The wind rushed at me like it had a personal vendetta, slipping through my coat and biting at my fingers, knowing exactly where to hurt. If the rest of the world was battling global warming, Russia, at least in my opinion, was committed to global cooling.

I hugged my tote bag closer and hurried toward the familiar grey building, water rolling off my coat in lazy drops. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it. I already knew who it was.

My mum had been calling since I hung up last night, and I wasn’t ready to explain why I couldn’t listen to another word about my boyfriend or his “expensive tastes.” Another buzz. Then another. Three voicemails in a row.

I stopped at the gate and pulled out my phone, mostly out of irritation. The first two were from my mum. I skipped them. The third was from Bisola. That one, I opened.
“You think I don’t know what happens to girls who give everything to men who give nothing in return?” Her voice was quieter than I expected. She was not shouting. That was worse. “We grew up in the same house, Bimbo. I saw what happened to you with Femi. The way he grabbed your wrist at Mummy’s birthday that year. The way you flinched every time he raised his voice. And now you’re with another one who—”

I deleted it before she could finish. My thumb hovered over the screen for a second too long. The wind bit at my fingers again, and I shoved the phone back into my pocket. That was years ago. That had nothing to do with this.

“Доброе утро,” I said to the security officer, my rehearsed accent falling into place like a mask. She waved me in without looking up.

The cafeteria smelled like onions and garlic and something sweet underneath, clementines, maybe. I tied my apron, pulled on my cap, and stepped into the rhythm of the day.

Time dragged. It always did. My phone buzzed again during the first lunch service. I let it go to voicemail. Then I immediately pressed play, because I was a coward who would rather listen to a recording than a voice, expecting an immediate response.
“Bisola called me. She said you hung up on her too,” mum’s voice, tired. I heard something fall in the background. “She’s crying. She said you told her she has no sense. Maybe that’s true. But she’s still your sister. And she’s still there, and you’re still there, and I’m here, and nobody is talking to anybody, and I’m tired.”
A pause.
“Just call her back. That’s all I’m saying.”
I deleted it and went back to the pots.

By the third lunch service, I had stopped checking my phone. The children came in like a wave, chairs dragging, voices rising, trays clattering. I stayed at the sink, working through a line of greasy pots. Rinse, scrub, stack. Rinse, scrub, stack. When the noise faded, silence settled in. Then I heard voices in the hallway. Worried voices.

I rinsed my hands and stepped out. She was sitting at a table facing the door. A yellow dress. Her head was bowed, fingers worrying the hem like it had wronged her. A teacher crouched in front of her, speaking gently, but she gave no response. The door opened and a man stepped in, broad and heavy. I recognized his face. His small eyes sat oddly on his large frame.
“Что?!”
Even without understanding Russian, the tone was clear. The teachers explained, hands moving with their voices.
He responded with something that ended in “nyet,” his finger slicing the air. Then he turned to the girl. His voice rose and she flinched. He gestured for her to stand but she didn’t move. So, he stepped back, spoke quietly to the women, and they all left her. Just like that. And I went back to the sink.

Time moved on. Another group came and went. When I stepped out again, she was still there. Exactly where they had left her. Two women stood near the entrance, speaking quietly, their eyes drifting toward her every few seconds. I turned away. Then something made me look back. She was looking at me. Her eyes held mine for a long second. Then she looked down at her hands. I knew that look. I had worn it myself.

I went to the washroom, grabbed my sweatshirt, a sanitary pad, and the pack of wet wipes from my bag, and walked straight to her. I crouched in front of her and placed the wipes beside her. She looked up, her blue eyes searching mine, wide and uncertain. I wrapped the sweatshirt around her waist, tying it gently. She watched me the whole time. Then I pulled her into a hug before she could second-guess it. She didn’t resist. She reached for my hand and held it tightly. Then she ran, pulling me toward the toilet, past the women gathering at the door, past the low hum of voices. She pushed into the toilet and pulled me in after her, locking the door behind us. We stood facing each other in the tight silence.

