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“Yes, Fofo,” we stammered, and nodded.

“Let talk about sex, mes bébés,” he began to sing, and wriggled like a madman. “Let talk about vous and moi.” He balled one hand into a microphone, the other still grabbing his genitals. He skulked around the room as if he were on stage; he jumped onto the table, then jumped down. He moonwalked until his back grazed the clothes in the wardrobe. He stopped suddenly, with one leg raised in frozen posture. “You know de song?”

“No,” we said.

“You want touch my ting? Come on, do it, allez, touchez moi.”

He was now coming toward us.

“No, no!” I said, and we backed away.

My sister was silent. She never spoke again that night but shielded her privates with her hands and moved behind me.

“Oh, you want touch your ting, mes enfants?”

“No,” I said.

I felt a numbness around my groin, and my heart began to pound. I didn’t feel the heat anymore, though I noticed more sweat was pouring from my body. My penis seemed to have shrunk completely, and my balls became one hard nut. I knew immediately this was different from my fofo’s ordinary clowning. I was afraid.

“Or you want touch white man, Mary, huh?” he said.

Yewa shook her head.

When he turned his gaze on me, I said, “Maybe we should not go to Gabon . . .”

“Shut up, bastard!” he exploded, and shook his head and downed more payó. “You want drink, abi?”

“No.”

“You want woman?”

“No.”

“Just don’t disgrace me for foreign land o . . . you hear?”

“No.”

“Non?”

“Yes, Fofo.”

We stared at each other for a while. “Good, at least,” he said, “you no dey hide your face anymore. Gbòjé, gbòjé!”

He held the cap of his penis by his fingertips and stretched it downward until the rings of flesh disappeared. He spun and released it like a cone. It didn’t turn but returned weakly to its perch on the balls. He continued to do this until his penis began to get bigger. He giggled and tied his wrappa around his waist again and sat on the bed.

“Would you like some food?” he said.

“No,” I said.

“Sure, Mary? Some Gabon food, cornflakes, Nido, huh?”

“I want to sleep,” she whispered.

That night I tried to convince myself that I was drunk, that none of this had really happened. In spite of the heat, I put on my shorts and turned my back toward Fofo and lay with my hands between my legs, trying to protect myself even in sleep. My sister simply wrapped herself up in the bedspread. I was repulsed by thoughts of traveling to Gabon. I no longer felt at home in our place. It was as if every piece of furniture had been stained by Fofo’s performance that night. My mind sank deeper into shame and fear as I remembered all the things we had bought since we started thinking of going to Gabon. For instance, I hated the very shorts I was wearing and thought of taking them off, but I couldn’t bring myself to sleep naked that night. I hated the Nanfang and vowed never to ride on it again.

For the first time, I sympathized with Paul—and wished I could have vomited, like him, all the good food I had ever eaten in the past few months. I wondered how he and Antoinette were doing. Did they know something we didn’t know? Did they go through their orientation before visiting us? Who would be giving them this lesson? Big Guy?

I wasn’t interested in traveling anymore, though somehow my mind refused to associate my godparents with what had happened that night. I felt better thinking they didn’t know, and took solace in the memory of their visit. Though I no longer felt like following them, I didn’t think they meant us any harm. And though Fofo apologized to us the next morning and said he overdid things just a bit in case life became difficult abroad, I started thinking of how to escape and run back to Braffe with my sister.

* * *

ONE DAY FOFO RUSHED back from work unexpectedly, like in his pre-Nanfang days when he had duped someone at the border and needed to go underground. He jumped off his bike and stormed into the parlor. He quickly locked the door behind him and leaned against it, breathing like one who had escaped from a lion. Uncharacteristically, Fofo had abandoned the Nanfang outside. He didn’t respond to our greetings. He mumbled something about protecting us from evil and started unbolting the windows. A humid gust of wind drifted in and flushed the room of the stuffiness that had filled the place since we sealed the house three weeks before.

“Yes, if dem want kill me, ye ni hù mì,” he said to no one in particular. He had his arms akimbo and seemed very proud of this single action of opening the windows. Then he removed his coat and sat down heavily on the bed.

“Fofo, who wants to kill you?” Yewa asked quietly, not moving closer to him.

