by Ishmael Beah
“So when are we changing the money so that I can have my share?” said Ndevui. “I have plans for it.”
The night heaved a breath of cool wind that rustled the nearby trees. A few birds chirped monotonously, silencing the hoot of a distant owl. A new day was waiting to be born.
Khoudiemata stayed outside long after the others had gone inside in search of sleep. She was the only one watching as the sun gradually rose into the sky and began to rearrange the clouds.
6
The day following a holiday was also a holiday in this land of theirs. And now they had money to buy food, so there was no need to go searching for it. There was likely no necessity to stand guard either—who would come near their home, today of all days? But as Khoudi was awake and the others were slumbering, she decided to go stand guard. She told herself it was a good habit, but the truth was, she wanted the time alone to practice how she was going to partake in conversations at dinner later on. She headed for the bushes beyond the clearing and found a place to sit against a small tree with her eyes facing the road.
I have lived in the city for a while now. My family has a home in Aberdeen. Khoudiemata sensed that for her, practicing the art of chitchatting demanded responses that weren’t too specific, that didn’t give away too much or invite curiosity. She was aiming for an aura of reserve rather than mystery, a quiet thoughtfulness. She hoped she would be able to pull it off. Of course, she faced bigger challenges every day, but this was different.
Don’t practice too much, think on your feet, she told herself, making a mental note to adhere to big themes that directed discussion away from personal questions. Acting in agreement, the sun found her under the shrubs and brought her back to the reality of her surroundings. Suddenly she was tired, and hungry. The others were probably up by now. It was time to go find something to eat. Later she would go to her secret haven to prepare for her rendezvous. Preparing conversation was not sufficient. There was the question of how she would dress and carry herself, and she couldn’t practice that at home. She needed to be able to lose herself in a parallel world. She stood up and headed back to the plane.
Kpindi caught sight of her. “We were coming to get you so that we can go eat. And we need you to comment on Namsa’s fashion show. We’ve told her her clothes look great, but she says that’s not enough. And we don’t know what that means.”
The boys were plainly holding back laughter to spare Namsa’s feelings, and they turned to Khoudi with pleading faces that asked her to remedy the situation.
“Ah, you are back,” said Namsa when she saw Khoudi. Namsa was standing at the entrance to the plane, wearing black pants and a short red skirt over it, and on top, an undershirt with an unbuttoned man’s long-sleeved shirt over it, and a beanie that covered her ears.
“You are beautiful,” Khoudi called to her, and Namsa beamed. “You feel good in them?”
“Yes, and they smell new too.” Namsa came down the steps proudly, with the aplomb of a model on a fashion runway.
The truth was, Khoudi felt terrible about how badly dressed Namsa was. She wore boys’ clothes as Khoudi did, but unlike Khoudi, she had no sense of what colors matched. She looked like a worse version of the Khoudi that Khoudi was just learning to undo. She will be safe this way, Khoudi told herself. What she really wanted was to take off her own beanie and show Namsa her beautiful new hair, but she didn’t, because what she wanted even more was for this fragile new part of her to remain her secret for a while longer.
“So where are we going for food?” Khoudi asked.
Namsa laughed. “Where we always go when we have money. Mama Fofanah’s.” The rest of them didn’t even bother to acknowledge her question.
Khoudi wanted to tell them that with the money they had, they could go eat anywhere if only they dressed differently, so that the money was believably theirs. But their worn-out and ill-fitting clothes, no matter how clean, would raise suspicions. Even Elimane’s suit jacket had lost its elegance; its saving grace was the small book inevitably sticking its head from one of the pockets. It was interesting to Khoudi that what you wore had a way of absolving you from suspicion. In this country, many thieves and evil men walked around freely in fancy suits and drove expensive cars, as if those were a measure of their integrity.
They left the arms of the bushes with their usual caution, walking apart out of habit. There were very few people on the road, mostly young girls and boys carrying cooked food to some household or other. It idly crossed Khoudi’s mind that they could just hijack one of those succulent-smelling stews and save themselves both the walk and the money.
