The Misadventures of Khadijah: Palm Oil
Little Khadijah always has a knack of finding trouble...or trouble finding her.
“Amina, what am I going to do with this girl? She can’t hear.”
Khadijah lay on the mattress bed, drenched in sweat from a high fever. Her father’s voice reached her through the haze of pain and exhaustion. The sunlight streamed into the room, a blur through her nearly closed eyelids. Each attempt to force the muscles to open them felt like sharp knives stabbing at her eyes. Even though her vision was obscured, she maintained a sharp hearing. Her father’s and aunt’s voices were clear as the crowing of roosters in the morning.
They stood by the front door, their words mixing with the cacophony of daily life filtering in from outside. Car horns blared, neighborhood children’s laughter and screams reverberated as they played, occasionally punctuated by a mother’s scolding.
Khadijah lay there, unable to move, each sound from the open door amplifying her awareness. The world was continuing its noisy routine, indifferent to her suffering. She longed to be out there, back in her element as a street vendor, engaging with her customers and chatting with neighbors, relatives, and passersby.
“I’ve tried everything, even sending her to the village. Nothing works,” Khadijah’s father said, his voice heavy with weariness. She could sense his frustration. “It’s her eyes, the problem. I have to take it from her. It’s only the way she’ll survive in this world.”
“Brother, don’t worry so much.” Khadijah could hear the soft voice of her Auntie Amina, her favorite aunt. Her voice, with its quiet assurance, caused her father to exhale for a brief moment. “Her eyes are a secret gift from God. How do you know God did not give them to her to survive in this world?”
“Yes, but she’s supposed to keep her mouth shut,” Khadijah’s father said, his voice gruff and tense. “What’s the use of a secret if everyone has to know about it? I only wish she was a boy. Then I can put some sense into her.”
“You still can, Brother,” Auntie Amina said, tranquil as ever. “You just need to tell her and explain to her. Teach he—”
“No. She’s a girl. I won’t waste my time. I’m taking it. It’s the only way.”
Khadijah heard their conversation fading in and out. She closed her eyes tight. The headache was starting, wrapping around her tiny skull like a constrictor and squeezing. Each squeeze was stronger than the last, until the only way to manage the pain was to keep her eyes shut and tune out the conversation and noise around her.
In the dark abyss inside her head, Khadijah reflected on her father’s words. He was right about one thing, whether she wanted to admit it. If she had kept her mouth shut, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.
Until now, she had considered her mouth her greatest strength, more so than her eyes. She never thought of her eyes as a strength; they were just there, something she couldn’t control or control what they set their sights on. But her mouth? That was her power. Through it, she connected with others, asked questions, and learned about things she would never have discovered in her ultra-conservative and chauvinistic home.
Still, she had to admit that a mouth like hers could be her greatest strength and her potential undoing. It was a bitter truth to swallow, especially in the wake of her encounter with the palm oil saleswoman.
The exact details of the encounter were elusive, lost in the fog of her fever and the indistinct nature of dreams.
There was no recollection of the precise day or time, but Khadijah clearly recalled accompanying her Auntie Amina to the market to buy palm oil for cooking dry rice. As they wove through the bustling stalls and tables, the scent of fresh produce and spices filled the air, mingling with the dusty aroma of the earth beneath their feet.
Before that day, nightmares had plagued her—vivid, unsettling flashes of imagery that lingered in her mind. A middle-aged woman with a plump figure, wrapped in a vibrant headscarf that framed her round, mahogany face. Her lips blackened, and her eyes were intense, like embers smoldering in the depths of a fire. Khadijah would see her in fragmented scenes, always stirring a large, worn clay pot placed on hot coals. The woman’s movements were methodical, her hand gripping a wooden spoon with practiced ease.
She would lift the spoon, filled with boiling liquid, and pour it into a dark blue plastic bottle. The liquid sizzled and bubbled as it filled the bottle to the brim. Next to the woman lay a baby, wrapped tightly in a green and yellow lapa. The infant struggled to cry, but its voice was barely audible, a faint whimper drowned out by the bubbling liquid and the woman’s murmured words. “I got mi share,” the woman repeated excitedly.