Since that night when he went naked before us, we were scared to get close to him and said very little to him. He said little to us too. Silence grew between us like yeast, and the room felt smaller, while his presence seemed to expand. We looked forward to his leaving the house, and when he was home, sometimes we pretended to be asleep.

Now I began to speak to him from our bed: “Fofo, are you . . . ?”

“Leave me alone!” he warned, holding his forehead in his palms. “Vous pensez que I dey craze, huh?”

“No, no, Fofo,” I pleaded.

“I dey OK . . . notting dey wrong wid me.”

Yewa didn’t say anything. Now she hid behind me, as she did that bad night. The fresh wind filled the room, and we listened to it and the distant wash of the ocean on the beach. After a while, she whispered in my ear that we should go outside, but when I grabbed her hand and wanted to leave the room, he ordered us to sit on the bed. My sister began to sob.

Fofo Kpee went outside to bring the Nanfang into the inner room. He pushed the bike forcefully, like a police officer arresting a difficult criminal. “If I must sell you to be free,” he said to the Nanfang, slapping the backseat, “I shall!”

When we saw him slapping the machine, we expected him to blow up at us at any moment. Then we heard him rummaging in the inner room, his anger evident in the way he threw things out of the way. He was searching for something. He came out with an iron bar we hadn’t seen in a long time.

He went to work with all his energy, climbing on a chair in our parlor-bedroom and chipping the cement mix we had put up a few weeks back, driven by a fury we couldn’t understand. He didn’t bother to move anything or to ask me for help. The brittle fill came flying down in bits and pieces. It was as if the whole place would come crashing down. The whiff of dust streaked the fresh air. And when I coughed, he ordered us to get out of his sight.

We went outside. The late-afternoon sun had gone past the center of the sky and hit the earth at an angle, pouring out of the clear skies without restraint. Looking down the long path to the road, we could see people going about their business, on foot and on bikes, in either direction. We sat quietly under the mango tree, facing the house. I sat on the ground with my back against the tree, my legs straight out before me, Yewa sitting on them, her head on my chest. Its shade wide and cool, the mango foliage wore a two-tone look, like our Nanfang. Some parts of the tree were in bloom, the new fruit and bright-green leaves contrasting with the old. The scent of the fruit, fresh and warm in the sun, filled the air, and the ground around us was sprayed with fine light-green pollen.

“Is he angry with Nanfang?” Yewa whispered to me when we could no longer hear him working inside.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“When we buy him a car, he won’t be angry again.”

“We’re not going to Gabon!”

“We’re not?” she said, turning to face me. “Why, huh?”

“Did you like what Fofo Kpee said the night he danced naked? You liked what he did?”

“No. But he said sorry to us the next day.” She closed her eyes in defiance and turned her back to me. “OK, I’ll go alone, with Mama and Papa!”

It was no use arguing with her.

Under that mango tree, my mind went back to thoughts of running away. Though I had no concrete plans and didn’t know whether it would be possible, the very idea of leaving lifted my mood that afternoon.

I was no longer sure about escaping to Braffe. Suppose I got there and my extended family was as fixated on Gabon as Yewa was and no one understood my change of mind? Who would believe me if I told them what Fofo had done that bad night? Or what if our siblings had been put through this already and didn’t complain? Again, I was concerned about how to escape with Yewa. How could I convince her to follow me when she was still excited about traveling?

For a moment, I thought about telling Monsieur Abraham that our uncle had gone crazy, about the late-night lessons and my plans to escape. But I was too ashamed to do that. What would he think of me? What if my classmates got wind of my uncle’s craziness?

I hated our house now and felt we could have sat out there forever, without wanting to go back in. The front door and the windows were open like the petals of a trap that would slam shut once the prey stepped inside. The angular sun shaved some of the shade off the veranda, catching one of the open windows, its metal gleaming like bait.

“Let’s not argue with him, so he won’t be mad at us,” I said to my sister. “Let’s go inside.”

“I want Mama.”

“Get up!” I said, and pushed her off my thighs.

We tiptoed to the door and peered in. Fofo lay sprawled out on the bed, like a monster dragged ashore by fishermen. His eyes weren’t completely shut. The scar on his cheek looked like a worm journeying from his eye to his mouth, or vice versa, eating his good humor. We sneaked into our bed and lay there, looking up at the roof. Though he had worked very hard all afternoon, he only succeeded in making gaping holes near the roof. They were many and ugly, rough and dreadful, like an unfinished haircut. It was worse than the space we used to have before we sealed it. Our walls now had long cracks, as if Fofo Kpee had made a mural of lightning on them. In some places, the plaster that covered the mud wall had come off, revealing a moldy interior. The smell of crushed stone lingered.

