Uwem Akpan 9 page

“Excellent, boy, excellent,” he said. “Now I go teach you nouvelles leçons?”

He paused and looked expectantly at us.

“Yes, monsieur,” we said.

“We dey almost ready for de voyage,” he said, “and Fofo done prepare you well well. Pour example, I dey sweat like hell here, but you done adjust to de heat finish. Na only God know why your yeye uncle come fear and want abscond.” He brought out a piece of paper from his pocket and studied the content carefully and said, “No wahala . . . repetez après moi: ‘We were rescued from the water by a caring crew. . . . ’ ”

“We were rescued from the water by a caring crew,” we said.

“ ‘We were more than these, but some are dead.’ ”

“We were more than these, but some are dead.”

“ ‘We were tossed into the sea, and many of us died.’ ”

“We were tossed into the sea, and many of us died.”

“ ‘We had been at sea for three days before the sailors told us we were at risk.’ ”

“We had been at sea for three days before the sailors told us we were at risk.”

“ ‘We were heading for Côte d’Ivoire before the mishap.’ ”

“We were heading for Côte d’Ivoire before the mishap.”

Satisfied, he asked me to stand up and go get him two cups. I went over to the cutlery basket and pulled two out.

“Make we do someting interesting,” he said. “Dis na just some water and salt. Don’t be afraid. Ready?”

“Yes,” we said.

He carefully poured the water from the jug into the cups. He took a sip from each cup and licked his lips with his tongue as if it were a tasty drink. He offered the cups to us and we drank the salty thing.

“At-sea Orientation be de name. . . . Dis in case drinking water come finish for vessel . . . at least you go survive for one day.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Also in case dem dey toss you overboard . . .”

“Overboard?” I said, surprised.

“Just for short time . . . but maybe dem go give you life jacket or big plank which many of you go hold for inside water. We dey do dat sometimes if navy—bad-bad government people—come harass us for sea at night, OK? Dem dey tie de plank to ship, so no fear. Just to hide you for water while dem dey search our ship. You no go sink. . . . We no want risk anyting.”

“It’s good to be prepared,” I said.

“For de few days we get here, you go take de salt water twice a day. I go bring de water wid de manger et fresh water, OK?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

He started to leave the room but stopped and said, “Ah, one more ting—new plan. In three days, we dey bring oder children to live here wid you. We go take everyting out of dis room. We need space. You go show dem how to be good children.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Any question? Ou bien, wetin you need?”

Yewa and I exchanged glances.

“Please, do you know Antoinette and Paul?” I said. “Are they coming to stay with us?”

“Are dese de children Fofo promised Big Guy?” he said excitedly, searching our faces. “Tell me de trud.”

“No,” I said, happy that our uncle changed his mind before he brought my other siblings into this evil plot.

“So who be dese?” he said.

“Big Guy knows them,” Yewa said. “Mama and Papa brought them to our place a long time ago.”

The man sighed, and his body settled into the ease of disappointment. “Well, if Big Guy know dem, trust me, dem done reach Gabon déjà. . . . No, you no know dis group qui arrive ici . . . but ils sont des bon kids . . . eager to travel.”

“So when are we traveling?” I asked.

“Immediately de children arrive. Dis na your batch.”

“What about Fofo Kpee?” my sister asked.

“Fofo Kpee?” the man said ruefully, as if he didn’t know whom we were talking about. “What about him?”

“We will see him before we go?” I said.

“Ah, I go tell you about Fofo tomorrow,” he said, and quickly switched off his flashlight before I could see his face. He left the room.

Late into that night, I didn’t sleep. Everything was quiet outside. I kept thinking about what the guard would tell us the following day. I wanted to know how Fofo was doing in the hospital, and, if he was feeling bad about our trip, to tell him it was OK. It was clear to me now that he had sealed the inner room to house children until they could be shipped to Gabon. I remembered how Big Guy looked at our house when they brought the Nanfang and said it was OK for the meantime. Now I understood that Fofo and Big Guy were planning to build some bigger depot with the roofing sheets and cement.

I woke up with a start that night to the sound of a bike riding into our compound. Another one rode in and stopped, and there were brisk footsteps that got louder as they came around the house, toward the back. Slowly I stood up and looked into the darkness, then went and put my ear to the window. My breath quickened as I imagined them surrounding the house. I thought they were going to ship us to Gabon that night, and I resigned myself to my fate.