In town, the usual harried feeling in the streets had given way to a liveliness that smiled through everyone. Speakers blaring different kinds of music competed to conquer the atmosphere, and there were gatherings on every other veranda, in front of shops, under trees, wherever there was shade. People wore their best outfits, their skin so recently coated with Vaseline that anyone who passed them reflexively checked their own skin for dryness.
Mama Fofanah’s cookery bar stood a few footsteps from the beach. Its bamboo roof was held up by four tree trunks rooted in the earth. A low wall of concrete bricks rose to waist level, and benches and tables were arrayed inside in rows, like a classroom. Mama Fofanah stood behind a simple wooden counter, with her eyes on everything. There was a fridge that looked like an iron vault, and an open cooking area with big pots, firestones, firewood, and a mortar and pestle. It was a place that had never tried to keep up with the times, so going there had the appeal of visiting one’s grandparents. And that brought all sorts of people in.
There were about ten customers seated when they arrived, some of the men in suits even shinier than the one William Handkerchief had sported; it must be the new style. A group of scruffy-looking young men—scruffier even than the little family—smelled of the sea. They must be fishermen.
“Good day, Mama Fofanah,” called Khoudiemata as she entered. She paused at the stoop to wash her hands in the bowl of soapy water there, then, holding her money in the palm of her hand, took a seat at a table just behind the counter where Mama Fofanah was standing. That was the custom here: You had to show that you could pay before you were served. Kpindi followed, and then Namsa, Ndevui, and Elimane, each of them pausing to wash their hands and greet Mama Fofanah the same way before going to sit at separate tables.
“Good day, child, and welcome.” Mama Fofanah greeted each of them in turn. But when she got to Namsa, she cupped the girl’s cheeks in her shiny, warm hands and poured love into the child’s face. This was Namsa’s favorite part of coming here and the reason she always chose Mama Fofanah’s when they had money to pay to eat.
“What is available today?” asked Khoudi.
“Chicken stew, jollof rice, okra stew with dried fish and beans.” Mama Fofanah pointed in turn to the pots simmering on the coals. One after the other, the five of them came to the counter, made their choices, and paid. Mama Fofanah reached to the money sack at the side of her wrapper for change. Bills she kept in the fridge, for fear of fire, and she kept the fridge locked with a key she wore around her waist.
They sat down and waited for the food, their appetites awakened by the good smells around them. A girl brought a tray of chicken stew and jollof rice and set it on the table before Elimane. She left and then reemerged with another tray, of okra stew and more rice. She went away again and brought a cup filled with spoons that she set on the table next to the trays of food. The little family were puzzled. Usually the food here was served in individual plastic bowls, and the five of them would look at one another’s bowls and harass the server to add more of this or that, claiming that one portion was bigger than another.
“It is for all of you.” Mama Fofanah circled the group with her finger, starting with Namsa, then circled the trays of food. She knew they were a group, and somehow, today of all days, she wanted them to eat together, like a re
al family. With Mama Fofanah’s eyes cutting the strings of their reluctance, they found themselves quietly taking their seats around the trays of food. It was almost painful to begin, to dip a hand into this delicious food, with its irresistible aromas. To do so was to awaken memory, to risk waking up the past.
“Hello, Mama. Multiparty for me as usual.” The voice ordering a some-of-everything plate was startlingly familiar. The five of them eyed one another without looking up, then, on the same impulse, each placed a finger over the food. Namsa was slowest, which meant that it would be her task to confirm their assumption. She left the table and went to the stoop, pretending to wash her hands again. She returned with the answer: a nodding yes. It was William Handkerchief. The group sighed. They didn’t want to see him today of all days, and especially not while they were together like this. Yet the place was too small to ignore his presence. At least, they thought, if they listened, they might learn his real name.