These dreams had unsettled Khadijah, leaving her with a gnawing sense of dread. The fragmented imagery haunted her, like pieces of a puzzle she couldn’t quite assemble. The baby’s feeble cries echoed in her mind, and the woman’s blackened lips moved with a sinister purpose.
On the day Khadijah accompanied Auntie Amina to the market, the nightmares were still fresh.
As the pair approached the palm oil vendors, a row of sellers called out for attention, each extolling the virtues of their product. “The redder the palm oil, the better it is. Not too thick and watery. That’s what makes the rice taste good,” Auntie Amina advised, as they turned the corner.
Auntie Amina carefully examined the vendors’ offerings. Khadijah followed suit, scrutinizing each bottle of palm oil until her eyes landed on one vendor’s stall. The oil was the perfect balance of red, thick, and slightly watery—exactly as her aunt had described.
Holding this perfect palm oil in a long, dark blue plastic bottle was a plump middle-aged woman with blackened lips and a head wrapped in a bright multicolored scarf. Déjà vu washed over Khadijah. The large clay pot and the row of dark blue plastic bottles at the stall triggered her memory, causing her heart to race. Her nightmares began to materialize before her eyes. Those dark brown eyes of hers seemed to take control, directing Khadijah’s attention to the dark blue plastic bottle the woman was holding up and focusing keenly on its content within. The perfect palm oil was not what it appeared, and Khadijah’s stomach turned into a hard, cramped knot.
She tried to clutch her aunt’s hand, but Auntie Amina was already approaching the vendor. The palm oil saleswoman smiled, her blackened lips curling, sending a shiver down Khadijah’s back. As Auntie Amina interacted with the woman, Khadijah’s eyes scoured the stall for any sign of a baby or a green and yellow lapa, but found nothing.
“I only want half this bottle,” Auntie Amina said, picking up one of the dark blue plastic bottles. “Can you give me?”
The palm oil saleswoman nodded and pulled out an empty dark blue plastic bottle. As she poured the liquid, Khadijah’s breath quickened as her eyes narrowed. The crimson liquid had a deep, velvety sheen, lingering and reluctant to flow, each droplet hanging heavy before surrendering to gravity. A few droplets spilled onto the wooden table, leaving vivid, unyielding stains.
Khadijah ran to her aunt. “Aunty, aunty,” she said frantically, tugging on Auntie Amina’s sleeve.
“Wait, child, let me pay first,” Auntie Amina said, pulling money from a leather drawstring pouch as the saleswoman finished pouring and capping the bottle.
Khadijah watched helplessly as her aunt was about to hand over the bills. Just as the saleswoman reached out, she blurted out her tribal dialect, loud and cutting through the air.
Upon hearing, Auntie Amina swiftly retracted the money. She fully understood what her niece had said; such words from their mother tongue were not to be spoken lightly. Unlike Khadijah’s father, her own cousin, Amina valued the girl’s intuition and insights. She knew not to dismiss them lightly.
“Oh, I just forgot something to buy first,” Auntie Amina said, quickly putting the money back into her pouch. “We’ll come back after.”
With half a bottle of palm oil in one hand and the other hand extended, the saleswoman glanced from Khadijah to Auntie Amina, her expression directed at the latter with confusion.
“Sure? The bottle is ready for you.”
“Yes, yes,” Auntie Amina said hurriedly. “Keep the bottle. We coming back.”
The palm oil saleswoman furrowed her brows at Auntie Amina. “What she saying to you?”
Auntie Amina’s voice was unwavering as she met the saleswoman’s gaze head-on. “She said nothing. We are coming back.”
The saleswoman’s gaze then shifted to Khadijah. A chilling intensity swept over her expression, echoing the unsettling dreams that had haunted Khadijah—the embers of a fire smoldering in her depths. Khadijah felt a shiver colder than before, but she kept her gaze steady, meeting the woman’s unsettling stare.
Sensing Khadijah’s unease, Auntie Amina took her hand and steered her briskly away from the stall. The bustling market, a symphony of voices and movement, provided a welcome distraction from the unsettling encounter. Once they were a safe distance away, Auntie Amina paused, her grip tightening slightly on Khadijah’s hand. “Why did you speak like that?” she asked, her voice soft but firm.