When they went past the window, I stole across the room to the back door. They went to work immediately. I heard thuds hitting the ground; I suspected they were digging. The rhythm was uneven and faster than what one man could have managed alone, so I guessed there were at least two diggers. They worked fast and hard in silence. Their tools sometimes crashed into hard objects. It sounded like they were digging beyond where we normally cooked outside, beside the bathroom. The spray of sand hitting the grass and leaves was unmistakable.

“Deep enough?” someone said after a while.

“Too shallow,” Big Guy said. “Bring your spade; continue.”

I bit my lip when I recognized his voice, knowing we were in for it. I didn’t want to meet him again in this life, but there he was, so close to me. It was as if he were already in the room with me, hiding under the bed or the sheets, waiting for the right time to hurt us. I could only think of the last time Big Guy came into our house, when Fofo told him the Gabon deal was dead.

* * *

“MAIS, YOU NO WANT pay us?” said the first speaker, and someone stopped working. I knew because now I heard just one spade hitting the ground and spraying the sand in a neat, measured fall.

“Finish first,” Big Guy said.

“I done tire,” the man whined again.

I pressed my ear harder into the back door until it hurt.

“Tire? You kidding,” Big Guy said.

“I dey go o! I no want work for you anymore.”

“No, no, here na safe place.”

“Dis no be de plan before,” the man bargained with Big Guy. “We gree say we go dig one—not two—remember?”

“We had to abandon de oder place and run. No be ma faute. I no know people go surprise us for dat hour on dat road. . . . I go pay well.”

“Combien? How much?”

“Hey, no shout,” Big Guy said, laughing. “People dey sleep in dis house.”

“Oh yeah?” the other man said, and stopped digging too. “If dem catch us nko? You no tell us de risk big like dis o.”

“Oh, just children,” Big Guy assured them. “Dem dey sleep.”

“I say I no want work again,” said the first.

“We must finish before daybreak. . . . D’accord, how much you want?”

He managed another short laugh, that short soothing laugh that told you everything was all right when it wasn’t. I remembered him laughing that way when Fofo introduced him to the party crowd after the Nanfang Thanksgiving. I could imagine his sinister eyes now, cool and quick in the dark, as he tried to renegotiate with these men.

“Plus argent,” one of the men said.

“More money?” Big Guy replied. “You go accept a used Nanfang?”

“You want give us a Nanfang?” the man said, his voice rising in excitement.

“Excellent!” the other man said, tapping on the metal of his tool, as if to honor the moment.

“La Nanfang, c’est very very decent,” Big Guy said softly, as the diggers got back to work, tearing the earth apart with gusto. “But if you tell anyone, I go kill you.”

“We understand,” one digger said. “How deep you want dis?”

“Deep enough to bury Smiley Kpee complétement,” Big Guy said.

My heart skipped a beat. I became weak and dropped to my knees. The stuffy air now felt like fumes in my nostrils. I tried to stand up, but my legs wouldn’t support me. I sat down, my back against the door, my knees hoisted up to support my bowed head, my arms wrapped around my shins. I closed my eyes, clenched my fists, and pressed my mouth against my knees to keep from wailing. I stiffened my toes and wanted to be numb. I held my breath until I became dizzy and couldn’t do it anymore.

My mind started racing: did he die in the hospital, or did they kill him? Even if he died in the hospital, I thought, they still killed him, because if they hadn’t beaten him he’d be alive. I felt betrayed now because I had promised them that my sister and I would go to Gabon anyway, to protect Fofo. What would I tell my grandparents back home? What would I say to fofos and aunts in Braffe? What would I say to my parents?

Guilt filled my heart. I held myself responsible for his death, although I didn’t know what I could have done to stop it. Maybe I should have been the one who was beaten, instead of Fofo. I hated myself and began to consider myself as bad as Big Guy and our godparents and our games master. I felt I had learned evil from them. I had learned to smile and be angry at the same time. My little pretenses before the guard worried me, and I felt my uncle would still be alive if I hadn’t encouraged him to flee that night.