“Eh, my son, how are you? My place is never backwards for you even when you climb higher in life,” Mama Fofanah joked. The little family gave up the hope of finding out William Handkerchief’s name. He was not Mama Fofanah’s son, of course. Elders like her didn’t call younger people by their names—they were all sons, daughters, or just children, regardless of who they were or what they had done. Your given name came up only when you had done something worthy of serious reproach.
William Handkerchief was wearing a tight white shirt that was struggling to accommodate his belly. He had on white shorts, white socks, white sneakers, and a white headband, and he was carrying a brand-new tennis racket that still had a price tag hanging from it. He must be up to something sinister, the group thought. They were so preoccupied with interpreting his presence that the painful intimacy of eating together in public was forgotten. They ate quietly, enjoying their food but staying alert. It was up to William Handkerchief to make it clear whether they could show that they knew him or not.
He didn’t even look their way. He ate with gusto, laughing with Mama Fofanah. In fact, he ate a lot for someone getting ready for a tennis match, or even returning from one. The little family couldn’t remember seeing a tennis court nearby. Perhaps there was one on someone’s private property, but they had poked around most of the fancy houses in town when the owners were away, and they’d never seen one.
When William Handkerchief had finished eating, a car pulled up outside, and as abruptly as he had arrived, he departed.
Elimane’s phone vibrated. He showed the others the text. Good to see you and your friends. I will be in touch Sam.
* * *
—
They departed one at a time, trying to shake off the slight pall that William Handkerchief’s presence had put on this favorite place. They regrouped outside, but loosely, unable to shake off the habit of pretending that they weren’t together. It was early for them to go their separate ways.
As usual, Namsa wanted to go listen to Shadrach the Messiah. Khoudiemata agreed, thinking that it would give her ideas on what to talk about that evening. Ndevui and Kpindi decided to go too. “Elimane, are you coming?” Ndevui asked. “Perhaps you will be able to engage him in conversation. It will be like two dictionaries talking to each other.”
Kpindi led the way, laughing, and Elimane followed, a bit reluctantly. He preferred not to fall into conversation with Shadrach the Messiah. He didn’t want such an incident to remind him of his family, or to reveal more of his background to the others than he chose to share. However, he was certain that he was going to enjoy listening to this madman of intelligence, as he thought of Shadrach.
They made their way to the beach without haste, befitting the nature of that day. Shadrach was not by the kiosk, however. They continued along the beach until they arrived at the docks where private boats brought those who could afford such conveyances across the water to catch a flight. A crowd had gathered there. The five of them squeezed into the throng of people to see what was going on.
A formation of uniformed and armed men was waiting at the jetty. They seemed to be searching each boat that arrived, for something or someone in particular. They had just finished checking one boat when another came into view. It slowed down as it approached the narrow dock, then all of a sudden veered toward another landing at the sandy beach nearby. A fellow in a well-cut suit and new black dress shoes jumped out, briefcase in hand, and made his way onto the beach with so much agility it almost looked as if he was walking on the water. Before the uniformed men could cut him off, he hopped into a jeep that had just pulled onto the sand and it sped off. The uniformed men jumped into their own vehicles and took off in pursuit.
The crowd began to clap. People had recognized the escapee as the former minister of finance and mayor of the city. Everyone knew he was under investigation for embezzlement, but until now, the authorities had never been able to amass enough evidence to arrest him. The truth was, such corruption was so common that it rarely resulted in arrests. But—as someone in the crowd commented—apparently this man’s greed had gone too far, so far that others in power wanted him out of their circle. As the crowd looked on in amazement, the jeep circled back by the beach, and the fellow in question jumped out while it was moving and made a run for the water, seemingly attempting to reboard his boat and get away. But this time the uniformed men caught him and hauled him off.
The crowd, having expected a better show, grumbled with disappointment. But some other type of entertainment was never long in coming along the beach.