From the way he was sleeping now, we knew he would never have the energy to tackle the inner room. He didn’t talk to us when he woke up, and his face was subdued. He seemed even beyond the babble that had occasionally become his lot in those days.

I made food for myself and my sister because he refused to eat or drink. We ate quickly without talking. He just lay on his bed and stared at the holes he had created, as if whatever was upsetting him would reach in through them to hurt us. He lay faceup, his hands clasped under his head, his elbows up, his legs crossed. One moment he was as still as a corpse, and the next he startled at any sound.

That night we slept better than we had in a long time because of the holes he had made. We didn’t have any lessons.

* * *

BIG GUY VISITED US the following day. He appeared unceremoniously, storming in without knocking. Fofo was lying on his bed. Big Guy came in ordinary clothes and looked unkempt and worried. As if he had been expecting him, Fofo didn’t stand up to receive him or even look at him. Actually, once he saw Big Guy, he sprawled out so the man couldn’t sit on his bed. Our visitor ignored him too, turning his attention to us.

“Mes amis, hey, how you dey today?” he said, slipping into a big smile, flashing us a thumbs-up.

“Fine,” we said.

He sat on our bed, in between us.

“I can see Fofo dey feed you well well.”

He plucked at my sister’s cheeks playfully. I hated the fact that what he was saying was true. We looked well fed these days. Our faces had become rounder, our cheeks had filled out, our ribs had disappeared, and our tummies had lost their bloatedness.

“I get good news for you o,” Big Guy said. “We go travel next week.” He rubbed his palms against each other as if he were praying to us. He pointed at Fofo, who shot him a wicked look, then glanced away. “We dey almost ready, OK . . . or, Mary, you want travel quick quick?”

“Today!” she said.

“Talk am again, bright gal!” Big Guy exclaimed, giving Yewa a high five. “You know better ting.”

Fofo turned and glared at us, and Yewa turned to me, uncertainty clipping her earlier abandon.

“Pascal . . . today?” Big Guy said, turning to me.

I pretended I didn’t hear him. An awkward silence filled the room.

“See, de children dey ready,” Big Guy announced to Fofo Kpee gleefully. “No disappoint dem now o. It too late. No be so, Mary?”

“Yes.”

“Who be the wife of Fofo David?”

“Tantine Cecile.”

“Any children?”

“Yves and Jules.”

“Your city for Gabon?”

“Port-Gentil.”

“Excellent. Pascal, you dey too quiet today. Mama dey like your maturity. And Tantine Cecile dey look forward to see you. . . . Say something, abeg, son. . . . Antoinette and Paul dey greet you. . . . You no want travel today like your sister?”

I didn’t want to talk to him. Once he mentioned my Gabon siblings, I became angry and imagined him dancing naked before them. It was my strongest memory of our preparations. I was as uncomfortable as if he were sitting naked with us. Though I didn’t know that Fofo had come to detest the Gabon deal, I secretly enjoyed the cold shoulder he was giving Big Guy. And though I knew that Big Guy was just teasing us about leaving that day, I couldn’t bring myself to share in the joke. I prayed that Fofo would just tell him to go to hell with his plans.

But both men’s eyes were fixed on my face. Fofo’s face was solemn, pained, and the other face had a frozen smile that seemed to need my reaction to thaw into a full one. I didn’t know where to look. My throat felt like sandpaper, and my lungs burned as if they had no air. The room seemed to shrink, and I dug my fingers into our mattress. I tried to smile to hide my feelings, but I didn’t know whether my face cooperated or not.

“Yes, he would like to travel today,” Yewa answered for me.

Fofo looked at her sharply. Big Guy broke into a full smile. I breathed again, my forehead moist with sweat.

“Your fofo like Gabon, oui?” Big Guy asked her, as if to score an added point against Fofo, having won the standoff.

She nodded. “Yes.”

