My aunt Uzili had Vellum done. My teacher, Aunt Kosetho, had Vellum done. Even my older cousin, Nimi, had Vellum done, which stopped her brothers from calling her “Lumikara” (ape-like face). They now called her “Sulari” (elegant swan).

Vellum arrived in Uzali Village three months ago. It was introduced by a tall, slender, beautiful woman named Naria, whose face looked as if it were sculpted by the most skilled artist. I first saw her during the harvest festival. She wore a long green gown that accentuated her perfect figure, and her huge smile was as captivating as her soothing, hypnotic voice. Her aim was clear: to introduce the older and married women of the village to a procedure that could make them look up to fifty years younger.

Initially, skeptical whispers floated around the village square. Many women wondered why they would need such a thing. They were content with their appearances. Besides, how would their husbands recognize them if they suddenly changed?

But those whispers quickly turned to loud exclamations of interest and envy when Naria organized a housewarming party at her new home in Uzali. A large group of young girls, all in their twenties, worked as her assistants, ensuring everything went smoothly. The girls, dressed in short, fitted skirts with their lips painted a vivid red, drew the eyes of every married man in Uzali. Some men were even caught at the back of the house later with their penises in the mouths of some of the assistants.

Naria’s message that night was clear: if the women didn’t do something to look younger, they risked losing their husbands and homes to younger women.

By the second month, almost half of the women in Uzali had gotten Vellum. It was all the rage and very expensive. I overheard my grandmother telling my dad that Nimi had spent exactly 2000 Talor on the procedure

My mother was disappointed. She was openly against the idea of Vellum. She started a weekly meeting with the women of Uzali, calling themselves the “Nisari.” They discussed home and marriage matters. I used to sit at the back of the meetings, listening. At the end of each session, I would ask my mother questions about the things I didn't understand.

One night, Naria attended the meeting. She had been hoping to see my mother, the woman so openly opposed to her business. She was curious why someone like my mother would have such a strong dislike for something that made people feel better, confident and younger.

My mother then told her the story of my sister, Mezu. I never met Mezu. She died when I was two and she was eighteen. She was very pretty, and all the boys in the village sought her attention. But she never seemed interested in any of them. Mezu was intelligent and planned to attend a university in the city.

One day, her friends gave her a new cream, claiming it would smoothen her face. She tried the cream, and almost immediately, a loud scream echoed through the house. When my mom and grandma arrived, Mezu was on the floor, crying. Her skin was red, swollen and ugly bumps appeared on her face. The cream had been given to her as a cruel joke.

By the next morning, Mezu couldn’t open her eyes. Her face was bloated and she was in so much pain. Unable to bear the loss of being no longer beautiful, she drowned herself in the village’s lake weeks after the incident.

Naria was convinced that my mother was projecting her personal loss onto the village. She argued that just because my mother’s daughter’s quest for beauty ended in tragedy didn’t mean it would happen to everyone.

My mother countered that Mezu’s insecurities had led her to seek out the cream in the first place. Naria dismissed these as the words of a woman who didn’t love her child. Mezu, she said, was a victim, betrayed and pushed to her death by jealous friends.

My mother was speechless for the first time ever. Naria turned to the crowd and asked if they really wanted to listen to the words of a woman who had no husband to impress. My skin crawled as the women agreed with her. Then she announced that the Vellum procedure would soon be available at a discount. The women spoke about it in excited whispers.

That day marked the end of the Nisari meetings.

Soon, even more women had Vellum, and I began to notice that the first set of people who had the procedure no longer looked beautiful. Instead, they had a strange, frozen expression, their movements robotic as if their facial muscles were too tight. They also became more aggressive and argumentative. Nimi, for example, was twenty-three but looked like she was forty.

Vellum seemed to be doing the opposite of what it promised.

My mother didn’t stay quiet. Although most of the women no longer listened to her, she was still open about her disdain for Vellum. She would throw jabs at the women who now looked way older than their husbands, saying she pitied them.

Until the night strange men in black masks snuck into our house. They grabbed my mother and dragged her into a van. I led into a different car. A black bag was thrown over my face, and I was driven away.

After the car stopped, I heard a large door being pulled open and then shut behind me. I was shoved out and told to sit down. The ground beneath me felt like concrete, hard and cold. I couldn’t hear anything and it wasn't long before I started to cry.

The bag over my head was removed, and a light shone into my eyes, almost blinding me. When my vision adjusted, I looked up to see Naria. Her smile was as big and radiant as it had been at the housewarming party. She reached out to rub my cheek, her fingers cold and calloused. I flinched.