Tears rolled down my face, hot and fast. I heaved my weight off the door, because I was trembling and was afraid the vibration might draw attention. My heartbeat seemed louder than the thuds of the shovels outside, and after a while I couldn’t even hear the digging.

My anger grew until I felt choked. I reached out and grabbed the wickers of the cutlery basket so hard that one of them snapped, and Yewa turned in her sleep. I wanted to break Big Guy’s neck like that wicker for trying to bury Fofo somewhere on the road.

I took a knife from the basket and kept it by my side in case I needed to defend myself. As bad as the digging was, I wished it could have lasted forever, to delay Fofo’s interment. Each time the diggers paused to catch their breath, a wave of panic crashed over me and I balled my fists.

* * *

“Ç A SUFFIT,” BIG GUY said. “Dat’s enough for dat cheat!”

Something in his voice, the callousness, I think, emboldened me, and I felt I needed to confront Big Guy. I quickly wiped my tears and willed that he would not make me cry anymore. I tried to stand up but was still too weak, so I knelt and again put my ear to the door.

“Stop,” Big Guy said. “Come out! I done promise you de Nanfang. Wetin you want again, huh? A new Nanfang?”

“Thank you, sir,” they said, scrambling out of the grave. I heard brisk footsteps going toward the front of the house. When they returned, they were slower and shuffling, I think because of Fofo’s weight. I tried to figure out how they were carrying him but couldn’t. When they dropped him into the grave with a thud, I pressed against the door—and decided then that I would rather die than go to Gabon. I thought it would be better to be killed by Big Guy than to be sold over Fofo’s dead body. I would drown before they hauled me onto that ship.

As they filled the grave, I heard my sister get up. I rushed over to her and covered her mouth with my hand. I whispered that we needed to lie down again, that day hadn’t yet broken, and went with her back to bed. I put the knife under the mattress, right under the pillow. I lay there and thought about how best to flee from Big Guy and his people, until the guard came in the morning.

After the guard had cleared the toilet pail, he set down his big flashlight and gave us some food and a jug of salt water. My sister ate heartily.

“So how you dey, mes enfants?” he said, full of false pity, inspecting our faces. “Bien dormi?”

“Yes, we slept well,” Yewa said, her mouth stuffed with yam and beans.

“You dream?”

“No dream,” she said.

“You dey too quiet, Pascal. . . . Your eyes dey red, your face dey swollen. You no sleep?”

“I did,” I said quietly.

“And you no want chop?” He came to the bed, lifted the pillow, and sat down beside me. He sat close to the knife. “Eat someting, abeg, boy, chop o.”

I managed a smile and poured a bit of the salt water from the jug and sipped. “I’ve no appetite now. I’ll eat later.”

“A ma sé nude din weÙ ya?” the guard said suddenly.

Yewa shrugged. “No, I didn’t hear anything last night.”

“And you, big boy? No look so sad, abeg.”

The word big cut into my disguise, and the picture of Big Guy loomed in my mind. I wanted to tell the guard that, yes, I knew they had killed Fofo Kpee and buried him behind the house last night. I wanted to tell him to go to hell. I thought about pulling out the knife and stabbing him. But I wasn’t sure I could kill him instantly. And if I didn’t kill him with the first blow, he would overpower me.

I decided to abandon the knife option and exploit his sympathy. Maybe if I begged him he would let us go into the parlor. And if we got there, I might be able to get the keys from the pocket of Fofo’s olive-green corduroy coat.

“You no hear anyting?” he asked again, seeing, I guessed, my hesitation.

“No, nothing,” I denied. “Did something happen, monsieur?”

“Oh, no, no, notting. Just Big Guy messing around for night.”

“No!” Yewa said.

“Calm down,” the man said. “I just de ask weder he disturb you.”

“Please, how is Fofo Kpee,” I said, looking down, hiding my pain.

“Well, he dey make progress for hospital. Dem go keep am for hospital for a while.”

“How long?” I asked.

“He go come home small time. . . . I visit him last night.”

Yewa stopped eating, looked up, and said, “You did?”

“He say make I greet vous deux . . . and, Pascal, he get message for you.”

“Message? What message?” I said.

“Na you be family head while he dey hospital. . . . Take care of dis small gal.”