Big Guy began to tickle her, making her snicker as if she had water in her throat. He explained that we would soon begin school in Port-Gentil. He said schools in Gabon were as beautiful as schools in France, that we would catch up with classes as soon as we got there. Though he tried to be friendly, plying us with sweets and rubbing our heads and dancing to entertain us, there was something hollow about his performance that day. He wasn’t wearing his immigration uniform, but the stiffness I had seen in him when he came with our godparents hung over him. After a while, even Yewa didn’t like his exaggerated excitement anymore. Though she kept answering his questions, she did so with single-word answers, as if she had intentionally struck a compromise between Fofo’s discomfort and Big Guy’s need to fill up his awkward visit with chatter.

Then Big Guy resorted to laughing a big laugh, as if the whole world had suddenly become funny. Yewa only smiled at him, without a sound. He laughed until his frame buckled over, and he sat on the floor; he laughed until he began to sound unnatural. He made funny faces and rolled his tongue to keep Yewa’s interest. It was as if Big Guy was learning to be a clown, like Fofo, while Fofo was learning to be serious, like Big Guy. It was a badly acted play, and we sat there, a captive audience. Though he turned on the boom box and Lagbaja’s “Konko Below” battered the room, Fofo lay there, unmoving, like a fallen statue.

After a while, Big Guy yawned and went to sit with Fofo Kpee. Fofo sat up abruptly, as if he needed to protect himself. Big Guy put his arm around his neck.

“Smiley, mon ami, you dey take tings too serious.”

“I done make up my mind,” Fofo said, his face tight like a rock, his pinched lips like its eroded precipice. “Efó!”

“Non, abeg, no talk comme ça o,” Big Guy said. “I only dey joke yesterday. . . . I mean, if you no want work for our NGO anymore, it’s OK. Be fair to yourself, au moins. We no reach point of no return yet, so you still fit change your mind. But, no rush your decision.”

Fofo looked at him without saying anything for a while. “Peutêtre, we should suspend de plan for now.”

“You’re bound to feel like dis at de beginning. Moi aussi, I no like de plan at de beginning. It be like say you dey exploit de young, but actually you dey help dem. Dem go get plenty chance abroad. Already, we dey give dem food tree times daily . . . clothes, shoes, books . . . are dese bad tings for dem?”

“Maybe.”

“You no get liva o . . . coward, huh?”

“Show me person who no go fear?”

“Mais pourquoi? Why?” Big Guy patted him on the back. “Abeg, courage, oui?”

“Hén, what? Leave me alone. . . . I no want teach dem new lesson.”

“Ah no o. We still get at-sea orientation for dem o. Na last lesson.”

Big Guy looked up at the space between the walls and the roof and nodded, smiling as if he had just noticed the change. “I see, I see. You done change de place, huh. . . . Even de windows dey open.”

“Na my place. N’gan bayi onú de jlo mi. Or you want make I suffocate my children for my house?”

“Ecoute, if I be you,” Big Guy said, winking at us and pulling Fofo so close that they almost fell over, “I go just dey follow de plan and dey teach dese children. No dash deir hope for notting o.” The bedsprings squeaked, and they regained their balance. Fofo smiled a sad smile but didn’t answer him. “You just dey fear fear, Kpee.” Big Guy stood up. “Make we go talk outside.”

“Talk?”

“I get small matter I want tell you. Make we go.”

“Impossible,” Fofo said calmly, his elbows on his thighs, his fists together supporting his chin. “I go pay you back. I dey make some money wid Nanfang. Just gimme time, na mi tán.”

“Dis ting no be about money but helping our children. We can even give you plus argent. Come outside. Remember, na you be our point man for dis area?”

“Take de Nanfang, abeg.”

“No way,” he said, and shrugged a big shrug. “Keep de machine. Dat na wicked ting. We no go take your daily bread. You go destroy yourself if you negotiate like dis.”

Since he wouldn’t leave Fofo in peace, our uncle followed him outside.

“No come out o, mes amis,” Big Guy said to us in a voice that betrayed a grain of anxiety. “Remain inside.” We nodded. He opened the door for Fofo and closed it behind him as if our house were his.

Once their footsteps waned, we rushed to the window and watched them through the worn blinds. They walked until they reached the road and stopped. Fofo was facing us. We couldn’t hear them. The plantations and sea loomed behind the road, and sometimes it looked as if the plantations were on the sea or as if the people on the road were walking on water, like Jesus.

