No Laughter Here

  My homework was done. Plus the extra-credit work. Everything checked and rechecked. My school clothes were ready for the next day. My backpack was loaded. I had two hours before bedtime. Two whole hours, with nothing to do but stare at the paint on the walls. How many times could I read the same books on my bookshelf? I was going to die of boredom.

  I wanted to talk to Victoria, but even if I could call her on the phone, I’d have to do all the talking. I’d slip in something funny to make sure she was listening on the other end. And then she’d hang up on me.

  It wasn’t fair that we couldn’t laugh together. I mean, I understood why she didn’t laugh out loud, but we should be able to laugh, just between us.

  Then I realized I had a purpose for being on the computer. Mom said I could use my PC for educational purposes, and finally I had one. My search wouldn’t involve laughter or amusement of any kind.

  I powered up my computer and turned down the sound controls so I couldn’t be heard. Instantly I was out on the web. All I had to do was search, but for what? Girls with no laughter? It wasn’t like looking up menstruation, where all you need is a topic and correct spelling. I didn’t have a name to start with.

  I thought hard. What they did to Victoria was cruel, so I typed in cruelty. That was too broad. I tried extreme cruelty and got links to animal rights articles, stuff about the death penalty, and a heavy metal band. Then I said to myself, “Akilah, use all the clues. Use what you know,” so I typed in cruelty to girls in Africa. It took a couple of seconds for the search engine to pull everything together, but ka-bang!—236 sites found. I was in the right place.

  At first all I saw were links to circumcision web sites, but that couldn’t be right. Circumcision is for baby boys. There’s nothing to circumcise on a girl. We don’t have extra skin covering our privates. We just have what we have. But then the next link said, “Female circumcision.”

  Female circumcision?

  Then another link said, “Female genital mutilation, another term for Female circumcision.” I knew genital, from the backyard tea talks and from Paths to Discovery, but mutilation gave me trouble. It had to be a form of mutation and mutant. You read enough comic books, you know about mutants. Things that change. I right clicked on the word mutilation. “Maim, disfigure, destroy.”

  That was what they did to Victoria. They mutilated her.

  That sick feeling came over me. I wanted to understand, but I didn’t want to know. I was stalling. Scrolling to see which site I would enter.

  One said, “FGM practiced in the United States.” I couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t just in Africa. It was here, too. And in other countries. But no one was talking about it. It wasn’t in the newspapers or on the evening news.

  I was running out of hiding places. I couldn’t believe there were so many sites. If I was going to learn more, I had to enter.

  Then one link caught my eye, probably because the summary began with quotation marks. A real person talking. I clicked on it. I read aloud, but in a whisper:

  “I am nine. My name is Ayodele. Ayodele means ‘joy.’ I do not have joy. I do not laugh. I do not run and play like my little sisters, Ife and Aya. Soon they will not have joy either.”

  There were quotations from other girls. Some younger than I am. Some older. I couldn’t believe it. All of these true stories. Most of them written by another person who told a girl’s story for her.

  I could do this, I thought. I could go into these sites and find out why. I could tell Victoria that she wasn’t the only girl that it happened to. There were hundreds of girls. No, thousands. No, millions!

  I clicked on the site that began, “Over two million girls mutilated each year.” There was also a warning about graphic pictures on the site.

  I wasn’t afraid. I could enter for Victoria.

  “AKILAH!”

  I froze.

  Mom stood in the doorway. She was mad. “Which part of ‘No amusement whatsoever’ do you not understand?”

  Behind me was the screen. A black background with large, white letters flashing, “Over two million girls mutilated each year. Caution: The following pages include graphic material.”

  I couldn’t move. I just stood there, hoping my body blocked the screen.

  “You are out of control, young lady. I am yanking this thing out of here now.”

  She moved me aside and went for the power switch, but then she stopped in front of the screen. She made a sound. Not a scream, but like a cry. Like how I felt inside when Victoria first told me what they did to her.

  She grabbed my hand. “Why are you here? In this site?”

