“Let them stare,” Doreen would declare after a few glasses of wine. “This body is a work of art.” She would lift her breasts with her hands, sending Ejem and the other women into tipsy giggles.
The remaining women—Morayo, Mukaso, and Maryam—were polite but distant, performing enough social niceties to sidestep any allegations of rudeness, but only just. Ejem and Doreen called them the three Ms or, after a few drinks, “Mmm, no,” for their recalcitrance. They sometimes joined in Odinaka’s near-nightly cocktail hour, but within a few weeks the cadre solidified into Odinaka, Delilah, Doreen, and Ejem.
With this group of women there were no snide remarks about Ejem’s nakedness, no disingenuous offers to introduce her to a man—any man—who could maybe look past her flaws. Odinaka talked about her vast business, Doreen about her small one, and they teased each other with terrible advice neither would ever take. Ejem talked some about the career she’d left behind but didn’t have much to add. And for the first time her shyness was just shyness, not evidence of why she remained unclaimed, nor an invitation to be battered with advice on how she could improve herself.
Besides, Odinaka talked enough for everyone, interrupting often and dominating every topic. Ejem didn’t mind, because of all of them, Odinaka had had the most interesting life, one of unrelenting luxury since birth. She’d inherited the weaving company from her father when he retired, almost a decade ago, which had caused an uproar. But if one of the wealthiest dynasties wanted a woman at the helm, it was a luxury they could purchase. And if that woman indulged in covering herself and collecting and caring for other unclaimed women, who had the power to stop her?
“I imagine creating a world,” Odinaka often said, “where disrobing is something a woman does only by choice.”
On Ejem’s first night in the building, Odinaka had brought a length of cloth to her, a gift, she said, that Ejem could wear whenever she wanted. Ejem had stared at the fabric for hours. Even in the confines of the building, in her own unit, she didn’t have the courage to put it on. At Odinaka’s cocktail hour, Doreen would sit next to her and declare, “It’s us against these bashful fuckers, Ejem,” setting off an evening of gentle ribbing at everyone’s expense.
“You really go to your store like that?” Ejem asked Doreen one afternoon. “Why don’t you cover yourself? No one will say anything if they know you’re one of Odinaka’s women, right?” She was trying to convince herself that she too could don the cloth and go out in public without fear.
Doreen stopped perusing invoices to give Ejem all her attention. “Look, we have to live with this. I was disrobed at age ten. Do you know what it feels like to be exposed so young? I hid for almost a decade before I found myself, my pride. No one will ever again make me feel uncomfortable in my own skin. I plan to remain unclaimed and uncovered for as long as I live, and no one can say a damn thing about it. Odinaka rebels in her own way, and I in mine. I don’t yearn for the safety of cloth. If the law requires me to be naked, I will be naked. And I will be goddamned if they make me feel uncomfortable for their law.”
The weeks of welcome, of feeling free to be her own person, took hold, and one night, when Ejem joined the other women in Odinaka’s apartment, she did so covered, the cloth draped over her in a girl’s ties, the only way she knew how. Doreen was the first one to congratulate her, and when she hugged Ejem, she whispered, “Rebel in your own way,” but her smile was a little sad.
Odinaka crowed in delight, “Another one! We should have a party.”
She mobilized quickly, dispensing orders to her osu women via intercom. Ejem had yet to see any of the osu at work, but whenever she returned to her quarters from Odinaka’s or Doreen’s, her bed was made, the bathroom mirror cleared of flecks, the scabs of toothpaste scrubbed from the sink, and the rooms themselves held an indefinable feeling of having only just been vacated.
In less than the hour it took Ejem and the other residents to get themselves ready for the party, Odinaka’s quarters had become packed. Men and women, all clothed except Doreen, mingled and chatted. Doreen held court on the settee, sipping wine and bestowing coy smiles.