Khadijah hesitated for a moment, then spoke quietly but decisively. “She’s selling blood.”
Auntie Amina nodded, giving a wry smile. She trusted her niece and didn’t press further. “Come, child, let’s go home. Away from here.”
Auntie Amina continued leading Khadijah through the market, navigating through the familiar chaos with a sense of urgency. As they hurried away, Khadijah couldn’t resist stealing another glance back. Her gaze locked with the saleswoman’s once more—a haunting aura emanated from those eyes, dark and penetrating.
Khadijah quickly turned away, her heart hammering in her chest. She clung tightly to Auntie Amina’s hand, silently grateful for her aunt’s protective presence as they exited the market area and headed home.
Upon returning home, the pair found Khadijah’s father waiting by the front door, arms crossed with a stern facial expression. It appeared he already knew about their encounter.
Immediately, he directed a line of questioning at Khadijah. “What you see this time? You see something, eh? Hard head girl, can’t close your mouth.”
Khadijah did not answer him. She bent her head and walked past him into the house, her steps quick and subdued.
“Answer me, girl,” her father demanded, turning to follow her.
“Brother, please,” Auntie Amina said, stepping in front of her cousin and placing a hand on his arm. “Let the child go. She already been through enough in one day.”
Khadijah’s father exhaled deeply, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. Unlike other relatives, Auntie Amina had the most success calming him down and making him reconsider. He was a stubborn and prideful man, being the first grandchild and grandson out of his grandfather’s forty-two children. Rarely did he set his mind on something and then drop it.
“Brother, please,” Auntie Amina said, pleading. “Let the child rest.”
Khadijah’s father massaged his glabrous chin, eyes lingering on the doorway through which his daughter had disappeared. “Alright. But we need to talk further. I can’t have her running around, opening her mouth and causing trouble.”
“We will,” Auntie Amina said reassuringly. “But for now, let her be.”
Honoring his promise and heeding Auntie Amina’s pleas, Khadijah’s father refrained from pursuing the matter further. Dinner that night was a somber affair, the silence punctuated only by the heavy sighs of her father. Khadijah kept her head bowed, avoiding his gaze, but the weight of his displeasure was palpable in the air.
Normally, after dinner, she and Auntie Amina would sit outside under the blanket of stars, sharing stories and jokes. Khadijah would laugh loudly, asking her aunt countless questions. She cherished these moments, feeling the closest to Auntie Amina, who she viewed as the only role model worth imitating in their family and extended family. Auntie Amina never considered her a nuisance and always answered all her questions, patiently.
But on this night, Khadijah didn’t dare venture out for their usual nighttime stories. Her father was in no mood for such entertainment, as the last thing he wanted to hear was her voice or laughter. Nearing the end of dinner, Khadijah met her aunt’s kind eyes and could read the woman’s mind: “Sorry, child. Your Baba is very angry. Let’s wait till tomorrow when he relaxes.”
Khadijah was the first to head to bed that night, hoping to escape her father’s ire. But she soon regretted this decision.
The moment her eyes closed, she began tossing and turning, desperately trying to wake up. She had forgotten about her recurring nightmare, which returned that night, more profound and menacing than ever before.
The tension with her father had caused her to forget her pre-sleep routine, a practice she had developed to deter nightmares. This routine involved steeling her mind and telling herself it was all a dream and that she could wake up anytime. It had worked for her the previous nights, allowing her to see only flashes of the nightmare. But tonight, she had neglected this crucial practice.
As Khadijah drifted into an uneasy sleep, the nightmare quickly enveloped her.
Instantly, she knew she was dreaming. The market was desolate in the middle of the day, the sky a gloomy gray. Khadijah surveyed the empty stalls and listened attentively: no lively chatter, no market vendors shouting, no customers haggling. Not even a single bird’s chirping could be heard.
Yet, there was one familiar sound that sent chills down her spine—the sound of boiling liquid.
Khadijah’s gaze snapped toward the sound, an icy fist of fear clenching her heart. She desperately tried to remember her routine, to tell herself it was all a dream, even pinching herself to wake up. But it was already too late. Her body was paralyzed, and her mind was engulfed. The nightmare was in full control.