  I couldn’t speak. Then I started to gather myself, and couldn’t speak turned to wouldn’t speak. I swallowed my spit.

  “Why are you here?”

  Not even my lips moved.

  “Akilah, tell me now. Why are you looking at this web site?”

  Not if my mother beats me. Not even to God in my prayers.

  She exhaled and put her hands on her face, I think to cool down. She sat on my bed and said, “Sit here with me.”

  I obeyed, but I didn’t make a sound.

  “Akilah. Remember our talks in the backyard? You know that you can tell me anything.”

  This was the part where I was supposed to say, “I know,” but I didn’t answer.

  “Does this have anything to do with Victoria?”

  My eyes must have jumped or shifted in a way that only she could read.

  “You can tell me,” she said softly, even when I felt her struggling to keep from screaming.

  I wouldn’t budge. Anything I would say was as good as telling.

  If I should tell, then I will die.

  My mother left my room.

  Like a Rocket

  Mom paced and circled and shook her head.

  Dad hovered over her and kept asking, “What is it, Gladys? What’s wrong?” Every step he took toward her, Mom turned away. It was like a dance.

  Finally Mom threw up her hands and said, “I can’t, Roy. I just can’t talk right now. Akilah and I have to go.”

  “It’s almost eight,” he said. “Where are you going? I should go with you.”

  “No,” she said.

  “If this is about Juwan—”

  “Roy, please,” Mom said. She turned to me and said, “Akilah, tie those laces. We have to go. Now.”

  She took me by the hand and we left. She was muttering to herself in between telling me to keep up.

  I tried to walk faster, but I didn’t want to. I should have gone to the bathroom first. My stomach cramped into a thousand knots, and my head was throbbing. I tried to tell her I didn’t feel so well, but she was like a rocket headed straight for the Ojikes’ house.

  One thing was certain: My mother knew what female genital mutilation was and that they had mutilated Victoria.

  I could barely walk. My bones were turning to Jell-O, my stomach was cramping, and I kept thinking that Victoria would soon hate me.

  There was nothing I could do to stop my mother. Mom was set to take child-saving action, like removing Victoria from the Ojikes’ house, or telling the police, or reporting the Ojikes to Child Welfare, where she worked. Then Mr. and Mrs. Ojike would be arrested. Victoria and Nelson would be deported to Nigeria to live with their grandmother—the same grandmother who had mutilated many girls. Or instead of being deported, Victoria would be put in a group home. That was part of my mother’s job. Rescuing kids from bad homes and putting them in group homes or in foster care.

  Or maybe Mom would tell the newspapers and TV stations about Victoria’s mutilation. Cameras everywhere would flash and click at Victoria like she was a criminal or someone to feel sorry for. Then everyone at school would point at her and whisper. Or they’d just come out and ask her what it felt like.

  I counted backward in my head, wishing us back. Back inside our house. Back before mutilation. Before I knew what it was and before it happened to Victoria. Just back. All Victoria had ever asked me
to do was keep a vow and to not make her laugh.

  “Mom,” I moaned, “let’s go home.”

  It was too late. Mom rang the doorbell and Mrs. Ojike welcomed us inside with a warm smile. Before she could finish offering us tea or fufu, Mom came out and said, “Is it true? Did you have Victoria circumcised?”

  Mrs. Ojike didn’t expect that. She was stunned.

  Mom asked again. Clearer. Louder. “Did you have Victoria circumcised?”

  By this time, Mr. Ojike had entered the living room, but no one else had followed him. Still, I could feel Victoria behind the walls. She had to know that I was on the other side with my mother.

  Mrs. Ojike told Mom, “That is a private matter.”

  Mom said, “That is barbaric. Inhumane. How could you do this to your daughter? Your very own daughter?”

  Mrs. Ojike said, “You are American. These are not your customs. I do not expect you to understand.”

  Her words You are American seemed to wound my mother, although Mom tried to hide it. She was steeling herself, after being told she was not at all African.

