* Manuella's POV

I take the wide-toothed comb and try to run it through my hair but it gets stuck as soon as I push it in. If I pull it will hurt me so I take it off slowly. I take a nut of Vaseline because that's all I have that could help me soften them. I spread it on my hands then brush my head with it before tying it all up with braiding thread because I no longer have a scrunchie. That should be enough to calm Mom's fury if she finds out I couldn't braid my hair because I have too many knots in my hair. I look at myself in the small pocket mirror and see that all my efforts have produced nothing pretty. My head looks like a dry coconut. My shoulders slouch. It is a disaster. The door bangs open and Mom looks at me with her usual displeasure on her face. Even angry she is beautiful. She has long hair that falls down her back and that she likes to braid without adding a wick. His features are fine like those of white people. In addition she has very clear eyes like those of cats. I would so much like to look like him but it's not possible. I'm as black as she is fair-skinned and then we don't have the same face.

"You're still dirty. Do you think your dad and I are all going to date a mean dirty girl like you? No way.

" Mom...

" Fianfian. Who are you calling mum? I can't give birth to an ugliness like you. We're going. But you stay here.

"But Mom, you promised to take me to the restaurant with you.

"So what? Did you manage to move on to the next class?"

I look down and bite my bottom lip to keep it from shaking. I'm going to repeat my CE2 class. No matter how much I prayed to God to finally help me read, it didn't work. The letters dance the lambada as soon as I try to decipher them. In the end Mom is right, I'm too stupid.

" But what is going on here? Dad asks as he enters my room.

When you see my father and you see me afterwards, you wonder what bond unites us. We don't even look a bit alike. It is as thick as a Bedoum while I am very small everywhere.

"She's the one who thinks she's your daughter. I won't accept her coming with us like that, huh. Look at her face.

“But it had to be styled!

"With her lice! You want her to pass them to me! Sometimes I don't ask if you're thinking.

"Well, she's going to stay with Patrick. He's going to buy her the flour cakes. How's it going, sweetheart?

His gaze begs me to say yes, not to kick back and make his wife angry. Mine begs him not to force me to lie. But he does the one who doesn't see my disappointment. So I sit down, wipe my hands full of Vaseline on my pleated skirt that I had worn for the occasion. And I answer as cheerfully as I can: yes dad. Mom finally smiled at me.

"I like it when you're wise like that. We'll see what we can bring you back.

" Thanks Mom.

This thank you mum scratches my mouth, even though it is said with sincerity. I do not know why. Maybe I'm bad at heart and don't know how to say thank you nicely. I take off my pleated skirt and the shirt that goes with it. It was useless to wear them to please mom. I take back my jean shorts and my house t-shirt. I feel better now even though the collar of my t-shirt is a little warped from being washed.

They leave about thirty minutes later after leaving me in the garage with Patrick.

She repeats to anyone who will listen that I have lice and that I am dirty when she knows very well that it was my girlfriend who gave me hers. I knew she had lice but no one wanted to play with her. She was crying alone in her corner. I didn't have the heart to stay away from her. And now I've been dragging these filthy little beasts in my hair for a month because mom refuses to help me get rid of them. Last time Patrick put brake oil in my hair and made me a Charlotte out of an old bag of food. It killed them all. I was so happy with it that I didn't leave it for at least a week. But he said that since I went back to bed in the same bed without changing the sheets, that's why I caught them again. I didn't know that the sheets and the combs had to be treated so as not to have these filthy beasts.

Sitting on an old tire, I watch him tinker with a car with a flashlight in one hand and a tool in the other. It struggles to light well under the hood and work at the same time. I get up and offer him my help, which he accepts. So I hold my packet of donuts in one hand and the torch in the other. And he works in silence. It's weird but I like the smell of oil. I prefer that to the smell of Vaseline.

Now I can't see anything. Because my eyes water with tears when I think of dad who did nothing to get her to agree to take me with them. My heart is hurting me. My knotted throat prevents me from swallowing my saliva. Tears roll down my cheeks without me wiping them away because I don't want Patrick to see me cry. I want to scratch my head but for nothing in the world I would do it in front of him.

"She refuses to mind your head, does she?" he asks suddenly, looking at me.

I shrug without confirming anything. He places his tool in a box, wipes his hands on his coveralls and takes the torch from me.

" We can cut your hair. It's easier. They will grow back anyway. That way you won't have any more head lice problems.

I say yes immediately. I don't care if they are very long right now, even longer than mom's. All I want is to not have to scratch my head anymore.

"But if they cut your hair short, you'll look like a boy. You're not even wearing earrings.

Market earrings damage my ears when I wear them all the time. Mom said that since I was not doing well in school, there was no point in buying gold for me.

