by Ishmael Beah
The alcohol had quieted Mahawa, her growing silence, punctuated by drunken giggles, and sighs, allowing Khoudiemata to keep her eyes on Elimane. She was struck by the easy way he wore his suit. It was the same way he read books, natural and unforced, like something he had done all his life.
Two white men carrying briefcases entered the restaurant. William Handkerchief went to greet them, and then a waiter promptly seated the four of them. They ordered drinks and food, which were brought to them promptly. Khoudi noticed that the two white men ate quickly, and pushed back their chairs and left before the bill came. She also noticed that they left without their briefcases. Then William Handkerchief departed, carrying both briefcases and leaving a wad of cash on the table, presumably for Elimane to settle the bill.
Frederick Cardew-Boston entered and made his way across the space. Khoudi’s heart leaped as she watched him, forgetting all about Elimane. But if she had been watching him still, she would have seen a shadow cross his face as his gaze alighted on her at last and he registered her sudden happiness at the new arrival. She would have seen Elimane hoist his glass in her direction, and she might even have seen his mouth form the words he said aloud—“I am glad to see you embrace your elegance”—causing a passing waiter to smile, mistakenly thinking that the comment was for her. Noticing, Elimane smiled back at the waiter, as a prelude to the inquiries he wanted to make, about a certain elegant young man across the room.
* * *
—
“Good evening, ladies,” Frederick Cardew-Boston said when he reached their table. “May I have the pleasure of your company?” He did not look surprised to see Khoudi there, but he did look pleased.
“I told you he would come,” said Mahawa. “He is a bee now, and you are his flower. Whoops, bad analogy, but you know what I mean.” She stood, swaying slightly. “I am going to get us one more bottle,” she said, “and perhaps mister here can help us finish it.” Giggling, she made her way to the bar.
“Please, have a seat, Mr. Uninvited.” Khoudiemata pushed out a chair for him with her feet. He took it and pulled himself closer to her.
“I have something to say to you before Mahawa gets back,” he said. “I am used to being the one who’s in control, but somehow your presence dismantles me completely and I like it. I don’t like that I like it, but I do. Do you know what I am trying to say to you?”
“No,” said Khoudi, “but I have a question for you. How many ‘likes’ did you use?” She pretended to count them on her fingers, but he didn’t laugh as he usually did. She continued. “Suggestion. Try and look into my eyes directly and say what you want succinctly. You know the meaning of the word, right?” She sat up straight and faced him. He closed his eyes tight for an instant, then opened them and looked directly into Khoudiemata’s.
“I wish I could just look at you like this all the time,” he said, and this moment was so intense that she was quiet too. “I am falling for you, I think,” he stammered.
Khoudi had to do something to break the intensity. “You think you are falling for me, eh? So why are you sitting down?”
But he held her gaze fast. “No jokes. I just want to be with you all the time.”
“Please continue, Mr. Njamete,” she said, propping her head against one hand, her elbow on the table. “I am listening.”
He gave her a wry look. “So you’ve found out about my family,” he said. “And now what?”
Mahawa returned to the table, brandishing another bottle of wine. “I am back! I hope I gave you lovebirds enough time.” She had brought two extra glasses with her, and she set one before Frederick Cardew-Boston and poured them each a healthy amount.
He held his aloft. “Before we drink—Khoudiemata, would you please come with me and Mahawa and her boyfriend for the weekend? I need a break from the city. I have booked some rooms for us at a beautiful spot along the peninsula. Two days and nights of pure relaxation and great conversation. Please come with us.” His phone rang. He glanced at in, then silenced it.
“Make him beg, Khoudiemata,” said Mahawa. Khoudi lifted her glass and drank, and the others followed suit.
“That’s a yes,” said Mahawa. “I know that even the smartest men don’t always have the emotional intelligence to read a woman.” She laughed, and Frederick Cardew-Boston’s face lit up.
Sudden drumming drew their attention to the beach. A group of dancers had painted their bodies like skeletons, with neon paint. Khoudi, Mahawa, and Frederick Cardew-Boston watched and applauded as the dancers pirouetted and leaped through rings of fire, each one livelier and more daring than the last. When they had finished, they doused the flames in the surf and washed the paint off their bodies.
“Aren’t they wonderful?” said a voice. “Though they always make me melancholic.” Even without turning, Khoudi knew it was Elimane, but she didn’t want to turn around to confirm it. Was he talking to her? She didn’t think so. But why was he at their table?
“Ah, I thought you had made me bring the glass for nothing. Everyone, please meet Conrad Jean-Claude. I just met him at the bar. He is a sharp young man and has a beautiful command of language. And this is Khoudiemata and Frederick Cardew-Boston,” Mahawa said, introducing them.
“It is a pleasure to meet you both. Your friend Mahawa here was telling me that if I wanted witty conversation, this is the table for that. Though I am not exactly known for my brevity.” Elimane took a seat and helped himself to the wine and took a long swallow, looking at Khoudiemata through his glass.
“I told you he had a way with words,” said Mahawa. “I am thinking Ophelia might be a match,” she added, smiling slyly.