Her eyes became fixated on a market stall that seemed to emerge from the shadows. There on the table, a large clay pot sat atop hot coals, the liquid inside boiling fiercely. A wooden spoon rested inside the pot, stirring slowly as if by an unseen hand.
The palm oil saleswoman moved with an unsettling grace around the boiling pot, her actions illuminated by its flickering flames. She was packing an old, battered train case, its black leather cracked and peeling, the metal clasps rusted and barely clinging to their duty. The once-luxurious fabric lining inside was now frayed and stained, a silent witness to countless journeys and forgotten memories.
As the woman packed the train case, she hummed a melody, her voice low and rhythmic. “I got mi share. Mi friends happy,” she repeated, her words echoing in the desolate market.
Facing Khadijah, a naked baby lay on a red and green lapa on the floor, its tiny body barely moving.
“You dey come to see me again, girl,” the woman said, her smile twisted as she took the wooden spoon into the boiling pot and tasted the liquid. Khadijah watched with her mouth agape as some of the liquid spilled from the woman’s blackened lips, dripping from her chin. The liquid had a deep maroon color, unmistakably blood.
Laying eyes on the blood, Khadijah felt her stomach churn violently, followed by a surge of overwhelming nausea. Her throat tightened, and a sour taste filled her mouth. She felt queasy, her body betraying her with the urge to vomit. The smell of the boiling liquid mixed with the woman’s humming created a suffocating atmosphere that made her head spin. No matter how much she tried to fight it, she could not move or attempt to run away. She felt completely and utterly helpless, a prisoner of her own body and mind.
Desperately, Khadijah tried to focus on something else, anything else, but her eyes kept drifting back to the naked baby on the lapa, its tiny chest rising and falling with agonizing slowness. Every few seconds, the baby’s body would shudder with effort, its little fists clenched tightly, fingers curled inward as if grasping for air.
“Come ya, girl. You wan see how I make mi oil, eh?” a voice rang out.
Khadijah’s eyes darted back to the palm oil saleswoman, who maintained her twisted smile with teeth stained with red. The woman’s smoldering eyes seemed to strike Khadijah’s soul like an assegai.
“Come ya, girl,” the woman said.
Khadijah did not move. For once, she was glad her body could not move and was at a distance from the woman.
However, when the woman spoke again, “Come,” Khadijah instantly felt her body jerked forward as if by an invisible force. She was now face-to-face with the palm oil saleswoman, the twisted, bloody smile and burning eyes up close and personal. Khadijah attempted to look away, but the instant her eyes shifted, she regretted it. Her gaze fell upon the baby lying beside the woman, sprawled on the red and green lapa on the dusty, hard floor.
The baby’s skin was an unnatural dark blue, clammy and cold-looking, a stark contrast to the vibrant fabric beneath it. Its tiny mouth hung open, struggling for breath, chest heaving with painful, labored movements. The most distinct sight, though, was its hands and feet. Where fingers and toes should have been, there were only raw, stumpy nubs, as if they had been cruelly taken away.
The sight made all the hairs on Khadijah’s body stand on end. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. The air felt thick, choking, as the saleswoman’s eyes bore into her.
“Aah, no mind am,” the woman said nonchalantly. “That pikin no go live.” She lifted the wooden spoon again, letting the maroon liquid drip slowly back into the boiling pot, each drop echoing in Khadijah’s mind like a foreboding countdown.
Khadijah’s stomach continued churning as she felt the bile rising in her throat. Her legs trembled, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t escape the sight before her. The palm oil saleswoman’s humming filled the air, mingling with the sound of the boiling liquid, creating a nightmarish symphony that was consuming her entirely.
The woman leaned in closer, dark liquid still dripping from her chin, her eyes locking onto Khadijah’s with an unholy gleam. “You no can escape, girl. You must know the secrets of mi oil.” She pointed to the boiling pot, and Khadijah’s eyes followed. Floating amidst the boiling and thick maroon liquid were several tiny fingers and toes.
Khadijah’s mind screamed for her to wake up, to break free, but her body remained frozen, trapped in the nightmare’s relentless grip.