He reached around me and patted my sister on the shoulder.

“Did you bring his clothes to him?” I said, hoping against hope that he hadn’t touched anything in the next room, especially that olive-green coat.

“L’hospital always get dress for de patients. No need to bring dem from house.”

I was happy that things were going my way. It was important that I keep my composure; it was important that I court the guard’s sympathy. With Fofo dead, I felt I needed to beat them at their own game. I felt I had the right to be an even worse human being than Big Guy.

“Thanks for the message from Fofo Kpee,” I said.

“C’est rien,” he answered. “Kpee be good man . . . only dat he come misbehave.”

“And thanks for the food, water, toilet . . . everything. God has brought you to us.”

“But what am I?” Yewa suddenly asked in a tiny whiny voice.

“Wetin you be?” the man asked, looking at me.

We both looked at Yewa, trying to understand her.

She said, “Did Fofo Kpee give you any message for me . . . ?”

“No!” said the man, imitating Yewa’s manner of saying no, then giggled.

I managed a fake laugh.

“I’m sure he did,” Yewa insisted, and took a gulp of salt water.

“Oh, dis-nous, what message he give you?” the guard teased.

“That I’m Pascal’s assistant . . . Pascal, right? I’m not a small girl.”

“Yes, you’re my assistant,” I said.

“Wow, Mary, c’est vrai!” the man said. “Na true o. Fofo say you must assist Pascal for everyting. Like assistant class prefect, hén?”

“Yes, monsieur,” she said, happy with herself.

While they chatted, I opened my food and began to nibble on the yam without any desire to swallow. I tried to smile when they laughed, but memories of the sound of earth falling on Fofo flooded me, bringing tears to my eyes. But when I imagined Big Guy’s short laugh, I fought the tears and scooped hot beans into my mouth, knowing Yewa and the guard would think that was what was making my eyes teary.

“Could we at least go into the other room . . . please, please?” I asked suddenly.

“No wahala,” he said, and shrugged. “Gimme time.”

I looked away, to hide my excitement. Even Yewa seemed to feel the extra friendliness that morning. She picked up the flashlight and aimed it around the room playfully, drawing and painting intricate designs with the beam, shining it into all the crannies. It was her toy, and she behaved in that brief time like one who had the power to bathe the world in light or darkness. Sometimes she tried to use her hands to cover the face of the flashlight. Her fingers got red, but light still poured into the room. She aimed the flashlight at her belly and pushed it into her skin until there was very little light, just an eclipse on her stomach.

“Attention, attention, Madame Assistant Family Head, we need light o,” the guard said, reaching out for the flashlight. He was uncomfortable. “Na you be prisoner, not me!”

“But we can still see,” Yewa laughed, and pushed it harder into her stomach, trying to smother the light altogether without success. The man leaped forward and took the flashlight from her.

“When are the other children coming again?” I asked.

“Tomorrow nuit,” the man said. “We go clear de room tomorrow morning.”

“Please, could we just go into the other room and sit for a while?” I said.

“Ah . . .”

“You don’t need to open the door or windows . . . just let us step out of here.”

“Je comprend, you want take a break from dis prison. We can have one lesson dere.”

He led us into the parlor and cracked open a window. Though the room was dim, it was very bright for my eyes and felt colder because of the fresh air. My eyes went straight to the wardrobe, and I scanned the clothes until I saw the green coat. I was relieved that it was still there. I had no reason to think someone had tampered with it. My heart began to race, but I held on. I pretended to pay attention to Yewa, who was peering into the old soccer calendar and calling out the names of players. Without our bed, the room felt lopsided and wider.

I sat on the center table, which was closer to the wardrobe, while the guard and Yewa sat on Fofo’s bed. She was understandably uplifted by being in the parlor and hummed many a Christian chorus, something she had not done since we tried to escape. She smiled at us often and peered at everything as if she were seeing it for the first time.

The door to our room was ajar. I kept looking at the floor where they had put Fofo Kpee the night they ambushed us. It was the last place I had seen him.

* * *

“HAVE YOU EVER GONE to Gabon, monsieur?” I asked him.

“No,” he said.

“Hey, we will be in Gabon before you!” my sister said.

“No wahala, I go come later,” he said.

