by Ishmael Beah
As the taxi passed them, Khoudiemata noticed how focused and intent their faces were. It occurred to her that she was the only one in the world who would recognize them as a group. It gave her a pang not to be able to simply pull over and ask them to climb in, but she was not ready to reveal this other self to them yet. So separate did her new identity seem that she did not bother to hide, either, certain that their eyes were incapable of noticing her from afar, in a taxi and in unfamiliar clothes.
The taxi was almost abreast of Elimane now, and just as it passed him, his head turned in her direction, and she thought she saw his eyes light up in recognition. She looked past him determinedly, the way other people always looked past them, hoping he would assume he had only seen someone who looked like her.
The traffic thinned, and the taxi sped up. Khoudi managed to get to 96 Degrees, change, hide her fancy clothes and bag, and get back to the plane before the others arrived. She went inside and lay on her bed. She wanted to return to the evening with Frederick Cardew-Boston, before she had found out who his family was, before she had seen Elimane and the others. But instead a sharp memory surfaced in her mind, like a shard working its way to the surface of her skin.
She is sitting at a table, on her mother’s lap, curled beneath her mother’s long neck. Her mother is teaching her how to write in cursive. “Try to imagine the shape of the word, to picture it and feel it before you write it. Then you will be able to form it with confidence.” The voice is soothing, so soothing it is painful. Khoudi sat up with a start, to break the hold of this memory, even though the memories came so rarely. Why was it only the sweet ones that surfaced, when they did? Would she prefer the others?
She thought about her double lives and wondered how long she could keep them apart. Was there a way to bring them together? She looked down at her sweatshirt and baggy pants. She had left her other clothes at 96 Degrees, but maybe she could take a small step. She removed her beanie.
Her phone vibrated in the silence, making her jump because she wasn’t used to having one. That was another thing she could do—not keep it hidden. She looked to see who had texted. It was Mahawa, of course—who else had her number? She wanted to meet Khoudi at a beach bar the following night to discuss “weekend plans.” What weekend plans? Her excitement warred with her worry as she waited for the others to return.
Namsa announced their arrival with her high-pitched whistle, which stopped short when she noticed Khoudi in the entrance to the plane. Her jaw dropped.
“If your hair is so beautiful, why have you been hiding it?” she cried, her eyes sparkling in amazement. “Can you take me so that I can get my hair plaited like that too?” She took off her beanie and threw it into the trees, and both of them burst out laughing.
The boys emerged into the clearing, and their eyes widened at the sight of Khoudi. “Wow, I never knew our big sister was actually a girl. You know, a girl,” said Kpindi. He seemed to be struggling to understand how this strikingly beautiful young woman had been in their midst all this time.
“Elimane, what do you think of our new Khoudi? I would really love to hear your take,” teased Ndevui.
Only Elimane remained low-key. “Khoudi has always had her own elegance,” he said in a low voice.
“Wait, we didn’t really hear you!” Kpindi called after him, but he ignored them. Elimane seemed to be searching for an activity to distract himself, to change the subject. Then he remembered the money that needed to be shared. He laid it out on the table in five equal shares and took his.
“I have to get back to town for an errand,” he said. “I will see all of you later on.” He started back off across the clearing. The others watched until his frame disappeared. Then all eyes turned to Khoudi, searching her face for the state of her own feelings.
But all she said was, “Come, we have money! Let’s go to the night market and be there before night arrives.” They each took their share of the money and hid it in different parts of their pants and shirts. They always preferred to take their money with them rather than leave it at home, as who knew if something might prevent them from returning to the plane?
“Namsa, will you lead us?” Khoudi asked. The girl was already heading for the clearing, whistling a song none of them knew, but when she heard Khoudi’s request, she stopped abruptly and assumed her role with gravity.
The market was already in full swing when they arrived, with a boisterousness unique to those for whom such pleasures were scarce. They made their way from cluster to cluster, eavesdropping on political debates, listening to radios and televisions rigged up in the most fantastical ways and blaring music of all kinds, football matches, and telenovelas at the same time. They bought themselves bread and sardines and beers, and a bissap juice for Namsa, and sat together, eating and drinking and watching. Here, they didn’t need to pretend to be apart.
For the moment, Khoudi forgot about Frederick Cardew-Boston, the beautiful people, and weekend plans. Someone had corrupted a movie projector and was showing an old kung fu film against the wall of an unfinished and apparently abandoned house nearby. People in the crowd had seen it before, and they began to act out the parts in front of the makeshift screen. Others who were intent on watching the movie pushed them out of the way, and a skirmish broke out. It was as if two kung fu films were showing, one live and local and the other foreign—and the audience watched both, shouting and laughing.
Khoudi glanced to the side and noticed that Elimane had joined them. Whatever errand he had had must not have taken long. His good humor seemed to have returned as well, and he was following the movie with avid attention. She offered him something to eat and some of her beer.
He gestured at the movie. “I read somewhere,” he said, and Ndevui groaned, but Elimane pushed on, “that with good aim, and a strong kick to the balls, you can push both testicles inside. Do you think I could do it?” He stood and assumed a kung fu pose. The boys burst into laughter, and Namsa joined in. Tenderly, Khoudi watched them all. They stayed at the market until sleepiness claimed their bodies. Then they made their way back to the plane, their feet knowing the path even in the darkness, and they all slept late into the following day.