Khoudiemata was not happy with this intrusion into her world, though she tried not to show it.
“So what is your story?” Frederick Cardew-Boston asked. “What do you do, and where did you go to school?”
Elimane was ready for him. “I studied in Paris and London, but it’s a while since I completed university—I started young. I now run my family business, and in my spare time I read history. A lot of history,” he said, with significance. He stood up and unbuttoned his jacket, then sat down again.
“Paris and London? Are your parents from here?” Frederick Cardew-Boston sounded impressed.
“My father is from here, and my mother is from Côte d’Ivoire. Hence my name,” said Elimane. “So I grew up with arguments about who was worse, the French or the British.” He took another sip of wine.
Frederick Cardew-Boston leaned forward. “So you said something about your family business? What kind of business?”
“Ah, let’s leave business talk for daylight. I joined you for that witty conversation, after all.” Elimane set his wineglass down on the table and leaned back, but his phone must have vibrated, because he pulled it out of his pocket and looked at it, and stood abruptly. “I will have to look forward to that another time, however, because unfortunately I must go. I have some business to attend to in the morning, as it turns out, and I must have all my wits about me then. You know how that goes.” He shook hands with Frederick Cardew-Boston, then turned to the women. He kissed Mahawa twice on both cheeks, and then it was Khoudi’s turn. It was strange to take in his familiar scent while pretending they had only just met. He shook hands with Frederick Cardew-Boston once again, holding his gaze for a moment, then he disappeared into the night.
When he was gone, Khoudi tried hard to rekindle her former gaiety, though she could not stop wondering what he and Mahawa had discussed at the bar. Had they exchanged numbers? Then she remembered that Mahawa had left her phone on the table, so it seemed unlikely. Unless he had texted her? She resisted the temptation to glance at Mahawa’s phone, and instead poured herself another glass of wine to calm her nerves.
Khoudiemata wondered what she should do for the remainder of the night. She didn’t want to go home, because it entailed going first to 96 Degrees to change, which see
med too much for this late hour, when even the moon was looking for an excuse to sleep under the cover of clouds. Besides, she was angry enough with Elimane for invading her private world that she worried she would say something she would regret if she encountered him again tonight. But she did not feel like going home with Mahawa either, even though she knew an invitation would be eagerly offered. She didn’t trust herself not to disclose more than she intended under her new friend’s relentless attention. Frederick Cardew-Boston was out of the question. It was too soon.
It had begun to rain softly. The best thing to do would be to return to one of the unoccupied houses by the beach. As she sat there drinking, the sea breeze against her face, the music from the bar harmonizing with the sound of the waves and rain, she indulged a fantasy of spending the rainy season alone. What a relief it would be not to have to shift between worlds! How would she even manage all those stops at 96 Degrees, as the rains grew heavier? But what about Namsa? Khoudi had never seriously imagined leaving her behind for an extended period of time.
Khoudi swallowed the last of the wine in her glass and returned her attention to the table, only to discover that Mahawa had already paid for their drinks. It was just as well. She needed to start saving her money if she was seriously going to plan an escape for herself.
“I have to get going,” she and Mahawa said at the same time. Mahawa laughed, though Frederick Cardew-Boston looked crestfallen. “You should spend the night with me on Thursday so that we can get ready together,” Mahawa continued. “Then on Friday we can drive up in my car. In the meantime, I am going to the hairdresser tomorrow if you want to join me there. I will text you the time.” Mahawa gave Khoudiemata a kiss on both cheeks while eyeing Frederick Cardew-Boston. He was not the only one smitten with Khoudi, her look said, and he’d better be on his toes.
“I am going to walk along the beach for a while. By myself. Then I will call my taxi man,” Khoudi added. Frederick Cardew-Boston looked disappointed but resigned. With this young woman, he was not in charge.
When he was gone, Khoudiemata took off her shoes and hoisted herself over the railing and onto the beach. It was quieter now, and the rain had lightened to a mist. She passed entwined lovers here and there, giggling, kissing, moaning, or just enjoying looking at the ocean. And then there were no more bars, and no more lovers, only quiet houses, some of them lit from within. She walked until she reached the house where she had slept recently. The lights were on inside, but she knew that meant nothing. She found some pebbles and threw them onto the veranda and the rafters. There was no response. It seemed that once again she was in luck.
* * *
—
She woke to the sounds of fishermen singing to wake the fish for their catch, and she was back on the road in time to encounter an early-morning evangelist with a bullhorn, intoning, “Wake up and pray, or Judgment Day will be a nightmare for you. Don’t be tempted by the warm bed you are laying in now, or the warm hands of the woman next to you. Pry yourself away and come pray. Her nakedness is temptation. Her round breasts are tempting you. Her lush nipples are tempting you. God is testing you.” Khoudiemata laughed to herself, certain that she wasn’t the only one noticing that his plea was a better advertisement for sex than for prayer. Anyway, who was to say that lying in the arms of a lover before the day began wasn’t a prayer in itself?
