CHAPTER 2

The morning air was still cool. Smoke from Goggo’s firewood curled up and got stuck in the thatch of the hut.

Musa was sitting on the low wooden stool, rubbing his palms together. He looked tired. Like a man who had not slept well in years.

Goggo stood by the fire, stirring something in a pot. Her back was straight, but her voice came out sharp, like a cutlass.

"All this wouldn’t have happened if you had listened to me and married your cousin Habiba."

Musa didn’t answer. He just stared at the floor.

"I told you," Goggo continued. "I hated Kulu and her mother from the beginning. Not because they are from another tribe. But because of how wicked their hearts are."

She turned around. Her wrapper was tied tight and her eyes were red. Not from smoke. From anger.

"It was never Mairo’s fault that your wife’s favorite daughter died. A child died, Musa. Allah took her. And now because that late daughter had her mother’s name, Kulu expects Mairo to carry her shame too?"

Musa opened his mouth. "Goggo, it’s not like that."

"Not like what?" Goggo cut him off. "Why would she be maltreating a 7-year-old girl all because Mairo was named after me? Because I begged you to name her after me? That’s ridiculous, Musa. That’s madness. And I won’t allow that to continue as long as I’m alive. Not in my compound. Not in my eyes."

The hut went quiet. Only the sound of the fire crackling.

Musa sighed. He looked older than his age. "Goggo, you don’t understand how it is in that house. Kulu... she’s bitter. Since Amina died, she hasn’t been herself."

"So she takes it out on a child?" Goggo slammed the wooden spoon on the pot. "A child who calls you Baba? A child who didn’t kill anyone?"

Before Musa could answer, a small voice came from the doorway.

"Salaam alaikum."

Both of them turned.

Mairo stood there. Barefoot. Her wrapper was too big for her and kept slipping from one shoulder. In her hands was a small nylon with akara and pap. Her face was swollen a little, like she had been crying earlier, but she was smiling.

"Goggo, I’m back," she said softly.

Goggo’s face changed instantly. The anger melted.

"Tohm sannu la bankat," she said, switching to Jarawa. Her voice was warm like honey. "Welcome back, my child. _Yuu bini_."

Mairo ran in and put the nylon on the mat. "I bought it from Mama Binta. She said to greet you."

Goggo reached out and touched Mairo’s hair. It was rough and dry. She made a note in her heart to oil it tonight.

"My granddaughter," she whispered. Then she looked at Musa.

"I told you to be teaching these children how to speak their language," Goggo said, still in Jarawa. "What if we are no more, Musa? What if I die tomorrow? How will they be able to boast to people that they are Jarawa? How will they know the proverbs? How will they pray for us in our language?"

She took the akara and began placing it carefully on a plate for Musa. The oil dripped onto the clay plate with a soft sound.

"We are trying, Goggo," Musa said quickly. In Hausa. "Sometimes we speak Jarawa at home. But Kulu... she doesn’t like it. She says the children should only speak Hausa."

Goggo made a sound. "Hmm."

That one "Hmm" carried 20 years of disappointment.

She handed the plate to Musa. "Eat. You look like hunger is killing you."

They ate in silence. The akara was hot and crispy. The pap was smooth. Mairo sat on the floor beside Goggo, not eating yet, just watching. Watching how Goggo broke the akara into two and gave the bigger half to Musa. Watching how her father’s hands shook a little.

When they finished, Mairo jumped up. "I’ll clear it, Goggo."

She gathered the plates and the cup. Her small hands moved fast. Too fast, like she was used to being shouted at if she was slow.

Goggo watched her go. When Mairo came back, she didn’t say anything. She just walked straight to Goggo and climbed into her lap. No words. Just her head on Goggo’s chest.

Musa watched them. His throat moved.

"Don’t stress Goggo a lot," he said to Mairo. His voice was rough. "Make sure you do as she says. Sweep. Cook. And take care of yourself. Be a good girl."

Mairo nodded against Goggo’s wrapper. "Yes, Baba."

Musa stood up. He went to the corner where his bicycle was leaning. The tires were flat. He pumped them slowly.

"I have to go," he said. "Work is waiting."

Goggo didn’t look at him. "Go. And remember what I said."

Musa walked to the doorway. He paused. "Sannu, Mama."

"Sannu," Goggo replied, without turning.

He climbed the bicycle and pushed off. The sound of the chain faded down the path.

Only then did Goggo exhale. She held Mairo tighter.

"Come," she said, standing up with Mairo still in her arms. "Let’s go inside."

The hut was dim. It smelled like old mats and medicine. Goggo set Mairo down on the mat and sat beside her.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Finally, Goggo took Mairo’s small hand in her own. Her hands were rough, with cracks from years of work.

"Mairo," she said in Jarawa. "Do you know why your name is Mairo?"

Mairo shook her head.

"It’s because of me. I’m also Mairo. My mother named me Mairo. And I wanted my son’s first daughter to carry it. To carry our people. To carry our name so it doesn’t die."

Tears welled in Mairo’s eyes. "Is that why my mother hates me?"

Goggo’s jaw tightened. "Kulu hates a lot of things she doesn’t understand. She hates that you are mine. She hates that you look like me. But that is not your problem, _yuu bini_. That is her problem."

She pulled Mairo closer.

"From today, this is your home. As long as I’m breathing, no one will pour cold water on you. No one will call you names. You hear me?"

Mairo nodded. For the first time in a long time, she felt safe enough to cry. Quiet tears ran down her face and into Goggo’s wrapper.

Goggo wiped them with her thumb. "Shhh. Don’t cry. We Jarawa people are strong. We farm. We sing. We survive. And you, Mairo, you will survive too. You will go to school. You will speak English. You will make me proud."

Outside, the sun was now high. Children were shouting in the distance. A goat bleated.

Inside the hut, an old woman and a small girl sat together. One had lived through too much pain. The other had just started. But in that moment, they had each other.

And that was enough.