Khoudiemata made her way through the onlookers until she was situated just behind Namsa. She whispered, “Follow Ndevui when he leaves for his football match, and tell me if he has improved since the last time we saw him play together.” This was not only an instruction; it was also a goodbye. Khoudi knew that Namsa would understand that, and that the others would be aware of her exiting toward the main road even though they did not turn around. Behind her, she heard the crowd roaring with new laughter.
* * *
—
As soon as she reached 96 Degrees, Khoudiemata felt her body relax. She stripped to her underwear, raised her face to the sun, and opened her arms as if she was preparing to be embraced by the sky. She inhaled and exhaled, feeling the warm ocean breeze and the sun against her skin. The soft rhythm of the water against the rocks lulled her for a bit.
She went to retrieve the items she had corrupted after her visit with the beautiful people. They were where she had hidden them, dry and scented with the perfumes of their previous owners. Khoudi held up each item in turn to admire it, these new belongings that she would use to access a world that pretended to be unaware of her existence. She laid them out on the sand and went into the water. It hadn’t been that long since she had bathed last, but she was getting used to being cleaner. Besides, she needed to wash off the dirty feeling that the jobs they had done for William Handkerchief had left. That was what really needed washing away.
The sun had warmed the water, and Khoudi lingered in it even after she had washed her body and her underwear and had laid it out to dry. The low sky seemed to glisten with perspiration as it hovered over the calm sea, nearly merging with it. From this distance, the boats looked painted on. Khoudi tried covering each of them in turn with her hand, and then removing it after some minutes to see if the boat had moved. Then she remembered her mission, and checked to see if her underwear had dried enough to be worn.
Climbing out of the water, she glanced at her shadow on the sand. With the sun nearly straight overhead, her figure was etched sharply there, even her cheekbones captured. Watching her shadow, she touched her face, then traced her lips, neck and collarbone, and breasts, along her belly and down to her legs, which were longer and smoother than she had expected. It was a completely new experience, exploring her body instead of constantly struggling in it.
She put her underwear back on, then stood above her clothes spread out on the sand, held open by ro
cks. She paced, thinking about which outfit to wear. She settled on the yellow V-neck top with woven patterns. It held her figure nicely, and her necklace fell right where the neckline split, and each time she breathed in and out, she saw it rise and fall sensually there. Pleased, she pulled on the black jeans, discovering that they were tighter than any trousers she had ever worn. She was surprised at how closely and comfortably they fit her buttocks, and how aware she was of the shape they made. She tried on the sandals with the straps that buckled. They fit well enough, and she loved how her shiny toenails showed in them, though she realized that walking in them would require getting used to. She practiced on the sand, making random chitchat with herself as she walked.
She took one of the new black handbags, which contained sunglasses, lipsticks, a makeup case, and other items she didn’t know what to do with. But they made the bag feel full, so that it sat comfortably on her shoulder. She transferred the money from her raffia bag, along with her knife and a tattered newspaper clipping she always carried with her, a relic of a previous life. She never unfolded it but could not throw it away. She found a small inner pocket for it, a new home. Then she stashed all the rest of her belongings in the raffia bag and hid it in the usual place.
Khoudi had observed that many of the girls of the sort she would be joining had glossy lips, so she retrieved the makeup kit from the handbag and riffled through it until she found a little pot of colorless gloss. It felt funny on her lips, and she had to restrain herself from licking them, especially as it smelled like some kind of ripe fruit. There were all sorts of other sticks and tubes in the kit, but she let them be.
It took quite some time for Khoudi to work up the courage to depart 96 Degrees. She paced back and forth, watching her undulating shadow on the sand. She felt beautiful, but she also felt exposed, in a way that was new and uncomfortable. Dressed this way, she knew she would draw attention, and that worried her. She had removed the armor of invisibility that allowed her to move through the world as she chose. But the desire to pursue this new direction that responded to the changes occurring in her was more compelling. At last she made her way back up to the road, careful on the stones in her new sandals.