She passed Ndevui on the path to the plane, setting out for his daily run, his earphones already in, so she simply gave him a fist bump, and off he went into his other life.
Next was Kpindi, on his way to the guard post. “Big sister, you look like you had a good night. If you ever need a bodyguard, let me know and I will come along.”
At the clearing in front of the plane, there was no one else in sight. Then Elimane emerged from the plane with a book, his face plainly thirsty for the sleep he had not gotten. He glanced at her and sat down at the table, opening the book he was carrying and giving it his apparently rapt attention.
Khoudi felt her anger at him flare again, but she spoke with deliberate calmness. “So go ahead and read, and I will tell you what I want you to hear and understand,” she began. “This is not a discussion. I go away to have my own world, to discover something very important about myself. I want to do that all on my own. You want to keep this family going with me as part of it? Then you respect my private world, as I respect yours.”
Elimane did not look at her, but gave a small, forced smile that acknowledged he had heard her. “Okay. I only want you to be safe, and it was with that intention that I crossed the line.”
As she listened to him, her anger dissipated. Of course he wanted to protect her. He wanted to protect them all.
“Okay, then,” she said. “I am going to the market.”
“I hope you find its canvas as fulfilling as always.” He almost chanted it like a prayer. “I know you have a great capacity for finding beauty anywhere.” He turned to look at her, giving her a genuine smile now, and she returned it, nodding in acknowledgment of what felt like an agreement. Then he turned his attention back to his book.
* * *
—
By the time she got to the market, she had missed the moment of sigh. She was exhausted from the previous night, and she thought about simply buying food, but then she reminded herself of her plan to save. Besides, why squander her money when she had her wits to get by?
She took stock of her surroundings. The vendor at a baked goods stall looked jumpy and distracted every time a car pulled up or his phone rang. That was a possibility, but bread alone didn’t feel like quite enough this morning. What she really wanted was some of the smoked fish that was being sold nearby and had attracted quite a queue. She moved closer, studying people’s body language and eavesdropping on their conversations. A man with two teenage girls was just finishing placing a large order. “One of my daughters will come back to pick it up,” he told the cashier, pointing over his shoulder as he paid. Reacting quickly, Khoudiemata leaned closer to him and made eye contact with the cashier. Then she walked away with them, waited ten minutes, and returned to pick up the wrapped bundle.
Next, she stood off to the side of the bakery stall and called the number written on a board in front. She watched as the nervous fellow picked up. She didn’t speak but just breathed heavily into the phone and hung up. The man stood up, looked around anxiously, then ran around behind the stall, glancing back nervously. Khoudi walked swiftly to the counter and took several small loaves of bread, wrapped them in a piece of newspaper from the stack lying there, and pretended to leave money. Then she turned and strode confidently away from the stall and out of the market, not quickening her pace until she had turned the corner. When the sounds of the market were only faint on the wind, she stopped to catch her breath. Then she began to laugh, because her eyes had fallen on a familiar sight. It was the census man, this time with another ridiculously dressed and equally lost-looking partner, sitting on the ground with a sheaf of papers before them.
She took off her beanie and called out to them. “Excuse me, sirs. Have you started your counting this morning?”
The men looked at each other and then back at her, baffled.
“We are census and tax officers,” the familiar one said. “Give us your name and where you live, how many people live with you. You don’t happen to have your tax receipt on you, do you?” He elbowed his companion to open his ledger and take notes.
Khoudiemata laughed. “Have you two ever thought about becoming comedians?”
His partner, who looked younger, piped up, clearly trying to impress his boss. “This is not a joke, young woman. Everyone must be accounted for.”
“Well, I have been around for a while now, and I think I know why the government is all of a sudden interested in accounting for me. It’s because there is an election coming, and they want to rig the vote.” She had slipped her knife from her raffia bag, and now she twirled it in her h
and, casually but ominously. The census men looked at her warily, taking stock of both the audacity of this young woman and the size of her knife. They got to their feet and backed away, stuffing their papers into their knapsacks.
Khoudi came closer. “Yes, I have them!” she shouted at unseen companions. “Get ready to cut them off at the corner.”
At that, the men took to their heels, scattering papers in their wake as they fled. Khoudi pursued them until they were out of sight; then she returned to where they had dropped their papers to see what they had left behind. The census forms she ignored; they were useless. But there was a bundle of unissued tax receipts. With the poor they would be worthless. No one with little money would give even a fraction of what they had to the government, which was already taking what belonged to everyone and giving nothing in return.
They might not even be authentic tax receipts anyway. Sometimes the tax collectors, or their bosses to be precise, made fake ones, so that they could pocket the monies they collected. Either way, they allowed those who possessed them to ward off subsequent shakedowns. The traders in the market would certainly welcome them. She and the others could sell them together, for money or in exchange for food or other provisions, certainly for less than the census cowards would have charged.
She was confident that the men wouldn’t report what had happened. They were not going to admit that they had been terrified of a young woman with a pocketknife. They would make up some fantastic story about getting violently robbed by a gang of men instead, and someone else would possibly be wrongfully arrested.