I don't mind looking like a boy. Even though I have lice, they always agree to play with me because I'm strong, I take the blows without whining and I can make lots of toys. The girls, on the other hand, spend their time playing with dolls. I don't have a doll. So they don't want me mixing with her. Even Melissa who gave me her lice refuses to play with me because she has run out of them and risks getting them again. Girls are stupid. I don't care if I don't look like a girl.

“Cut the Patricks.

"Still, if you were groomed a little, you'd be really proud of your hair. It's so long and bushy. It's not given to everyone.

"Cut them.

"Okay. Tomorrow I'm taking you to the hairdresser. But first I'm going to ask your father for permission.

What a waste of time. He doesn't care.

"Well, in the meantime, you're going to help me tidy up the garage before closing it.

I nod, swallow the rest of my cakes. With for once since the beginning of this day, the smile on the lips. As soon as the garage is completely clean, he offers to buy me some biscuits until my parents come home and my father comes to pick me up. Once the packet of biscuits has been purchased, he hands it to me and makes me sit down facing him. These are my favorite moments the most. Except when I can watch him fix a car of course. Because I can ask him all the questions in the world and I always have the impression that he answers me without lying to me. Old people lie every day. But not him. When dad told me I'd be happy with a new mom. He lied. When my new mom said she would treat me like her daughter, she was lying. Everyone lies every day. Except Patrick.

"Do you think I'm dirty?

"Who told you that?

"Other moms. And mom also tells everyone. I rub lemon on my skin so it doesn't look too black but it doesn't work. Maybe I'm too dirty for the dirt to come off my skin .

"But being black doesn't mean being dirty. I'm black, no.

I watch him more carefully. It's true. But he's a man so it doesn't count. I think of an example that will change his opinion on the matter.

"So why do all the mommies want fair-skinned little girls? Huh why? They don't want them to be dark like me.

"They're stupid. You don't have to be as stupid as them.

"I'm already dumber than them.

He gets up and picks up the tin can cart I made with a small wooden motor. He puts it in my hands. This thing sheared my fingers well before taking the shape I wanted. But the result was worth it.

"A stupid girl couldn't make that Manuella.

"A girl who wasn't stupid would go up a class.

"You know, not everyone is made to heat the benches of the school. Do your best in class but if that does not work, I forbid you to tell yourself that you are worthless. God you gave ten fingers to work by the sweat of your brow and feed you with the fruit of your labor. And that is what you did in making this car. You used your ten fingers. How did you felt when others wanted to buy it from you?

“Proud.

"Keep that in mind then. To hold a pen you only need four fingers. Your life can't be all about using your four fingers. It's a waste.

Dad appears at the entrance to the garage, interrupting our conversation. Even though he wasn't gone long, I missed him. I get up and run to hide in his arms. He hugs me very tight. Patrick looks at him angrily but says nothing.

“It takes patience, dad justifies himself. One day she will end up loving him like her own daughter.

"You are my boss, you don't have to answer to me.

Patrick sighs then leaves. As I walk beside my father, my hand buried in his larger, rougher one, I tell myself that it's because he loves Mom that he doesn't love me anymore. Maybe she's taken all the space in her heart and there's nothing left for me. Then I rebel internally. Because I think love is stupid. Like the girls. Like life. Like a person's hearts that fill up too quickly. Like me.

Manuella 8 years old

" What is that?

Mom walked into the shower without knocking. She is holding a skirt in her hand. She probably just bought it for me. She always does it when she wants to ask daddy for money. She justifies all her expenses by telling him that my business is expensive. Dad doesn't care anyway, otherwise he'd have known for a long time that I'm only wearing the same clothes.

But for the moment it is not the most urgent. What scares me is that she widened her big eyes in terror as she studied my body. I no longer know how to hide my body with my hands. Usually, she doesn't take care of me when I'm in the shower.

“Manu, come and see this!” she screams, clapping her hands to signal the seriousness of the situation.

I try to grab my towel but she snatches it away so violently that the cotton burns the palms of my hands. Dad arrives breathless and searches the entire bathroom for what could have made his wife scream.

" What is the problem ?

Mom points with her index finger to the part below my stomach. It's been a little itchy for a few months. But I didn't want to talk about it. I kept everything to myself to avoid this weird situation where she looks at me like she looks at the little beggars in town.

"I told you that your daughter is possessed by the spirit of her witch mother's father, no! What my pastor had seen in a dream was therefore true. Look at yourself.

So as not to meet Dad's gaze, I stubbornly lower mine. I don't like when she talks about my mother. She has no right. She didn't even know him. Why does she call her a witch? I back up to the bottom of the shower, stick my back against the cold tiles. It reminds me that we are in the dry season and that I can catch a cold from being naked as a worm. I read in his eyes that I should be ashamed. So I'm ashamed. It's almost a habit now. It doesn't hurt as much as I thought it would

I have hair where she shows Daddy and also in my armpits. The other children don't have that, I took a good look.