Three stalls lined the wall behind me. I shifted toward them, just to check, and she flinched. Her arms lifted slightly, her body turning away like even my shadow had weight. I stopped moving. A knock at the door. There were voices outside, muffled but insistent. She pressed herself into the corner. I placed my palm against the door without opening it.
“We are here,” I called softly.
The knocking faded, but they didn’t leave.

I turned back slowly. She was still curled in on herself. Still watching me like I might change into something else.
“It’s okay,” I said quietly. “We will take care of this. Okay?”
She nodded.
I grabbed a roll of tissue and stretched it to her but she muttered something in Russian.
“Nyet pa ruski,” I said. “Chut chut.”
She nodded, then shook her head. “No. I don’t want.” English. Heavy accent. But English.
“You speak English?”
“Chut chut.” A small smile.

A pair of trousers and a shirt appeared over the door.
“Spasibo,” I called out.
A male voice came again, sharp and loud. Her expression changed. Whatever softness had been there vanished.

Fear settled over her face. She pressed further back into the wall.
“Mum?” I asked, wondering who she wanted to see.
She shook her head.
“Dad?”
She froze. Her body tensed, eyes squeezing shut, trembling.
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” I pulled her into a hug.
We stayed like that. The man’s voice faded down the hallway. I helped her into the stall. That was when I saw it.

The bruises weren’t new. They were yellow at the edges, green in the middle, days old. But the marks on her inner thighs were fresh. Finger-shaped. Five on one side, four on the other. Someone’s thumb had been missing. And although she was bleeding, it was not because it was her first period. She made a small sound. Then she began to cry.
I held her. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

I helped her clean up. Bit down on my lip every time she flinched and then, I got her into the clean clothes.
“I don’t go home,” she said, shaking her head hard. Her voice cracked.
I didn’t stop my own tears. They came anyway.
“What’s your name?”
“Faya.”
“How old are you?”
“Одиннадцать.”
Eleven.

She sat on the toilet lid and swung her legs. Just once. Like she had forgotten where she was.
“I have… cat,” she said slowly, suddenly. “In my home.” Then her face changed, like she had said something wrong.
“What’s the cat’s name?”
She looked at me like I had asked something strange. Then, very quietly, “Pushok.”
“That’s a good name.”
She almost smiled. Almost.
“You’re going to be alright,” I said. To her. To myself.
Faya looked up at me. “You are no Russian,” she said.
“No.”
“Why… you here?”
I didn’t know how to answer that. So, I just said, “To help you.”
She thought about this for a long moment. Then she nodded, like she had decided that my answer was good enough.

Someone unlocked the door from the other side. The adults came in, voices spilling into the small space. But she didn’t let go of me. She held on tightly. They had no choice but to let us walk out together. I pulled out my phone.
“Call the police, please,” I typed into my translator.

They came. They asked questions I couldn’t answer and some I could. Faya held my hand the whole time. When they took her to the car, she looked back at me once. Just once. Then she got in. I stood outside until the car disappeared. The cold had stopped bothering me. Or maybe I had stopped feeling anything at all.

On the metro home, I opened my phone.
Fourteen missed calls. Seven voicemails.
I listened to the most recent one. From mum.

“Bimbo, where are you? Bisola called. She said you’re still not answering your phone. What is going on over there? Just call someone. Anyone. Please.”
I didn’t want to call Bisola. I wasn’t ready to listen to any more ‘advice’ on how to run my relationship. I couldn’t care less about how she felt or what she thought about my consistent “bad taste” in men.
Still, I stared at Bisola’s name on my screen. My thumb hovered over the call button.

The train went dark between stations. I thought about Faya. About the way she held my hand. About how she decided, after one question, that I was safe. I had been asking Bisola questions for many years. When would I decide she was safe? When would I decide it was okay to stop putting up a tough front around her?

The train pulled into the next station. Light flooded the car.
I pressed call.
She picked up on the second ring. “Bimbo?”
I didn’t say I was sorry. I wasn’t ready for that. “I’m still with him,” I said. “But I’m listening now.”
Bisola said nothing. Then, very quietly, “That’s enough. That’s enough for today.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Buchen WANG on Unsplash