“You’re so beautiful, Zibo,” she said softly. “That’s your name, right? Zibora.”

I nodded. “What are you going to do to us?” I asked. When she didn’t respond, I added, “Please don’t hurt us.”

Naria looked at the man beside her, then back at me. “How could I ever hurt my own family?”

I frowned, confused. Naria tugged at her skin, and I watched as it loosened as if it had stitches being undone. The once smooth contours of her face began to collapse inward, the surface creasing and folding unnaturally. The woman beneath the skin was nothing like the beautiful one I had seen weeks ago. Her hair was a dirty gray, the strands hung limp and discolored. The burn mark snaked its way from her chest to her ear. The skin around it was puckered and raw. She looked more like a corpse than a human being. My throat dried up when I looked into her eyes, the edges of which seemed to twitch with the effort of suppressing pain.

Her eyes. They looked just like my mother’s.

“Mezu,” I said softly.

My sister.

She smiled, her skin folding like a dead animal’s hide. “I’ve missed you, Zibo. I’m sorry I left you.”

I tried to hold back my tears. I didn’t remember her. I was two when she supposedly died. The only things I knew about her were what my mother and grandma had told me.

“Please let us go,” I begged.

Mezu straightened, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I will soon, but you must understand that everything will change after this. It didn’t have to come to this. Mommy caused this.”

I broke into a sob.

“Mommy judged me so much after what happened. She didn’t understand that I only wanted to look prettier. It wasn’t my fault. The cream was given to me by people who were jealous of me, people who are dead now. Mommy should have been there for me, but instead, she treated me no different than the townspeople who laughed at me because I was ugly.”

Mezu continued, “The people of Uzali didn’t accept me either. They saw me as an ugly witch. I tried to kill myself but was saved by an angel willing to help me get my revenge. I got a new face. I became Naria and used my looks to get close to the women in Uzali. It took months, but eventually, everyone loved me and accepted Vellum.”

Her face fell. “But then, mommy started the meetings, and when I asked her about them, she blamed me in front of all those foolish women. She made it look like I was at fault. It’s been fifteen years, Zibo, and she still blames me, even after I took my own life.”

I faced the floor, feeling conflicted. I couldn’t stare at my sister. I couldn’t bring myself to look her in the eyes.

“Zibo,” she said, kneeling to look at me. “Look at me.” She placed a finger under my chin and raised my head. “They took everything from me. They stripped me of my beauty, my dignity. You’re not like them, right? Do you think I’m ugly?”

I shook my head quickly. I couldn’t risk saying anything that would upset her. “No.”

She smiled. “That’s good. There’s a new procedure my angel wants to test, and he’s willing to make us the first subjects. It’s going to make me young again. It’s going to take your body, your skin, and give it to me.”

My eyes widened. I scurried away from her and screamed, “No! Don’t do that to me.”

Mezu frowned. “But you said I’m not ugly. That must mean you have no problem having my face.”

“No! Please don’t take my body,” I cried.

She laughed, a maniacal sound. She got to her feet and turned around. “Get her ready,” she said to the men who stood in a corner of the room.

My legs were tied, the ropes were pulled taut. I struggled against them, but I couldn't break free. Then I was lifted off the ground. A mask was pulled over my head. I screamed.

"Shut her up," I heard Mezu say.

A sharp pain stabbed me in the neck. Everything went blurry, and soon, I passed out.

When I woke up, everything felt different. I couldn’t feel anything. I could barely move. I opened my eyes and squinted at the light above me. My mouth was taped shut, and my vision blurred. There were people around me. One of them leaned in.

“She’s awake,” a muffled voice said, his face becoming clearer.

I tried to move but realized my body was restrained. I tried to talk, but the only sounds that came out were soft, muffled moans. I couldn’t feel the lower half of my body. I turned my head and came face to face with a reflection.

Mezu was lying down on an operating table. Her face looked even worse up-close. I blinked. She blinked. My eyes widened in fear, and the same happened to hers.

“No,” I tried to say, but it came out as a muffled moan. I began to thrash around. “Please don’t do this!” I wanted to scream. “I’m not her! I’m not Mezu!”

Mezu’s eyes stared at me. I wondered then if this was how she felt when it happened to her, when her face got burned, and she had to watch helplessly as a new one became hers.

Mezu was crying, but they were not her tears.

They were mine.