8
Elimane’s phone woke them, chiming repeatedly until Ndevui located it on the floor, under some discarded clothing. He accepted the call and, without saying anything, pressed the phone to Elimane’s reluctant ear, standing over him in his boxers with a tattered piece of cloth that passed for a bedsheet draped over his shoulders.
It was William Handkerchief, of course, with another mission for them. Elimane regretted having charged the battery at the night market, as they had enough money now to last them for a while. But he did not think they could safely refuse William Handkerchief’s request for help, especially as sooner or later they would need access to a new supply of cash.
Khoudiemata had her own reservations. She was anxious not to miss her date with Mahawa, and worried about getting back in time to make the necessary preparations. But she said nothing, only helped Namsa to get ready in the privacy of the plane while the boys took their clothes outside to dress, then joined the others in washing their faces and brushing their teeth with water from a jerry can.
Today’s assignment would be in Point View, and William Handkerchief would pick them up at the roundabout. Their destination was explanation enough: William Handkerchief wouldn’t want them showing up on foot or in a dilapidated taxi in the richest part of town, for fear of arousing suspicion. Wearing dark glasses, he picked them up in a Land Rover. He didn’t even acknowledge them as they climbed into the back. Namsa, sitting on Khoudi’s lap, was so excited that she kept her hands clasped to control the urge to touch everything inside this cool car with tinted glass. How could this machine contain an entirely different season as it pushed through the heat of the day? “So they can’t see us, but we can see them?” she whispered to Khoudi, who nodded and gently placed a fin
ger on the little one’s lips to communicate No more questions.
William Handkerchief drove fast, his hands keeping up a nervous beat on the steering wheel as he made small talk with Elimane. In no time, they were driving through the tree-lined streets of Point View, passing mansion after mansion, some of them seemingly empty of life even when the lights were on. It wasn’t until they pulled up to a high white fence, behind which stood one of the biggest homes they had ever seen, that he explained the day’s work: The owners of the house had departed. Elimane and the others would be packing up whatever possessions remained and loading them into a phalanx of luxury vehicles—also the owners’—parked in the driveway.
Thanks once again to Elimane, they had some context for this mysterious assignment. Painted in red on the fence were the words PROPERTY UNDER FACC INVESTIGATION—TRESPASSERS WILL BE PUNISHED. From listening to Elimane review the news, they knew that the FACC was the Federal Anti-Corruption Commission, which had been expanding its investigations into alleged corruption on the part of government officials. They also knew that such investigations were usually an elaborate sham. Usually they targeted former officials who had gotten greedy and refused to share the money they had embezzled, bringing the wrath of their peers down on their heads. Once their houses had been so marked, the owners would take their valuables and leave the country. If the accused relocated elsewhere in the country, it meant they had merely taken a fall for a scandal so egregious that it could not be swept under the rug. Then the FACC would pretend to search for “evidence”—a process that could take years, until the public forgot about it and the red paint had faded, at which point the case would be closed, with no resulting prosecution or explanation. The house would be sold to a foreigner or rented to a foreign company, and everyone would move on.
They entered the house with trepidation. The ceilings were as high as a cathedral’s, and there were so many rooms that the little family worried about getting lost. Everything was painted bright white, and the furniture and floor tiles were white as well, which cast into relief the gold-colored staircase with its matching gold railing. Given the blinding brightness all around, light wasn’t really needed, and the shadows cast by the sun ran along the walls and floors, making the five of them feel that someone was following them at all times. The tile was so polished that it squeaked under their feet as they hurried about their tasks. But the job went smoothly. They worked quickly, not talking but whistling to keep one another within earshot. There was not a great deal left in the house but stools and nightstands and coat hangers, and a great many stacks of papers and files, and before they knew it, they were a hundred dollars richer and William Handkerchief had dropped them at a junction where they could catch a taxi back to the plane.
“Your boss man is everywhere,” Kpindi said. “I like how he pays, though.”
As soon as they were back at the plane, the others went to nap, exhausted from the previous night’s antics and the day’s labors, but Khoudi took her bag and left. At 96 Degrees, she changed into the black lace dress, slipping the black jeans underneath it. She wasn’t quite ready to bare her legs.
* * *
—
Mahawa was sitting at a table on the veranda of the Sea Cliff Bar, not far from the bar where Khoudi had first joined her and her friends. It was early, the place not yet crowded, and Mahawa, her eyes on the waves shimmering in the near-dark, didn’t notice her approach. Khoudi had gained confidence in entering such establishments, breezing through them with the air of entitlement she had learned from Mahawa and her friends, without waiting to be seated.
“Excuse me, young lady, may I interrupt your conversation with the ocean?” Khoudiemata pulled up a chair and sat down, as Mahawa turned to her, beaming, gave her a kiss on both cheeks, then held her face in her hands, looking into her eyes. Khoudiemata was struck by the subtlety of Mahawa’s makeup, which avoided the masklike look she saw on so many other black faces. She would have to ask Mahawa how she did it. But she could not hold the intensity of her new friend’s gaze for long, blushing and smiling and looking away.
