The mother tugged at Juba's robe as she went by. "It is not easy for you, is it?" she asked, low, so that no one could hear.
"No," the girl said. "It is not easy." Was it not written all over her? Was it not on her breath and shaken out of her hair?
The mother looked closely at Juba and felt at her forehead. "Perhaps it is forcing you too soon," she said with a hesitant frown which for a moment made her look like someone else. "It is not too late, Juba, to get someone else. Even now...."
"It is too late," Juba said, and pulled away, afraid to talk more. But although the mother's face, Juba knew, was set, and her mind winding unhappily through surmises, she would not follow the girl, out of pride.
Pride.
The machine was alone. Juba cut it off and pulled the handle of the switch out. She then opened up the face plate and jerked out all the wires in sight. She reached in and broke off all the fine points of the compass settings and pulled out everything loose she could reach.
Then she walked back quickly through the market place, so as not to seem to be skulking.
"Juba ..." the mother said, standing in her path.
"Later," Juba said. "It will soon be done. Mother ... I love you. All of you." And she went around the mother, quickly.