The two men argued loudly, raising their hands. Sometimes people who knew them startled them with greetings, and you could see them stop momentarily, flash empty smiles, then go back to business as if to make up for lost time. Fofo kept shaking his head, as if he were saying a big no to whatever his friend was saying. And each time I saw the no shape in his mouth, I felt like clapping for him. It became very predictable, and naturally I started shaking my head too, and my mouth formed many silent nos. I held tight to the window frame. I was praying for Fofo to stand firm.

Then Big Guy seized Fofo by the shoulders and shook him until Fofo spun and broke free, staggered and regained his balance. He didn’t move away from Big Guy but stood his ground.

“He’s going to beat up Fofo Kpee,” Yewa whispered. “Big Guy is mean. Is he a bully?”

“I don’t know.”

“Big Guy is a bad man.” Her voice began to crack with emotion. “I won’t dance with him anymore. And he won’t follow us to Gabon! I’ll report him to Mama and Papa.”

“Shhh, don’t cry now, OK? Fofo is strong.”

Suddenly, four police officers showed up and surrounded Fofo; they came in twos from either direction, as if they had expected Fofo to try to escape. They wielded koboko whips, and their waists bulged with pistols and batons. All of them were screaming at Fofo, with Big Guy getting more and more manic. Fofo Kpee’s mouth was shut, and he stood very still, like a man in the presence of unfriendly dogs. After watching the scene for a while, I knew that Big Guy was determined to get Fofo to agree with him. But Fofo folded his hands in front of him and shook his head periodically, very slowly. Whenever they looked in our direction, I ducked and dunked Yewa’s head under the window too.

It was quite a scene, because in all of Fofo’s years of being a tout, the police had never visited our place or harassed him for duping people. Yewa held my hand tightly. We didn’t know whether to lock ourselves inside or to run out toward the pool of bystanders that had gathered around and blocked our view.

The police tried to disperse the bystanders, but the people simply gave them a wide berth and kept watching. At the end Big Guy stormed away as abruptly as he had arrived, and the police went in different directions, their sudden departure startling the onlookers. Fofo stood there smiling at everybody as if the whole thing were a joke. We couldn’t hear what he was telling them, but from the way he was gesticulating and their periodic laughter, it was clear that his humor had returned. It was a relief; he was once again the fofo we knew. In a little while, the crowd lost interest and disappeared into the evening, leaving him there by the road, looking out at the sea and waving to people who waved to him.

Yewa broke free from my grasp, opened the door, and ran toward him, stumbling and shouting, “Fofo, Fofo!” He turned suddenly on hearing her and opened his mouth, but before he could speak Yewa came to a complete stop. With one sharp hand gesture, he sent her back to the house. She walked in sobbing while Fofo Kpee continued to look at the sea and the road.

When he finally turned and walked toward home, his strides were weak, his face down, his hands behind him as if in handcuffs. He walked slowly, as if he didn’t quite want to reach home. It must have been more difficult to come back to us that evening than it had been dealing with Big Guy and the police. He walked like a student who had committed a big offense and was afraid of being expelled.

That night he told us we should no longer go to school. It didn’t seem like a good time to ask questions, so we hushed.

* * *

FOFO KPEE NEVER MENTIONED Big Guy or Gabon in our presence again. And since Gabon had become the talk of our family and our impending departure the collective dream, its absence from our conversation created a vacuum in our lives. Fofo brooded and didn’t go to work. He didn’t say much to us. He seemed to be struggling even to get out of bed. He was no longer drinking. He read the Bible nonstop and prayed a lot—alone, never inviting us to join him as in the old days. His pride in his Nanfang dissipated, and he no longer washed it daily, nor tooted the horn nonstop nor rode it to church. Even his manner of dress became something else. He stopped wearing his jackets and beautiful shoes and went back to his flip-flops and rugged jeans, his pre-Nanfang clothes, whenever he left the house.

All our stuff in the inner room meant nothing to him now. In fact, it seemed he couldn’t bear going in there at all. He covered the bike completely, like we did the day we cemented the inner room. Even Yewa knew better than to talk about or play with the Nanfang. In those empty days, we expected Fofo to finish removing the mortar in the parlor to let in more air and to begin working in the other room. But he never did. And, though Fofo gazed at it nonstop when he lay on his bed, it was as if he lacked the willpower or interest to carry through with the project. Instead, he put all his energy into watching us and warning us not to follow or talk to anybody without his permission.