“You no fit escape, girl.” the woman repeated, as if inside Khadijah’s head. “Now, na your turn. Bring mi hands.”
“No! Please!” Khadijah’s silent cry was met with a dismissive sigh from the woman. “Hands,” she commanded, and Khadijah’s hands were violently wrenched forward, palms open.
“Hmm,” the woman said, examining Khadijah’s hands closely. “Ugly hands. Man hands. You dey work to death, pikin.” She seized Khadijah’s wrists, her cold, rough touch causing Khadijah to wince in pain. “Forget your hands!” The woman’s grip tightened, and Khadijah felt a warm liquid running down her legs, a fleeting reprieve.
“Look mi eyes, girl,” the woman said, her face so close that Khadijah could smell her fetid breath. “I want your eyes.” With a raucous cackle, she spat a mouthful of liquid into Khadijah’s eyes. The searing pain made Khadijah recoil, screaming in agony. A pain that felt akin to being stabbed in the eyes with countless needles, each one scorching her corneas and sending excruciating stings through her skull.
Khadijah opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains. She couldn’t open them completely, but the improvement from the beginning of her illness was noticeable. The stabbing pain, though still present, was now manageable.
She reached out, her fingers brushing against a soft fabric beneath her. It was unlike the rough, coiled mattress she usually shared with her siblings. As her hand wandered further, it encountered a warm, snoring body. She was lying in her parents’ bed, nestled next to her mother. Khadijah was sure of it. Her parent’s bed, plush and comfortable, felt like lying on a cloud—a stark contrast to her usual sleeping arrangement.
Memories began to surface. The recall of her father lifting her from the crowded mattress she shared with her siblings and placing her between him and her mother to monitor her condition. He had relayed to Auntie Amina that he himself would take care of her, refusing the suggestion of taking his daughter to the hospital or notifying a doctor.
Khadijah’s arms ached as she touched them, a soreness that brought back the harrowing nights under her father’s care. Each night, he would mutter “Bismillah” before pouring what felt like cold water on her face. Upon touching flesh, the water turned into an unbearable torment as soon as it reached her eyes, like someone trying to tear them from their sockets. She would scream and thrash, desperate to claw the liquid away.
“Hold her hands! Do not let her touch!” her father would bellow, and her mother would comply, restraining Khadijah as she writhed in agony.
This had been the tenth night of the ritual. Every night, Khadijah’s father poured the water, and her mother held her down. Her screams and cries echoed through the house, penetrating the stillness of the night.
Auntie Amina, in particular, found the cries unbearable. On the seventh night, unable to take it any longer, she barged into her cousin’s room and confronted him. “Why must you do this to her? Why cause her such suffering?”
His response was curt. “If I don’t do this, she will never see again.”
Nestled in the comforting softness of her parents’ bed, Khadijah’s senses were drawn to a gentle flicker of candlelight at its foot. The rhythmic clinking of prayer beads, a familiar and soothing sound, filled the quiet room. Her father was immersed in his nightly devotions.
Each bead slipping through his fingers resonated like a delicate wind chime, creating a hypnotic rhythm that eased the throb in her eyes. The dancing shadows cast by the candlelight painted a tapestry of serenity on the walls, further lulling her senses.
As the rhythmic prayer continued, a wave of tranquility washed over her, replacing the persistent ache with a sense of peace. The gentle clinking became a lullaby, each bead a note guiding her towards slumber. Her eyelids grew heavy, and with a sigh, she surrendered to the darkness, the comforting sounds of her father’s prayers echoing in her dreams.
In the weeks that followed, Khadijah’s condition steadily improved. Each day, her eyesight became clearer, and the pain in her eyelids lessened, enabling her to gradually open them wider. The stabbing agony that once tormented her became a distant memory. Her father’s ritual continued, but the cold water now brought relief instead of pain.
A month passed, and she no longer screamed or thrashed as the water touched her face. The initial shock of the cool liquid gave way to a soothing sensation. Sometimes, it even tickled her skin, causing her to giggle softly. Her mother no longer had to hold her down; instead, she watched with a mixture of relief and amazement as her third born endured the nightly ritual with calm acceptance.
