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Look at the soles of her feet and you’ll know this Faith has not suffered at all. Nothing physical: without deformities or scars. People without burns on their skins are usually hurt elsewhere. Yet her face, unchanged for the last decade, chiselled like a rock, is fashioned like the delicate pottery of Ladi Kwali—her fellow middle-beltan.
This Faith of mine, called Kuyet, from a funny-sounding village in southern Kaduna, is related to the two most powerful feminine influences in my life; women unconnected to me by blood, Bevilina and Dorothy—unacquainted relatives, decades of age and geographical states apart, estranged from me, but linked by the marriage of one’s niece to the other’s cousin.
My Faith is un-owned, free but attached to another. Across from me: she wears a purple slippers, black kaftan made of sunny linen, velvet anti-abuse trouser beneath all that easy, free-flowing gown. Her face unmade and free of colours yet perfect like the bottom of a newborn baby, without any blemish or stain, like Naaman’s skin after a bath in the Jordan.
It was her behind that caught my attention. Boyish and firmly secure behind a peach skirt. Not certain of the colour but I know how it triggered my heart and I said: I will make money and buy Faith and her love. And make her dreams a reality.
But I have no money to buy Faith. So I love her by faith and hope she will come to love me too, by faith.