, leaves the town and three miles from the school, it breaks down.
The driver calls for a replacement but some of the students decide to walk the rest of the way. The short cut takes you past the wind farm.
You take [[the long route]]
or
You take [[the shortcut]]
The slope looks gentle from the roadside, but the ground is uneven, and steep in places. You become out of breath very quickly and to concentrate you think about Jude. Your mothers were cousins, but you look like sisters, Jude’s face greets you in any reflection if you focus on the corner of your mouth.
The windmills rise before you like soldiers, a few dozen are smattered below and they are humming even though the blades do not turn.
<img src="http://www.peterkalu.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/Windmill-2-windmills-Chi-Oludele.jpg" width="400" height="500" alt="at the windfarm">
The turf beneath you is churned earth, and rust coloured. Your feet sink in as you walk across the windfarm. You notice things trampled into the ground. A broken watch, a baseball cap, a fake nail, painted lilac.
Above you, the birds circle and you walk towards their windmill, the one with a twisted blade.
Even sitting and slumped forward, she is tall, her shoulders come to your chest. Her wounds are not bleeding but oozing, the amber liquid has crystallized around binding rope.
You examine her carefully. Her hair is matted and stained and you can smell the urine from where you stand. You refuse to identify what is caught in her kinks. Her shoulders are broader than Jude’s, her breasts larger, her belly protrudes a little beyond. Her legs carry no wounds, and you know that at some point, she was standing whilst they did what they did to her.
You need to be sure, so you reach your hand out and place it under her chin. And when you do, she looks up at you. What you see turns your stomach, you were never good with eyes, and you can see teeth even though her lips are shut. Through her usable eye, she looks at you and you know she is no longer in her body.
She is not Jude, so you take your hand quickly away and slip as you turn to walk away.
What next? You must go to school, you can think of an excuse on your way. If you don’t go to school, your uncle will become suspicious and then it is only a matter of time before you are taken to the Evangelical ReAlignment Centre.
[[Go to school]]
You take the shortcut and fall behind. No one else wants to be late and so they leave you behind.
[[Go to the wind farm]] In formation and silent, you file out and scatter once beyond sight of the doors. You find your group. Amongst the devout, you hide in plain sight. It makes your prayers easy; they sing, you hum.
The bus is waiting, and behind it, the land undulates, peppered by the tops of the windmills. The blades are still, the birds are not, and you remember Amir’s story. You think of Jude.
The journey home is unremarkable, you leave the bus, walk home and as you enter, your uncle motions you into the living room. Sitting in the winged chair by the window is a cleric and beside her is a novitiate. You are invited to sit down to discuss concerns your uncle has about your education. The bag drops from your hand, and you find yourself seated on a dining room chair brought in just for you.
You hear the door close and little else.
ENDYou need some air and so you walk part of the way home. You tell the others you will get the later bus.
The slope looks gentle from the roadside, but the ground is uneven, and steep in places. You become out of breath very quickly and to concentrate you think about Jude. Your mothers were cousins, but you look like sisters, Jude’s face greets you in any reflection if you focus on the corner of your mouth.
The windmills rise before you like soldiers, a few dozen are smattered below and they are humming even though the blades do not turn.
<img src="https://www.cultureword.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/Windmill-2-windmills-Chi-Oludele.jpg" width="400" height="500" alt="at the windfarm">
The turf beneath you is churned earth, and rust coloured. Your feet sink in as you walk across the windfarm. You notice things trampled into the ground. A broken watch, a baseball cap, a fake nail, painted lilac.
Above you, the birds circle and you walk towards their windmill, the one with a twisted blade.
Even sitting and slumped forward, she is tall, her shoulders come to your chest. Her wounds are not bleeding but oozing, the amber liquid has crystallized around binding rope.
You examine her carefully. Her hair is matted and stained and you can smell the urine from where you stand. You refuse to identify what is caught in her kinks. Her shoulders are broader than Jude’s, her breasts larger, her belly protrudes a little beyond. Her legs carry no wounds, and you know that at some point, she was standing whilst they did what they did to her.
You need to be sure, so you reach your hand out and place it under her chin. And when you do, she looks up at you. What you see turns your stomach, you were never good with eyes, and you can see teeth even though her lips are shut. Through her usable eye, she looks at you and you know she is no longer in her body.
She is not Jude, so you take your hand quickly away and slip as you turn to walk away. You go home now. To your mum, to let her hold you. You will tell her you have the stomach flu.
[[Go home from windfarm]]Your legs barely carry you across the killing field, the journey seems so much longer on your way back and you are thankful that most of it is downhill. You half walk, half fall to the road. Fumi, in her battered Fiesta calls to you to get in. One day your mother will explain to you how she came to be there, but now, ignorant, you obey. Her backseat blanket is pulled over your shoulders, and before you doze, you attempt a lie. Something about a stomach bug, you mention the flu.
When you arrive home, she tells you to stay down and goes in. Moments later, your mother saunters out and says something about food poisoning in a loud voice. Both women keep you wrapped as they manoeuvre you into the house. Once inside the house, you lie again and rush up the stairs holding your mouth. Your uncle and some of his friends are at the living room door, they watch you stumble before you enter the bathroom. The door does not completely close.
You turn the shower on and enter fully clothed.
When you finish, your mother, sat on the toilet, rises to greet you with a towel between outstretched hands. You try to say something to her, but her eyes tell you this is not the time.
She helps you into a nightshirt, puts you to bed and shuts out the light.
You don’t remember falling asleep.
ENDYou knock on the door and Fumi answers.
'Hello Miss Fumi, Umma asked me to pick up some butter from you.'
She nods.
'And sugar.'
She motions for you to come in. You follow her into the flat.
'It’s Saturday, Miss Fumi. I have to catch the bus for school in an hour.'
Fumi does not respond so you follow her into the kitchen. She pours out two cups of tea and hovers milk over your cup, you shake your head.
'It isn’t so often that I have young company.'
She takes out an old treacle tin and pours the clarified butter into it.
'How are you, little one?'
You tell her the half-truth. She accepts it momentarily, 'Any news from Jude?'
You are shocked, you haven’t heard her name out loud and when it is uttered, it creates space inside you. Your legs threaten to fail you so you sit down.
Fumi sits opposite you, arranges her pink dreadlocks behind her shoulders and rolls up the sleeves of an un-ironed, cotton white shirtdress. She starts to wrap the tin with the brown paper, turning it in steps, and scoring the sheet against the metal.
'These times are hard.' She folds another side, 'I am happy to listen if you want to talk.'
A. [[Talk to Fumi]]
B. You are going to be late. You finish your tea, take the brown package home and go to school before you get into trouble. [[Rush on]]
YOU GO TO SATURDAY SCHOOL
Today’s reading is Genesis 39-41.
They teach you how to interpret this.
The class has a spirited discussion that descends to escalating declarations of love for their god, for the god that is supposed to be yours too. And for you, with indecent melanin and unruly hair, your declarations must be more emphatic.
And they are, you are very good with words, your performance brings tears to your eyes, and not all of it is because of shame.
To close the school day, you all pray together. It is Hebrews 13:17: //
Obey your leaders and submit to them, for they are keeping watch over your souls, as those who will have to give an account. Let them do this with joy and not with groaning, for that would be of no advantage to you. //
A. You are tired. You [[go home from school]]
B. You need to wash the lie from your mouth. You [[go from school to the wind farm]]