“Do you think it’s a good idea?” I said, looking down.

“Yes, Pascal,” he said. “Hén, Assistant Family Head?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Make we just dey call you AFH, why not?” the man said. “YinkoÙ dagbe!”

Yewa nodded, pompously.

“I miss our Nanfang,” I said. “AFH always went with Fofo Kpee for a ride.”

“Good machine,” the guard said. “Right now, de ting dey mechanic shop for servicing.”

I nodded as if I didn’t know that Big Guy had probably handed over the machine to the grave diggers by now.

“Do you think Big Guy would allow Fofo Kpee to own the Nanfang again?” I said, and looked down suddenly.

“Of course,” he said, “de zokeÙkeÙ na him property. . . . Why you dey look down?”

I jumped in my seat, feigning surprise.

“You dey OK? Wetin be dat?”

“I saw something.”

I got up and moved away from the table, backing toward the wardrobe. Yewa quickly pulled her feet onto the bed in fright, which was good for my ruse. She wanted to cling to the man, but he got up and asked her not to leave the bed.

“Someting? Like what?” the guard said. “Wetin you see?”

“Rats,” I said, and kept backing toward the wardrobe.

“Dat’s why you dey look down? You people dey lucky for dat prison where everyting dey sealed and de windows dey close. I dey see rat here every day o. Don’t worry, I go kill dem.”

I was within arm’s reach of the coat, and my hands extended behind me, as if I were preparing to fall into the wardrobe. My fingers were restless. The guard had taken off one of his shoes to use as a weapon and was searching under the bed and around the room with the flashlight. He pulled out Fofo Kpee’s carton of shoes and emptied it but saw nothing. I kept inching back toward the wardrobe. “Look at the other corner!” I said, prodding him. “I hope the rat hasn’t entered our room.”

As soon as I reached the coat, I grabbed the keys from the breast pocket and slid them into the pocket of my shorts. He was turning around at that point, but I pretended to fall, pulling many clothes down with me.

“I’m sorry, monsieur,” I said.

“Well, na just rat,” he laughed, calling off the hunt. “You be woman? You too fear! If de rat worry you tonight in your room, just call me, you hear?”

“Yes, monsieur,” we said.

Now my insides were rising and falling with joy. I began to fantasize about our escape. Our best bet was to run in the middle of the night, while he was asleep. I hadn’t thought about where we would run, but it didn’t bother me. My joy now was that freedom was within our reach. I just needed to manage my excitement until then. Again, like on the day Fofo tried to run away with us, I thought it was important for me not to tell Yewa anything until we were ready to leave. I didn’t want to risk it.

The guard again reviewed our lessons about being lost at sea and told us why we needed to drink salt water. We were comfortable around him.

* * *

WHEN WE WERE PUT back in the room, I was excited and jumpy and kept smiling in the dark. Against my fingers, the keys felt cold and warm at the same time. Each was half the length of my forefinger and felt light. Though I had no holes in my pocket, I was afraid of losing the keys in the dark. I kept putting my hand into my pocket to caress them and got to know all of their contours. Yewa chatted nonstop about the guard and the parlor, as if we had just returned from a picnic.

Finally, I wore myself out from excitement and I told Yewa I needed to sleep. I wanted to rest and prepare for the flight at night. First, I lay with the keys against the mattress. Then I turned so they faced up. Then I put my hand into the pocket and held on to the keys. Then I took them out of my pocket.

That night, when Yewa’s and the guard’s breathing had steadied in sleep, I got up and sneaked toward the back door. But when I remembered that the door always squeaked, I made for the window.

I climbed onto the bags of cement, and with shaky hands, I pulled one of the keys out of my pocket and grabbed the padlock. I trembled and fidgeted until I was able to find the keyhole. But it was the wrong key. I pulled it out and left it atop the cement bag. When the second key didn’t work either, I set it aside. I was shaking, afraid that the third might not work, so I paused and tried to calm myself. The guard sneezed and his bed squeaked. I leaned against the window frame and wrestled with a sinking feeling that we might not escape after all. I waited a few minutes, to give the guard a chance to fall back into a deep sleep.

Finally, I thrust in the third key and turned it. There was a snap as the lock was released. When I was sure nobody had heard me, I removed the padlock and put both it and the key in my pocket. I nudged the window slowly until it opened and freshness washed over my face.