“I have missed you, my friend,” said Mahawa. “You always have such interesting things to say. I am getting bored with my other friends, who just talk about the same things over and over again. I tell them this all the time, but everyone remains who they are, I guess.”
She raised her hand to summon the waiter and ordered a bottle of 2007 Cabernet. “Since you made that beautiful remark about drinking red wine, that is all I have wanted to drink! This will be a special bottle, just right to celebrate us girls hanging out.” She took Khoudiemata’s hand and they laughed together, inhaling the salty air.
The bottle must have been very special, because the manager himself came to present it to them, holding it before himself like a trophy, pouring a little for Mahawa to taste. She twirled it in the glass and smelled it, then took a sip as Khoudiemata had done when they were at Noire Point. Mahawa nodded her approval to the manager, who poured them a glass each, set the bottle on the table, and bowed away.
Mahawa took a sip of her wine. “So I have heard some rumors. Tell me they are true—otherwise, I will have to kill my sources. I mean, what is the point of having unreliable gossip?”
“What rumors?” Khoudiemata asked. She knew full well what, but it was fun teasing this way, especially with Mahawa.
“Are you going to make me beg?” Mahawa said, taking up the game.
“Oh, I think I know of one.” Khoudi pretended to ponder for a moment. “No, it is gone. My memory is so fluid! Perhaps more wine will help.” She took a sip from her glass. But she couldn’t hold her silence against Mahawa’s relentless seduction, and by the time they were halfway through a second bottle, Mahawa had heard all about her lunch with Frederick Cardew-Boston.
As it turned out, Mahawa had already heard Frederick Cardew-Boston’s own account. “He said you were ‘intriguing.’” She twirled her glass and offered a toast toward the moon.
“Intriguing, eh? Well, why didn’t he tell me that?” Khoudiemata said curtly, but inwardly she was delighted. She knew she was intelligent and observant and street-smart and tough, but no one had ever called her intriguing.
“He kept me on the phone for quite a while, also unlike him,” said Mahawa. “Anyway, he is inviting us away for the weekend, out of town, at the beach. Me, you, my man Musa, and him—all expenses paid. You have to learn how to take a gift, my stubborn friend,” she added with a mock-chiding expression, when she saw Khoudi’s look of concern. “In fact,” she said, “I am going to give you some practice right now.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a tissue-wrapped parcel, which she placed on the table between them and indicated that Khoudi should open it. It was a beautiful new blue two-piece bathing suit. Khoudi hesitated. Mahawa stood up, holding the top and bottom to her own body without a shred of self-consciousness. “I couldn’t resist,” she said. “I could just see it on that sexy body of yours.”
Khoudi felt herself blush, and she looked around to see who else might have overheard.
“But it is true!” cried Mahawa, looking her up and down. “So why shouldn’t we say it?” She put the suit in front of Khoudi and took her seat again. “Anyway, I got myself another just like it, in red. You can have that one if you prefer it. We’ll match!”
Khoudi picked up her wineglass again. “So why hasn’t he asked me directly? I might not be available, after all, as my schedule is packed.” When she looked up, she saw that Mahawa was frowning, and she burst out laughing. Well, it was reasonable to assume—and actually true—that like most young people of school age, she was relatively free on the weekends these days.
“He is quite smitten by you, you know,” said Mahawa. “This is the first time I have seen him excited about a girl, in fact. He is used to getting what he wants. You know,” she added, growing sober, “he is a Njamete.”
Khoudi’s uneasiness returned. If he was gett
ing that interested in her, it would be only a matter of time before he found out the truth about her.
“He didn’t tell me himself,” she said. “I had to find it out for myself.”
“I know how people talk about his family, but he is a good person,” said Mahawa. “We all come with the burden of our families, after all.”
Her phone rang. She glanced at the number, then answered. “Hello?” she said uncertainly. Then her face relaxed. “Oh, hello, young man . . . You are at my house? . . . No, I am not at home. I am at Sea Cliff.” She looked at Khoudiemata and mouthed, It’s him. “No, I am not doing that for you, my dear friend. You can ask her for it yourself when you see her. Okay, bye.” She hung up and gave Khoudiemata a look of triumph. “He’s going to come by. He will be pleasantly surprised to find you here.”
“Well, let him come, and perhaps he will have the strength to ask me whatever it is that he wants to ask.”
Khoudi raised her glass, then froze with it pressed to her lips. She had just spotted Elimane among the growing crowd at the bar. It was a shock to see him, their other lives colliding here and now, of all nights and places. He was wearing a white suit jacket, black pants, and a tie. The bartender handed him a drink, and when he turned, she spotted William Handkerchief behind him, in his brown suit, holding a carved stick before him like he was some kind of tribal chief. Their eyes roved the place; they were waiting for someone. Khoudi waited for his glance to fall on her, and to see what he would do if it did. She was certain he wouldn’t give her away, if for no other reason than that William Handkerchief wouldn’t want any uninvited witnesses to whatever swindle they were hatching.