Ejem tried to join in, but even with the self-cloth, she couldn’t help feeling like the uncovered woman she’d been her entire adult life. Odinaka tried to draw Ejem into her circle of conversation, but after Ejem managed only a few stilted rejoinders, she edged away, sparing herself further embarrassment. Ejem ended up in a corner watching the festivities.
She was not aware that she herself was being watched until a man she’d seen bowing theatrically to Odinaka leaned against the wall next to her.
“So you’re the newest one, huh?”
“I suppose I am.”
“You seem reasonable enough. Why are you unclaimed?”
Ejem tensed, wary.
“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘reasonable’?”
He ignored the question.
“Do you know I have been trying to claim that woman ever since she was a girl?” He nodded toward Odinaka. “Our union would have been legendary. The greatest cloth weaver with the greatest cotton grower. What do you think?”
Ejem shrugged. It was really none of her business.
“Instead she’s busy collecting debris.”
Stunned by his rudeness, Ejem turned away, but he only laughed and called to someone across the room. Suddenly every laugh seemed directed at her, every smile a smirk at her expense. She felt herself regressing into the girl who’d needed Chidinma’s tight grip in hers before she could walk with her head high. She ducked out, intending to return to her quarters.
She ran into Delilah, who held a carved box under her arm, a prized family heirloom Ejem recognized from their many gatherings. It was one of the few objects Odinaka envied, as she could not secure one herself, unable to determine the origin of the antique. She was forever demanding that Delilah bring it out to be admired, though Delilah refused to let Odinaka have it examined or appraised, perfectly content to let her treasure remain a mystery.
Ejem didn’t particularly like Delilah. She might have been a mini Odinaka, but unlike Odinaka, Delilah was pretentious and wore her fine breeding on her sleeve. Ejem’s distress was visible enough that Delilah paused, glancing between her and the door that muted the soiree.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
Ejem nodded, but a tight nod that said it was not. She watched Delilah’s concern war with the promise of fun on the other side of the door. Delilah’s movements, a particular twist in her shoulders, the way she clenched her fist, an angled tilt of her head, suddenly brought to Ejem’s mind the osu woman on the bus. Something must have crossed her face, because Delilah lifted a furtive, self-conscious hand to pat her hair into place—right where an identifying scar would have been if a government midwife had scored it into her head when she was six months old and then refreshed it on return visits every two years until she turned eighteen. That practice was the extent of Ejem’s osu knowledge. Her people lived side-by-side with the osu and they knew nothing of each other.
Looking at Delilah’s box, it occurred to Ejem that an osu girl—if she were clever enough, audacious enough, in possession of impossibly thick hair—could take her most prized possession—say, a fine carved box that had been in the family for many generations—and sneak away in the middle of the night. She could travel farther than she had ever been in her life, to a city where no one knew her. And because she was clever, she could slip seamlessly into the world of the people she knew so well because she’d had to serve them all her life.
Before the thought could take hold, the uncertainty in Delilah’s face was replaced by an artificial sweetness, and she patted Ejem’s shoulder, saying, “Rest well, then,” before escaping into the party.
Ejem was awoken at dawn by the last of the revelers leaving. She stayed in her apartment till eight, then took advantage of Odinaka’s open-door policy to enter her benefactor’s apartment. If she hadn’t been there herself, she would never have believed it
had been filled with partiers the night before. In three hours someone, or several someones, had transformed the wreckage of fifty guests—Ejem remembered at least two spilled wineglasses and a short man who’d insisted on making a speech from an end table—back into the clean, modern lines preferred by one of the wealthiest women in the world. A woman who apparently collected debris, like her. She wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted to say to Odinaka—she couldn’t childishly complain that one of the guests had insulted her—but she felt injured and sought some small soothing.
She found Odinaka lounging in her bed, covers pulled to her waist.
“Did you enjoy yourself, Ejem? I saw you talking to Aju. He just left, you know.” She wiggled her brows.
Well. Ejem couldn’t exactly condemn him now. “We had an interesting conversation,” she said instead.
“‘Interesting,’ she says. I know he can be difficult. Never mind what he said.”
