by Ishmael Beah
Strong as her imagination was, Khoudi could not know that, as she was making her way back to the suite, Namsa was leading Kpindi and Ndevui from town, triumphant with the provisions they had scored. But Elimane wasn’t with them. He had gone to the docks to pick up a box for William Handkerchief, and he had gained entry without any hassle, but somehow the box wasn’t there. Even more disconcerting, when he had called William Handkerchief to tell him about it, his usually volatile boss man had seemed unconcerned. William Handkerchief wasn’t the type to let little things pass.
* * *
—
This time, Khoudi stood for a bit longer under the shower, enjoying it until the thought arose that she’d better not get used to something she wouldn’t always be able to have. She turned the water off along with her thoughts and stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, to contemplate what she would wear that night. She chose a colorful skirt of yellow and black, and a top of the same pattern, with a head wrap to boot. It pleased her to know that everything she wore was from the land she stood upon.
She bent toward the mirror to apply black lipstick and subtle dots of white stone powder to her cheeks. She peered closer, surprised to discover little beauty marks on each cheekbone that were darker than the rest of her skin. How had she never noticed them?
She sensed a hush when she entered the beach restaurant, many eyes on her as she scanned the crowd for her friends and made her way to them, at a table with a fire pit blazing nearby. They were all dashingly dressed for the evening.
Musa gave a low whistle, and Mahawa exclaimed, “It seems I don’t have much to teach you, after all. You are stunning!” Only Frederick Cardew-Boston remained speechless, until Khoudi said, “Well, if you’re not going to speak, you might as well go back to your room and eat by yourself.”
“You know, Khoudi,” said Musa, “sometimes it’s enough simply to be quiet and let how you feel show on your face. I think my young friend here is learning that.”
“This calls for a toast,” said Mahawa. “The fact that we are together in this beautiful place and that we have begun to tame some of the psychological nonsense that has been planted in the minds of these boys. Perhaps they may at last become real men!”
“What qualifies us for manhood in the eyes of women like yourselves—women who are in possession of their own intelligence and strength?” asked Musa.
“Yes, do tell,” said Frederick Cardew-Boston. “It seems to me that women want a man to be strong, almost emotionless, and at the same time they want us to be affectionate and vulnerable with them. It’s a difficult balancing act, especially for those of us who were raised not to show our emotions.” He looked up at his friend. “Musa, your thoughts?” But Musa’s response was simply to put his beer to his mouth. I have survived my own awakening, he seemed to be saying, and I’m not about to undergo another.
“Well, we women are complicated people, and we mature faster than you boys do, so we will give you a pass this time,” said Khoudi, and they put serious matters to rest, joking and listening to the band, who were playing reggae covers.
After the band had finished, a DJ played popular songs from around the continent, and the intoxicating beats drew them to the dance floor. Mahawa and Musa held each other close, and as one number merged into the next under the DJ’s capable hands, the distance between Khoudi and Frederick Cardew-Boston closed. The party went on until the night itself sighed with exhaustion and began sending the moon, the stars, and finally the darkness itself to bed. By the time Khoudi and Frederick Cardew-Boston had disentangled themselves, the DJ had packed up his equipment, and Mahawa and Musa were nowhere to be found.
* * *
—
“I was afraid you had gone to sleep.” Seeing the light on Khoudi’s veranda, Frederick Cardew-Boston had come up to find her, folded inside the hammock-chair. “I brought us this, to make our silences pleasurable,” he said, holding up a bottle and two glasses he had gotten from the bar. He poured the wine and handed her a glass. She sat up in the hammock and took a sip.
After a few minutes, she stood and went inside without a word. He drank quietly for a while. Then he called after her, in a loud whisper. “Khou-di. Are you coming back to me?” There was no answer. He turned and saw that the door to the suite was opened slightly. He hesitated, then walked in. She was not in the parlor. “Hello. Hey!” he called into the empty room, so he would not startle her. Not getting any response, he entered the bedroom. And there she was on the bed, completely naked, one hand on her breast and the other between her legs. She was looking right at him, and her eyes told that she was expecting him.
Later, he would not remember how his legs carried him to the bed. But he would remember how she locked eyes with him. How she removed her hand from her breast and replaced it with his own. How she grasped him by the neck and pulled him close. How, when they were both naked, he touched her face longingly and cupped his hands under her head to look deep into her being, his eyes filled with pure longing. How nothing in the world existed except her warm breath, her legs wrapped around his buttocks, her chin up, exposing her beautiful neck. It was not the first time she had been penetrated, but it was the first time she had made love on her own terms, willingly, joyfully. And it was the first time he had allowed the sensuality of a woman to completely inhabit his body. The energy between them pulled them together again and again until the night was completely gone, and then they slept.
* * *
—
In the morning, he was gone. She showered and went down to breakfast at the café on the beach, expecting to find him there, but there was no one she recognized until Mahawa joined her.