It was a cold, beautiful night, and dull moonlight poured into the room. Everything was quiet and peaceful. I closed the window and crept back to the bed. I tapped Yewa on the shoulder, gently, until she sat up, scratching herself. “Kotchikpa,” she said dreamily.

“Yes,” I whispered. “No noise.”

“Are we going to the parlor again? Where’s the guard?”

“We’re running away . . . lower your voice!”

“Voice?”

I gave her a firm shake.

“We’re going to visit Fofo Kpee in the hospital,” I lied, leading her gently away from the bed.

“Now?”

I lifted her onto the cement bags, opened the window, and asked her to climb, hoping to go after her. I pushed her head through the open window. When the wind whipped her face, a scream escaped from her mouth. She was wide-awake now and got down from the bags and retreated to the bed. I dragged her toward the window, but she fought me.

“You dey fight for night?” the guard said, already struggling with the door.

“Yewa . . . use the window, jump!” I screamed. “He’s going to kill us!”

“Stop, stop!” the guard shouted, bursting into the room.

I pushed Yewa out of the way, toward the cutlery basket, and dove headlong through the window, breaking the fall with my hands. I ran toward Fofo Kpee’s grave, but my mind was so full of Yewa’s keening and its echo from the sea that I forgot to look at it.

I ran into the bush, blades of elephant grass slashing my body, thorns and rough earth piercing my feet. I took the key and padlock from my pocket and flung them into the bush. I ran and I ran, though I knew I would never outrun my sister’s wailing.

What Language Is That?

Best Friend said she liked your little eyes and lean face and walk and the way you spoke your English. Her name was Selam. You said you liked her dimples and long legs and handwriting. You both liked to eat Smiling Cow toffees. She was the last child in her family; you were an only child. The world was only big enough for the two of you, and your secret language was an endless giggle, which made the other kids jealous. Selam lived in a flat in a red two-story building in Bahminya. You lived in a brown two-story building across the street.

Some days, after school, you and Selam stood together on the balcony of one of the buildings and watched Selam’s two brothers and their friends on the hilly streets with their homemade kites, running and screaming until their heels kicked up puffs of Ethiopian dust. The boys ran into traders hawking CDs they carried in wide metal trays on their heads, or into horse-drawn buggies and donkeys burdened by goods, slowing down traffic. They avoided the next street, which had a mosque, because the imam would curse them if the kites entangled the minaret. He had already made it known to their parents that flying kites was foreign, blaming them for exposing their children to strange ways. But Best Friend’s parents told your parents that they had told the imam that he should not try to tell them how to raise their children in a free Ethiopia. So, many afternoons, you watched the kites rising against the distant coffee fields, then the beautiful hills, and then cupped your hands over your eyes as the kites climbed into the wide, low blue skies.

Some days, there was no need to go to one or the other’s house to be together. No, you and Best Friend stood on your own balconies and screamed your kindergarten rhymes to each other across the street, over the brown birds sitting on the electric and phone wires. The wires were cluttered with dead kites, trapped like butterflies in giant cobwebs. Your mommy didn’t mind your loud recitations because she said you were only children. Your daddy was OK with it but didn’t want you to shout when he was taking his siesta, after which he would sometimes drive you around in his white car. Selam’s parents weren’t very OK with the shouts, but what could they do?

Some Saturdays, your mommy or Emaye Selam would walk both of you two streets down, behind the church, for your hair to be braided. Like twins, you always chose the same style. Some days, you went to her place and watched the Disney channel, and sometimes she came over to your place and you played Snakes and Ladders and ate doro wot and spaghetti.

One Sunday, after church, which Selam attended with your family because her parents traveled, Daddy drove you two to Hoteela Federalawi to eat. You read out all the billboards on the long, beautiful Haile Selassie Arada: Selam the ones on the right, you the ones on the left. In Hoteela Federalawi, Daddy picked a table outside, under a big canopy, and you sat down. You read to each other from the menu while he looked on proudly. You both ordered pizza, while Daddy got a big dish of mahberawi.

“Is hamburger pork?” Selam asked, and tossed a piece of mushroom into her mouth.

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 1196