Odinaka pressed the intercom and requested a breakfast tray, then began to recap the night, laughing at this and that event she didn’t realize Ejem hadn’t been there to see.
After ten minutes she pressed the intercom again. “Where is my tray?” she demanded, a near shout.
Catching Ejem’s expression, she rolled her eyes.
“Don’t you start as well.”
Ejem opened her mouth to defend the osu women but shut it just as quickly, embarrassed not only by the unattractive revolutionary bent of what she’d almost said, but also because it felt so much like a defense of herself.
“You are just like Doreen,” Odinaka continued. “Look, I employ an army of those women. They have a job and they need to do it. You remember how that goes, right?” Odinaka turned on the television. A commercial advertised a family getaway that included passes to a textile museum where the children could learn how cloth was made. Ejem recalled a documentary she’d seen in school that showed the dismal dorms to which unclaimed women were relegated, the rationed food, the abuse from guards, the “protection” that was anything but. It had been meant to instill fear of ending up in such a place, and it had worked.
When the program returned, Odinaka turned up the volume until it was clear to Ejem she had been dismissed.
Ejem decided that her first foray in her new cloth would be to visit Doreen in her shop. Doreen would know just what to say to ease the restless hurt brewing inside her. She may even know enough of Delilah’s history to put Ejem’s runaway suspicions to rest. Doreen had invited her to visit the bookstore many times—“You can’t stay in here forever. Come. See what I’ve done. See what an unclaimed woman can build on her own.”
Wearing self-cloth in the safety of Odinaka’s building was one thing. Ejem dawdled in front of the mirror, studying the softness of her stomach, the firm legs she’d always been proud of, the droop of her breasts. She picked up the cloth and held it in front of her. Much better. She secured it in a simple style, mimicking as best as she could the draping and belting of the sophisticated women she’d encountered.
For the first time in her adult life, no one stared at her. When she gathered the courage to make eye contact with a man on the sidewalk and he inclined his head respectfully, she almost tripped in shock. It was no fluke. Everyone—men and women—treated her differently, most ignoring her as yet another body on the street. But when they did acknowledge her, their reactions were friendly. Ejem felt the protective hunch of her shoulders smooth itself out, as though permission had been granted to relax. She walked with a bounce in her step, every part of her that bounced along with it shielded by the cloth. Bound up in fabric, she was the freest she’d ever felt.
Ejem was so happy that when she saw a familiar face, she smiled and waved before she remembered that the bearer of the face had disowned their friendship some months ago. Chidinma gave a hesitant wave in return before she approached Ejem, smiling.
“You’re covered! You’re claimed! Turn around; let me see. Your wife-cloth is so fine. I’m upset you didn’t invite me to the claiming ceremony.”
The words were friendly but the tone was strained, their last exchange still echoing in the air.
“There wasn’t a ceremony. There was nothing to invite you to.”
Chidinma’s smile faded. “You don’t have to lie. I know I was awful to you; I’m sorry.”
“No, really, there wasn’t.” Ejem leaned closer, yearning to confide, to restore their former intimacy. “It’s self-cloth. I covered myself.”
It took Chidinma a moment to absorb this. Then she bristled, pulling back any lingering affection. Her smile went waxy and polite.
“You must be very happy with your husband.”
“Chidinma, I don’t have a husband. I’m covering myself.”
Chidinma’s look turned so vicious that Ejem stepped back, bumping into a man who excused himself.
“Are you, now? A self-cloth, is it? Someone from a good family like yours? I don’t believe it.” Unlike Ejem, Chidinma didn’t lower her voice, earning startled glances from passersby. Ejem shushed her.
“Oh, are you ashamed now? Did something you’re not entirely proud of?”
When Ejem turned to leave, Chidinma snatched her by the cloth. Now she whispered, “You think you’re covered, but you’re still naked. No amount of expensive ‘self-cloth’—how ridiculous!—will change that.”