“Be careful,” he said to us the second day after Big Guy’s visit, “bad people dey mess wid oder people children!” It was the longest sentence we had heard from him since Big Guy roughed him up. I swallowed my reaction, because I didn’t want him to know what I was thinking.

He bought a machete and put it under his bed, where he could reach it in an instant. He carried a dagger in his pocket, even when we went to church. If we went outside to play, he came and sat on the mound, watching us without blinking, like a statue. Many times daily he walked around the compound, checking this and that, like a security man. If we went to the outhouse, we came out and saw him waiting, like the people who run commercial toilets in Ojota. If we wasted time, he came and knocked and asked whether we had fallen into the pit latrine. If he went out, he locked us up.

Seeing that he was ready to defend us by all means, I abandoned my plan to escape. I sensed he wasn’t going to let any harm come to us. When we walked to church, he held our hands, and when people asked him about the bike he said it was sick. We entered the church with the humility of our pre-Nanfang days. One Sunday, Fofo gave some money to Pastor Adeyemi to say a special prayer for him. When the man pressed him for details of his predicament, he said he had a little family problem.

* * *

THAT AFTERNOON, WHILE YEWA was asleep, Fofo Kpee stood staring out of the window. “We must escape, Kotchikpa,” he whispered.

“Yes, Fofo!” I said, leaving my bed, moving toward him. I knew he was serious because he used my native name. Shocked by my response, he turned sharply from the window and came and sat on the edge of the table, facing me. I was bursting with excitement.

He wrung his hands, searching for words like a penitent: “I know say you want go dis Gabon well well . . .”

“I don’t want to go, Fofo, I do not!”

“Sofly, sofly,” he calmed me, batting down the air with both hands and then holding my hands like a supplicant. A nervous smile crossed his sad face. “Ah, we no want wake her. . . . I no fit sell you and Yewa to anybody, like de slaves of de Badagry slave-trade tales. Iro o, I no fit allow dem ship you across dis ocean to Gabon. If you reach dat central African country, c’est fini. You no go smell dis West Africa soil again. . . . When Big Guy visit us last, I tell him say I no gree again. Riches no be everyting—I no want lose you. Mais, he dey very angry.”

“Just one question . . .”

“Yes?”

“Do our godparents know what Big Guy is doing to us?”

“Yes . . . complétement.”

He let go of my hands and looked away again, embarrassed. His answer managed to hit me hard, when it shouldn’t have. Since that night when I lost interest in Gabon, I had directed my anger toward Fofo and Big Guy only. And, though the pieces of the puzzle were coming together, I had refused to accept that the man and woman who were so nice to us and gave us an unforgettable buffet were bad people. But now, the shame in Fofo’s eyes squashed my doubts. I was angry with them.

“Can we run away now?” I asked.

“No . . . in de dark. Egbé.”

“Tonight?” I looked around, elated.

“Braffe . . . din. Gabon trip na one week from today. We go abandon everyting. No tell your sister anyting, d’accord? She no go understand.”

“Yes, yes.”

“I done tell de people who know us say we dey relocate to Braffe.”

* * *

THAT EVENING, I WAS SO anxious to leave and so disgusted by my surroundings that I couldn’t eat or even drink water. I saw my godparents in everything around me and heard their murmurings in the wind and distant voices. I looked out of the window often and wished I could blow out the sun like a candle or turn the world upside down so that the waters of our ocean could drown it. I begged God to send us the darkest of nights.

Unfortunately, when night came, it brought a miserly, disappointing darkness. Fofo emptied our water vats and threw away our soups. I woke up my sister and dressed her, though she was still half asleep. All of us wore our everyday clothes. Apart from our books, which Fofo stuffed into his bag and strung on the handlebars of the Nanfang, we didn’t take much. From the bulges in Fofo’s back pockets and shirt pockets, I believed he had taken all the money we had.

The stars were out, and a full moon hung low and bright, shining through a spray of dirty clouds. It was so bright that the mango tree and the bushes grew blurry shadows around them, and we could see as far as the sea, the coconut trees looking like an endless sheer dress. When Fofo rolled the Nanfang outside, the moon cast a dull shine on the gas tank. Though I had come to hate all our Gabon riches, that night I hoped that bike would take us to safety.

Date: 2015-02-28; view: 704