“So, how was your night, you conqueror of young men?” Mahawa laughed loudly, and Khoudiemata, embarrassed, looked about, hoping no one had heard. Fortunately, everyone seemed to be in their own world, or hiding in newspapers or books or headphones.
“Well, you are in a good mood. How was your own night?” Khoudiemata countered quietly, her uneasy mood a poor match for her teasing words.
Mahawa seemed not to notice. “Oh, that young man isn’t going to be able to wake up until noon,” she said with a wink.
That must be where Frederick Cardew-Boston was, Khoudi told herself, sleeping off his exertions in his room. And she forced herself to sigh along with Mahawa, as if remembering her own conquest.
Yet the day did not improve from there. The restaurant began to fill up with weekenders who had arrived to enjoy the sunny days that were now numbered as the rainy season approached, and those who had come in search of other pleasures. A group of middle-aged white men, their eyes filled with self-satisfaction, ogled them until Mahawa gave them the finger. After them came a group of men who looked to be at least forty, some perhaps well into their sixties, with girls who could not have been out of their teens. The girls were dressed more skimpily than Khoudi had imagined it was possible to dress, as though with the sole purpose of sustaining the lust of these grandfathers, who could not keep from touching them in full view of the rest of the company. Khoudi reflected on the irony that there was a policeman stationed just outside the entrance to the resort while men like these entered with underage girls.
“Let’s go for a walk on the beach,” said Mahawa, attempting to break the mood.
They went back to their rooms to put on their bathing suits under their outfits, in case they decided to go for a swim. Khoudi got back downstairs first, and was fending off a stranger’s come-on by the time Mahawa returned.
“Had trouble putting on your bathing suit? Those things can be tricky,” Khoudi joked.
The man mistook their laughter for an invitation, and Mahawa had to interrupt him with a hard stare. “Let’s go before I beat someone up.” They headed out to the beach.
The day seemed to be polluted. They got a boat to take them on a tour past the village where Khoudi had wandered the day before, to another
resort, which was even more overrun with older men and underage girls than their own. And while they were resting on the beach there, a guard raced by them, in pursuit of a boy no older than seven, who was selling coconuts and other fruits to the beachgoers. When he caught the boy, the guard began to beat him with his baton. “How many times have I told you not to sell to the visitors!” Under the thrashing, the coconuts and other fruits went flying into the sand. Khoudi stared at the boy, imagining Namsa in his place—or any of the little family when they were younger. She wondered how many of the “guests” were foreign and local human rights workers, getting paid to do the work of protection when they weren’t off enjoying themselves at the beach, apparently oblivious of the scene playing out in front of their eyes. The guard stopped only when a young African woman with a small child intervened, chastising him for his behavior.
“Shall we leave?” Mahawa saw that Khoudiemata was troubled by what had transpired.
“Yes,” said Khoudi, looking at the guard, who was laughing while the boy ran away in pain. He would return the next day, Khoudi was willing to bet on it. He’d simply hope to escape another beating, or at least to sell all his wares before it descended on him. What would happen to a boy with such a life if he should ever taste power? she wondered.
On the boat back, Mahawa asked Khoudi if she was okay.
“It bothers me especially to see how we dehumanize one another in front of foreigners,” said Khoudi. “In effect we are telling them to do the same to us.”
“You may be right,” said Mahawa. “But he has already beaten the boy. Let’s not give him the power to destroy our day as well.”
* * *
—
When they returned to their resort, they found Musa pacing up and down the beach, with Frederick Cardew-Boston nowhere in sight. “He got called into town,” Musa explained. “His father sent some men for him. He didn’t say when he’d be back.”
Khoudi had known it would be so, she told herself. Life always disappointed you.
“Khoudiemata, don’t worry,” said Mahawa. “I am sure it is nothing.”
Khoudi excused herself to go shower, with promises to meet them at the bar. In her private bathroom, she stood under the torrent of water, allowing herself to enjoy it as long as she liked. She had always known that this strange new life would come to an end, and it seemed to be ending even faster than she had expected. Something was about to break. She could feel it in the air even though she didn’t know what it was.
She came out of the shower and wrapped herself in two fresh towels, one for her body and one as a turban for her hair. She sat in the plush armchair and looked at herself in the mirror. She thought about how she had never chosen the expected ways in life. She had not become a prostitute, for example, or a consort to a man fit to be her grandfather. She knew that those were not actually easy paths to take, psychologically, but they required less resilience and ingenuity than what she had been through. She knew that most young women did it because they had no viable alternatives. She had been determined to find—no, to create—a viable alternative.
* * *
—
When she went to join Mahawa and Musa at the bar, she was surprised to see that Frederick Cardew-Boston was with them. She had convinced herself that he wasn’t coming back. Perhaps she had been mistaken. If he had returned, maybe her new life wasn’t over—or wasn’t over just yet.
“So how was the summoning?” she joked. Frederick Cardew-Boston gave her a smile, but she could tell that he was forcing it. And she noticed that his hands were once again gripping his phone, as if expecting it to ring at any second.