It was a spiteful and malicious thing to say, meant to hurt, and it did. Ejem tried to pull her cloth from her old friend’s fist, but Chidinma didn’t let go. She continued, her voice cracking with tears.
“You don’t get to be covered without giving something up; you don’t get to do that. It’s not fair. After everything I did for you, it’s not fair.”
Chidinma cried openly now, and Ejem used the opportunity of her weakened grip to twist away, near tears herself.
It had been easy, Ejem thought, in the opulence of Odinaka’s house, to forget that they were breaking laws. Easy too to clink glasses night after night. What had some woman given up so that Ejem could have this cloth? Was she a weaver by choice or indentured, deemed past her prime and burdened to earn the care of the state? The fabric felt itchy now, as though woven from rough wire.
Ejem hurried back the way she had come, to the safety of Odinaka’s building. On the verge of panic, she fumbled with the keys to her apartment and let herself in. Once inside, she leaned against the door and slid to the floor, head to knees, catching her breath. She felt . . . something, which made her look around, and that’s when she saw the osu woman standing in the corner. Her skin was light, almost blending into the dusky beige of the wall, her scar a gristly, keloided mass on the side of her head. She appeared to be Ejem’s age or older. She held a bottle of cleaning solution and a rag. She was naked.
It was clear by the hunch of her shoulders and the wary look in her eye that it was not a nakedness she enjoyed. How long had it been since Ejem had carried that very look on her own face? How long since she’d felt shame so deep she’d nearly drowned in it?
The day she’d lost her father-cloth, she’d pleaded with her father, fought him as he’d attempted to rip the fabric away. Her mother had cried to her to bear it with some dignity, but Ejem had gone mindless. When her father had finally taken all of the cloth, uncurling her fingers to snatch even the frayed strip she’d held on to, Ejem had curled into herself, making a cover of her appendages. Each day since had been a management of this panic, swallowing it deep in her belly where it wouldn’t erupt.
The osu woman nodded to Ejem, then slipped through a panel in the wall and disappeared. The panel slid back into place soundlessly, and when Ejem went to the wall she could feel no seam. She clawed at it, bending and breaking her nails, trying to force a way in. Finding no entry from her side, she pounded and called out, seeking a welcome.
Martin Cahill
Godmeat
from Lightspeed Magazine
The godmeat stank of hibiscus and saltwater. Its noxious divinity threaded through the kitchen, the air itself feeling su
ddenly buoyant in its wake. If Hark closed his eyes, he could almost imagine himself on the beach where Spear had killed the Sea Mother: pale green water lapping at his feet, miles of white sand stretching into the distance, while pink blossoms bobbed in the surf. He could almost see Spear standing on top of the godthing, her weapon shimmering with the blue blood of the dying Beast.
Hark took in the cut of godmeat before him, shining a bloody pink against his dark skin, clean and ready for a dry rub of spices. Seven dishes he’d had the honor of crafting, and it still quickened his heart to handle the raw flesh of one of the Great Beasts; no other chef in all the Wild World could say they’d done it, and none could do it so well as Hark.
All he’d had to do for this opportunity was condemn the Wild World itself to die. But what was the annihilation of a world against the pursuit of culinary perfection? The question echoed in the back of Hark’s mind, and like every time before, he ignored it.
Sprinkling a mélange of ochre, emerald, and golden spices onto his palm, Hark rubbed his hands together and sank them into the cut. On contact, desperate emotion shivered up his wrists; visions of waterfalls, lily pads, coastal storms, and ice floes rode on the dying whalesong of the godthing still inside the meat. Ever the professional, he paused; after the first few meals, he learned that the visions, no matter how strong, eventually subsided. When they did, he continued on with his work. The Hollowed would only wait so long for their next course.
Footsteps behind him dragged the shadowed taste of cloves, mint, and ash into the room. Hark rankled. “Put that out, Spear. Please. I’ve lived almost seventy years in perfect health. I am not going to die from your secondhand smoke.”
The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2019 Page 44