  “That may very well be true,” my mother said. “But there is nothing you can say to justify the savage ritual of mutilating your child.”

  At that moment Mrs. Ojike became the queen my mother always described. Even with her back against the wall, she was unruffled and dignified. It was as if Mrs. Ojike looked at Mom the way my mom looked at Juwan’s mother and thought, I expect this from you. No less. No more.

  Mrs. Ojike told us, “You are not welcome here. Leave my home.”

  The porch light went off as we stepped outside. When I looked up at their house, all of the rooms went black.

  My mother reached for my hand, but I held it back. “Look what you did!” I screamed at her. “You caused trouble!”

  My mother grabbed my hand, but I yanked it away. Then she raised her hand like she was going to smack me, but she stopped herself and pointed at me instead.

  “Akilah, do not ever take that tone with me as long as you live.”

  I knew she wasn’t playing with me, but I wasn’t playing with her, either. I didn’t care what happened to me. With Victoria gone, I didn’t have anything left to lose.

  “I gave Victoria my word I wouldn’t tell.”

  “Akilah, you can’t be silent about a thing like this. You should have told me,” she said. “When something is wrong, you make it right.”

  “You didn’t make it right,” I said back. “You made it worse.”

  She walked ahead and told me to keep up.

  I refused to walk by her side. I didn’t care how dark it was, or that the only light came from the street lamps and the three-quarter moon. I was burning mad. So mad that I didn’t care about the sudden warm splurt in my panties. I didn’t care that the moon had finally tagged me.

  A Little

  I knew what to do when I came home. I stood on my desk chair and reached for the sack of sanitary napkins in the back of my closet. Instead of soaking my panties in cold water like she had told me to do, I balled them up along with my stained jeans and stuck them in my bottom drawer.

  I didn’t want anything from her. Not any Tylenol, or blackberry tea, or long talks. If I never heard her voice again, it would be too soon.

  Except that I couldn’t escape her. She was hysterical. I could hear her telling Dad about Mrs. Ojike and what they had done to Victoria. It was like she was waving a flag. Her own discovery. Her next rescue mission.

  Mom hadn’t thought for one minute about Victoria or the danger she had put her in. She had gone flying over there like a rocket, accusing Mrs. Ojike of being barbaric and inhumane. What if the Ojikes punished Victoria for telling? What if they packed up and moved in the middle of the night? Had Mom considered that? Had she?

  I was never going to see Victoria again. I knew it. At this moment Victoria must be calling me a liar, I thought. A big, fat, ugly liar whose vow meant nothing. At this moment Victoria must think she is alone and has no one to trust. At this moment Victoria must hate me.

  The next day I sat by the hopscotches alone, then sat next to an empty desk in class. When I got home, I rode my bike up and down her block with that stupid napkin squished between my legs. It was like wearing a diaper. Being a ten-year-old woman sucked raw eggs.

  I kept riding from one end of the block to the other. Back and forth. Back and forth. No one came outside, but the curtains moved once. I sat on my bike and waited, but they didn’t move again. I finally rode home, at least satisfied the Ojikes hadn’t packed up and fled to Africa.

  I stayed away from my mother because I didn’t want her to notice that I was menstruating. She made me sick. I answered her “yes” and “no,” and I showed her my homework. But that was all she could have from me. The bare minimum. Like Victoria’s one-word answers.

  I went through my routine at school without Victoria. It is hard to make a statement alone, because no one knows you are making one. Sitting next to Victoria in silence made me feel strong. Sitting by myself just made me feel alone.

  I approached Ms. Saunders at the end of the day and asked, “Do you know when Victoria is coming back?”

  Ms. Saunders said she could not discuss one student with another. Then she dropped her face to finish writing in her teacher’s notebook. It was more polite than saying, “Go away and don’t ask any more questions.” I pretended I didn’t get it.

  “Well, can I bring Victoria’s homework and math quiz to her? I’m her class buddy.” We had gotten our math quizzes back. Both Victoria and I scored a ten out of ten. I had seen her paper before she handed it in. We had the same answers.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Ms. Saunders said, “but thank you, Akilah.” She tried to smile, but then quickly went back to writing in her notebook, face down.