"Let me take her to see my pastor, begs mom. He's going to say prayers for her. It's not normal for a girl her age to be the way she is. It looks like a boy. It's the spirit of her grandfather who bothers her, I told you so. We are going to free her from the evil that is eating away at her and you will see that even at school it will be better. She will finally be like a real girl. Her mother has surely sold his mind to his grandfather.

Because I can't stand to hear her talk about my mother anymore, I hunker down and throw myself at her as hard as I can. I think of all the times I dreamed of doing it but didn't dare. I think of my hair that I no longer have. To the girls who laugh at me and to the moms who don't want their daughters to play with me. I bite everything that falls under my teeth and shoot everything that comes near my hands. It takes all of Dad's strength to tear me away from her. A tuft of her hair in my hand, I watch with satisfaction as she stammers curses at me.

“But are you watching this demon do it?” she asks Dad when she realizes that his insults don't hurt me.

She runs out of the shower then comes back with holy water that she pours over me while praying. I read fear in his eyes. And I note with satisfaction that she is now afraid of me. Scared because she doesn't understand me. Fear because I am different from her.

I finally manage to take the towel and tie it around my body. Dad meanwhile remains dumb with amazement.

I grab the bottle of water and drink it from the neck. I don't even know why I'm doing this.

“The blood of Jesus on you,” she cries.

I wonder if poor Jesus isn't anemic from spilling his blood on anything that woman points to.

It's always when I'm drunk that childhood memories come to the surface.

I laugh softly as I watch the lights of the street lamps in Libreville pass before my eyes. My shock absorbers of this car are a real marvel. Even when riding on a speed bump, it does not swing. William takes the narrow road that leads to my house. Once parked in front of the garage, he pulls the handbrake and undoes his seat belt to get comfortable. Silence reigns in the passenger compartment because I am not carrying on a conversation, lost as I am in my childhood memories.

" So ?

"What? I ask, turning off my phone.

"I admit that I have a lot of trouble pinning you down. You left me to talk to myself all along the way when you were pretty good company when we had our drinks together. Do I did or said something wrong because I'm really having a hard time figuring out how to advance my cards with you.

"It's quite normal.

" Explain yourself.

"We're going to stop beating around the bush. What exactly do you want? Sleep with me or just check more closely that I'm a girl?

He raises his hands to heaven in innocence.

"You're not going to blame me again for my stupid joke from when you started playing in the team. I know I'm sometimes stupid, but I'm not the guy you think. I deserve to be known. Sincerely. We started off on the wrong foot, but… I realize I made a big mistake. You're falling for this lace. Seriously, I had a hard time recognizing you last night.

"No need to tell me your usual spiel," I told him, laughing softly.

"Why doesn't it work with you?" he asks me most sincerely, crossing his arms like a sulky child.

During the whole trip he took out all his flirting cards like a professional in a hurry to recite his sales speech. And he wonders why it doesn't work with me? Because men are bred as predators. They go on the hunt, happy to be able to prove their worth by bringing back the carcasses of women who have succumbed to their sharp fangs. Women on the other hand are raised as prey. Their mother gives them all the tips to avoid being devoured by the one who is not intended for them. All this may be unconscious but it has a terrible impact on everyday life.

I was not brought up as the future prey of a man. I wasn't raised by anyone. So I didn't really have time to assimilate that I should be a man's prey. I don't know how to behave myself in prey.

"Do you want to come in for a last drink?

" Serious ?

"Yes. I'm asking if you want to come in.

"Where's the catch? Like tomorrow morning I'm going to wake up and you'll be cooking for me while singing: "I'm stuck".

I burst out laughing when I realized how wrong he was. What does he think he's making me happy by asking me to cook for him? This is supposed to tell me that he sees me as a possible future wife! I always do stupid things when I'm drunk and sad. And this time, I may not make one. I take my keys out of my pockets and turn my back to him.

“Go sing and stall elsewhere. It’s not true, what a corny thing!

I open my door, close it and collapse on the sofa in the living room to quietly sleep off my wine. But closing my eyes takes me back years and brings to my skin the eerie feeling of the wandering hands of that stupid fucking pastor Mom loved to glorify so much. Thanks to him I know that the spirits that bewitch children do not exist. But bad men do. The men who should never be trusted. Yes. I suppress the urge to vomit and stand up in a hurry. I open the door a crack as he prepares to start his car and drive away. William understands and gets out of the car to find me in front of my door. He opens his mouth. Probably to ask me what made me change my mind. I gag him with a kiss.

There are sorrows that will never leave us. Sorrows that can never be erased. Sorrows that destroy us from within as we bravely smile at life.

There are feelings that only stay beautiful and pure because they are like a rose under a lid. Remove the lid and you will see each petal blasted before your eyes.

William's hands cup my face. Any hand, any mouth, rather than a night of remembrance with those of Mom's pastor.

To be continued....