It did. He answered it, walking away from the bar, shouting insults at someone as he went.
“Each time he gets on that phone, he becomes someone else.” Khoudi sighed with exasperation.
“He is under a lot of pressure from his family,” said Mahawa. “They expect each of their sons to take his place in the business as soon as they are out of school. But he will be fine.”
Frederick Cardew-Boston returned to the table full of apologies. “I am sorry. That was just something I needed to deal with. Now I am really back with you all, full time. Please carry on.” He took a swig from the fresh round of beers Mahawa had ordered for them. But he kept his phone holstered in his hand, and Khoudi could see that he was not fine. Not really.
It’s over, said a voice in her head. And this time she did not try to ignore it.
* * *
—
The rest of the night was punctuated with phone calls and apologies. By the time the last call came, he no longer left the table to answer; he glanced sideways at Khoudiemata as he listened. “Good,” he said. And again, “Good. Let me know when it’s completed.” This time, when he hung up, he put the phone away in his pocket.
“Is everything all right?” Musa asked.
“Yes,” he said. “All is good.” And he raised his bottle to join theirs.
And indeed, his mood seemed to have lifted. His phone stayed in his pocket, his face brightened, and he brought his chair closer to Khoudiemata and whispered little jokes in her ear. When the DJ started to play dance music, he pulled her onto the floor, and at the end of the first dance he clasped her to him and kissed her, long and hard.
And just as he did, she was seized with a sudden, urgent desire for morning to come. She could not wait to see her little family once again.
King’s property, king’s property, everything is correct, she heard in her mind’s ear.
And then the answer came. King’s property, king’s property, everything is correct.
10
King’s property, king’s property, everything is correct. The refrain was in her head as she neared home. But she had no idea whether the others would be there. She had been gone long enough that she had fallen out of their rhythms.
It was both a disappointment and a relief to be back in her baggy clothes and beanie. She was invisible again, and nothing in the demeanor of the boys and men she passed indicated that they acknowledged her existence. She was already craving some of the attention that she had gotten used to, but most of all she longed to return to her own world, where she could be herself and didn’t have to pretend at anything. Her feet rushed her toward the plane.
She entered the clearing. King’s property, king’s property, everything is correct.
But everything was not correct. Something was terribly wrong.
She smelled smoke. She looked up to see it rising toward the sky before her.
She ran through the shrubs as fast as she could, until the plane came into view. It was on fire, burning from the inside out, the door hanging open and the inside smoldering with black, sooty smoke. How long had it been burning? For hours? For days?
She circled the plane, consumed with guilt and fear. No sound came from within except the crackle of flames as they consumed the last of their belongings. Where were the others? Was anyone inside? Why had she left them here to fend for themselves? What had she been thinking, running away to a life she knew wasn’t hers?
She stopped and forced herself to think. For all that the little family had endured in the time they had lived together in the plane, nothing of this magnitude had ever happened. What were they to do in such a circumstance? She remembered: If they were separated by chaos or violence, they were to meet at Encounter One. If their home was taken over by others, they were to meet at Encounter Two. What if their home was destroyed? They had not prepared for that eventuality. But this seemed closer to Encounter Two. That was where she must go next.
Khoudi began running through the bushes, taking a shortcut she knew. It was overgrown with shrubs, and branches slapped at her face and scratched her legs. They seemed to be asking, “Where have you been? Where are you going now?”
She slowed only when she neared the boundary that was indicated by an old stone wall
, in which were embedded the skeletal remains of a cannon that faced the sea. Behind the cannon were the ruins of an old house that itself had burned down long before. Flowers grew where they had been planted, though, their blossoms tasting the sea air.
King’s property, king’s property, everything is correct.
King’s property, king’s property, everything is correct.
No answer.
Khoudi sat on the stone wall to think.
Then, from behind the cannon, Namsa emerged. She rushed into Khoudi’s arms. She was trembling.
“Are you okay?” said Khoudi. “Where are the others?”
It was a while before Namsa responded.
She didn’t know where the others were. She too was only just returning home. The day before, she had been arrested by the police near the market and loaded into one of several trucks filled with other children. They had been driven out of the city in a convoy and dropped the children a couple of hours away, beyond the city limits. It was something the authorities often did to children on the street, especially when they were preparing for visiting dignitaries or other formalities, and wanted to look their best. It had happened to Khoudi more than once in her younger days, but as far as she knew, Namsa had avoided it. Nevertheless, Namsa had found her way back, hitching rides and walking, traveling in a pack with some of the other children for safety.
She had arrived only some hours before and, like Khoudi, had found the plane in flames, with no sign of the others.
At least she had not been in the plane when the fire broke out, Khoudi thought.
“And what about you?” said Namsa. “Did you at least have a good time where you went? I hope so. In our lives we should always have a good time when we can, because the rest is a struggle.”