Ten days later, the pain had finally subsided, and Khadijah could blink open her eyes without discomfort. With a pang of regret, she left her parents' bed and returned to the lumpy mattress shared with her siblings. The contrast was jarring: the plush comfort of her parents’ bed was now a distant memory, replaced by the harsh reality of the familiar, cramped space and its unforgiving coils. Yet, amidst the discomfort, a sense of normalcy slowly seeped back in.
Life slowly began to regain its familiar cadence. Khadijah’s vibrant personality reawakened, her laughter and chatter once again filling the spaces between the houses. She returned to her familiar post as a street vendor, her infectious smile greeting customers who were elated to see her back on her feet, back in her element.
No one was more elated to see Khadijah recover than Auntie Amina. Yet, that elation was quickly tempered the first time she saw her niece emerge from bedrest. While Khadijah’s newfound strength brought a smile to Auntie Amina’s face, it quickly faded as she noticed her niece’s red and bloodshot scleras: a permanent scarring and the cost of her recovery.
Her cousin had followed through on his promise, taking away his daughter’s eyes.
This filled Auntie Amina with a quiet rage as she railed inwardly at him for taking away “a secret gift from God.” She wished her cousin was like her own late father—loving, kind, and valuing daughters as much as sons. Khadijah was a smart girl, and it seemed that Auntie Amina was the only one in her cousin’s household who knew it. Had Khadijah been a daughter of her late father, the girl would have excelled and had a promising future. This Auntie Amina was certain of.
Still, Auntie Amina dared not voice her grievances to her cousin. He was the only family member who had taken her in when she had nothing. How ungrateful would it be for her to criticize him for how he was raising his children? She was sure his patience with her was wearing thin, especially since she had barged on him that night about how he was treating her niece. If he lost patience and kicked her out, she had nowhere else to go.
Thus, Auntie Amina resolved to keep her thoughts to herself. She decided it was not her place to lecture her cousin on how to raise his own children, no matter how much she loved his bright daughter.
Auntie Amina's quiet rage simmered, fueled by Khadijah's whispered confessions of nightmares haunted by the palm oil saleswoman. The vivid descriptions, the chilling details, made Amina bite back a scream, the taste of blood a testament to her fury. A fierce protectiveness ignited within her, and she vowed to confront the woman who tormented her niece.
Saturday, the market’s busiest day, would be her stage. Under the watchful eyes of the entire town, she would expose the woman for the witch she was, preying on innocent children. Amina could already picture the scene: herself, a righteous fury in her voice, pointing an accusing finger, the woman’s face crumbling under the weight of public shame.
Come Saturday, Auntie Amina rose before dawn, a steely resolve in her stride as she entered the teeming market. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk, scanned the countless stalls, seeking the palm oil vendors. However, as she reached their usual area, the saleswoman was nowhere to be found. Confused and resolute, she scoured the entire market, even the town square, but the woman was absent.
She began inquiring after the saleswoman, her questions met with puzzled shakes of the head. No one had seen her. Days bled into weeks, Amina’s frustration mounting with each passing day. The woman seemed to have vanished into thin air.
Still, Auntie Amina persisted, returning to the market day after day, her inquiries a relentless refrain. But years turned, and the woman never reappeared. Her search became less fervent, a quiet vigilance replacing the initial urgency. The palm oil saleswoman would never appear, and she would never find her.
On that initial Saturday, after searching nearly the entire day and questioning vendors and market attendees, Auntie Amina returned to the area of the palm oil vendors. The stall once commanded by the palm oil saleswoman was now occupied by a skinny man with a light complexion. The man smiled at her, revealing rows of discolored and decaying teeth. She observed him keenly, wondering if the palm oil saleswoman might be in disguise or had shape-shifted into this undernourished young man to hide her true form.
But she quickly dismissed the thought, frowning as the man held up a bottle of palm oil enticingly. The liquid inside was a peculiar shade of orange, too pale. Just an inexperienced vendor hoping to make a quick buck—nothing sinister.
Thank You for Reading!
Subscribe to make sure you don’t miss future stories and series. Subscribers get exclusive access to next story installment: The Misadventures of Khadijah: The White Volkswagen.