  Ms. Saunders knew something.

  I walked past the buses and vans lined up along the curb. Juwan stuck his head out the window of a big, cheese bus. He rolled a piece of paper—probably his quiz—into a ball and then threw it at me. He missed. I didn’t even feel like singing, “Ha-ha.” I just tossed my head and kept walking.

  Later I rode my bike to Victoria’s house, hoping she’d come outside. It would take me two seconds to say, “I kept my vow,” before Mrs. Ojike chased me away with a broom. I pictured that clearly: Mrs. Ojike chasing me with a broom.

  As I rode in semicircles, waiting for either Victoria to come out or to be chased away by her mother, I saw Miss Lady walking Gigi toward me. She said, holding a little bag of dog poop, “If the girl’s mother wanted her to come outside and play, she’d be out here.”

  I felt like saying, “Shut up, Miss Lady,” but Miss Lady would tell my mother in nothing flat. Then I’d never see daylight again. Not that it mattered.

  I rode my bike home. I didn’t have any homework. Ms. Saunders had given me a homework pass as a reward for scoring a ten on the quiz and getting an Excellent Perspective on my Maizon book report. Since I had nothing better to do, I went on-line. Mom never did remove the computer from my room. She just said to be careful where I surfed, and that she knew how to check which web sites I visited and the files I downloaded. I didn’t care, as long as I could go on-line.

  I logged on and started looking for new computer games. Then pop! I had an instant message.

  QUEENV3: Why?

  GIRLWAR: I didn’t tell her.

  QUEENV3: Liar!!!

  GIRLWAR: I swear I didn’t.

  QUEENV3: LIAR!!!

  GIRLWAR: She saw when I was on-line.

  No message.

  GIRLWAR: I found the web site. I know what they call it.

  No message.

  GIRLWAR: Circumcision

  No message.

  GIRLWAR: And mutilation

  No message.

  GIRLWAR: Mom saw the web site b4 I cd ESC.

  QUEENV3: YOU TOLD HER.

  GIRLWAR: She figured it out by looking.

  No message for a long time.

  QUEE
NV3: My mother wants to put me in the International School.

  GIRLWAR: She can’t!

  QUEENV3: They have no openings. She will try again next semester.

  GIRLWAR: I’m glad.

  QUEENV3: You can’t come to my house. Ever.

  GIRLWAR: I know.

  No message for a long time.

  GIRLWAR: I got my period. I’m bleeding.

  QUEENV3: I don’t have my period yet. I’m bleeding too. A little.

  The Subject Was Victoria

  The week slipped by without sight of Victoria. I sent her e-mails, but no one answered. I surfed around, hoping she’d feel my presence on the Internet, but there were no more instant messages from QueenV3.

  I got on my bike and rode around napkin-free for the first time in five days. I was so glad my period was over. Not that it was horrible. It was just there, like having a wad of gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe. You can’t take a step without knowing it’s there, but when you scrape it off, you’re finally tip-tapping along like nobody’s business. It doesn’t seem right that boys don’t go through anything remotely like a period. They should go through something.

  I was on my way home from the park when I saw Nelson jogging ahead. He was in his blue and gold warm-up suit. I sped up until I was practically on him. He turned around.

  “You’re on my heels,” he said.

  “I know,” I replied.

  He was annoyed, but I didn’t care. He slowed his pace, but I still had to pedal to keep up. He stopped running.

  “What do you want, Akilah?”

  “I want to know why you didn’t protect Victoria. She’s your sister.”

  “You do not understand.” He wouldn’t look me in the face. He started to jog again. He was running away.

  I wouldn’t let him go so easily. I called after him, “I understand, all right. You let them mutilate your sister while you did nothing.”

  Nelson stopped and faced me. Maybe he was embarrassed that I could holler something like that out in the street. “Akilah, these are not your customs. You cannot understand these matters.”