1

The morning air was cool, coming down from the mountains, holding the damp breath of the night. A thin mist hugged the huts as the village slowly stirred awake.

Inside one of the smaller thatched shelters,  Nalaya knelt by a clay basin filled with thick mud and ash. She dipped her hands into the mixture, rubbing it slowly over her arms, her face, her neck. The cold grit clung to her skin like a second layer, feeling irritating and itchy but doing the job of hiding what she truly was. She hated it.

Her aunt Isoba, who had been watching from the doorway, came and knelt beside her, with a heavy expression of affection and sympathy. "Nalaya."

“Must I still do this?” the girl asked, her voice soft but edged with the annoyance of doing this repetitive ritual every morning. “It feels wrong. It feels like I’m erasing myself.”

“Mwana wane." Her aunt reached out, brushing a streak of ash from the Nalaya's ear.  “You are protecting yourself, not erasing .”

“But aunty Isoba, why am I hiding? I’ve done this since I was four. No one comes to our village, and I know our people would accept me as I am.  Is it so wrong to look different—” her eyes lowering to the basin. “I know I'd stand out, but I just want to be myself.”

Her aunt reached out, and tipped Nalaya's chin up, meeting her eyes. “Ndali nku kwenda kwenye kuchuku, Because you will be in danger. You already are covered and cause a stir, especially with the men. Twelve men have already asked for your hand in marriage. If you looked how you really are, for some you will be a prize. For others who have been wronged by the Europeans, you'll be hated. You are a mix of both worlds, and I am not sure if any would accept you fully."

"But it's not my fault ndesu Isoba." Nalaya frowned, her gaze searching her aunt’s face.

“I know.Your mother’s softness, shines through you,” her aunt continued quietly, “but your father’s pale blood. Your eyes, your skin, your hair, would draw questions… envy. People would not understand. To them, you would not belong to this village, or any. They would see you as something foreign — and that would bring trouble upon us all. That's  why we braid your hair and coat it with black clay to hide your natural texture, and cover your skin with the mixture.” Isoba, nodded at the bowl.

She looked down at her hands, now darkened and sticky with the mixture. “So I am to live hidden forever?”

Her aunt’s gaze softened. “Nde kule mu until it is safe to be seen, yes. Until the world no longer fears what it cannot name.”

Nalaya nodded slowly, eyes sad, her breath catching as she smeared another handful of ash across her shoulders. Outside, the morning sun rose over the trees — but inside, she felt as if she lived in the shadows, covered in earth, shaped by secrecy.

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