from shea butter trees when the girl declares they must not

cut her. If they do, she promises, the djinn in the trees will

disappear all their budding girls. But her mother says,

Tradition, and her grandmother insists. The grandmother

swears that her dead mother insists, too. Then the girl, flipping

her dark braids, says they must never cut her or she will take

a panga machete and slash all the shea trees, and when

they drag her from the schoolroom and sell her to some

old man, she will slash him, too. Down below. Then

the women say it’s her father who wants her cut so she’ll

be a faithful wife and will not stray. Him, she cries, dropping

her basket of shea nuts, clapping until legions of tiny djinn

swarm from the trees. So, the reason is my father!

Now the djinn will kidnap budding girls, and she’ll stand

by him with her panga, as she cuts. Kills him? No. Herself.