Little Family

by Ishmael Beah

  Khoudi looked at her in surprise.

  “You taught me that.” Namsa looked at Khoudi for a moment, then nudged her gently. “Something besides the fire is on your mind, big sister. You are here, but your spirit is scattered everywhere.”

  Khoudi took a breath. “Yes. It was good. And then it wasn’t. I don’t want to make a habit of it.” She put her arms around Namsa again and held her tightly. It felt good to give and receive this frank expression of love and care.

  “Or maybe you are just thinking too much about it,” said Namsa softly. “Life happens, for good or bad.”

  Khoudiemata released her. “How did you become so wise, little one? Perhaps you should get arrested more often.”

  They heard footsteps on the dried leaves in the bushes, followed by the introductory whistles they knew so well. Jumping to their feet, they responded in unison.

  Ndevui and Kpindi emerged together, distraught-looking but unharmed. They had been out partying when the fire broke out, and had returned home early in the morning to find the plane at full blaze. Elimane, as far as they knew, had been on an errand for William Handkerchief. Nothing had been amiss when they left. They suspected the fire had been set deliberately. But by whom?

  “Is it because of the tax papers?” Ndevui asked. “Whatever it is, we are with you. We are a family!” Ndevui looked earnestly at Khoudiemata.

  “No. That isn’t possible,” said Khoudi. There was no way of tracing the papers to their home, and besides, who in their land of corruption would take such a theft so personally?

  She was deeply relieved to have reason to believe that Elimane was all right. But why wasn’t he here? It was he who had originally designated their emergency meeting points, and the circumstances in which to use them. Now where was he, and when would he arrive?

  They waited in silence, each of them worrying about Elimane and wondering about the bigger questions that lay beyond. Where would they find their next home? Would they stay together? It was Elimane who had brought them all together, and it was hard to imagine the rest of them without him.

  Khoudiemata’s phone rang. She thought it might be Elimane, and her heart leapt, but then she remembered that he didn’t have her number. She looked at her phone and saw that it was Frederick Cardew-Boston. She answered.

  “Hey. I really need to talk to you.” His voice was heavy with worry, quite unlike his usual self. “Can we meet tonight, or anytime? Please.” He was almost begging.

  “I am not sure. Is it something that can wait?” Khoudi looked at the others.

  “Perhaps. But there is something I want you to hear from me.”

  “I will think about it and let you know later,” Khoudiemata said. She hung up.

  “Weekend people?” Ndevui asked, but Khoudi didn’t answer. The weekend, the resort, all of it seemed not just another world, but another universe.

  They waited until night began to announce itself. A breeze rose, making the trees sway goodbye to the day, then fell to a whisper. Normally they would enjoy such a quiet evening, but tonight it came on with a ghastly feeling.

  And then twigs snapped, echoing in the silence. The little family stood up, readying themselves for fight or flight.

  Slowly, Elimane came from the bushes. He was wearing his suit, but his face looked haggard. For the first time Khoudi could recall, he had forgotten to signal his approach.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” he said, standing before them. “I am so sorry.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Ndevui. “What are you sorry for?”

  “I let my guard down in a way I shouldn’t have.” Elimane broke into a wail. “Ah, even my books are gone!”

  Ndevui came toward him, his fists clenched. “We lost our home, with the rainy season upon us, and all you can think about are your books?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you were safe!” At last Elimane looked directly at Khoudi.

  Kpindi was in Ndevui’s path, but he wasn’t fast enough to block Khoudi. She grabbed his collar with both hands, nearly choking him. “Tell us!” she hissed into his face. “What did you do?”

  And so Elimane told them all.

  * * *

  —

  After he had encountered Khoudi and her new friends in the bar, Elimane explained, he began following Frederick Cardew-Boston.

  “I know how men like that think,” he said defensively, rubbing his neck. “I know how their families think. Trust me.”

  But unbeknownst to him, Frederick Cardew-Boston’s bodyguards had noticed, and had assigned one of their own to follow him.

  “You idiot!” Khoudi broke in. “Did I ask you to check up on me?”

  Elimane waved her off. That wasn’t all. The bodyguards had reported Elimane’s detective stunt to Frederick Cardew-Boston’s father, who took the security of his family extremely seriously. (“As you should well have known!” Khoudi said.) Not content to leave the mission in the hands of his son’s bodyguard, he had called in one of his enforcers—one of the minions he employed to carry out whatever tasks he needed, when he needed them to be off the books and out of sight. And who was that enforcer? Elimane gazed at them all, in helpless defeat. William Handkerchief.

  It was a coincidence that they were already acquainted, and it proved to be the perfect foil. Once William Handkerchief had received his orders, he redoubled Elimane’s assignments. The steady stream of work that Elimane was so proud of was partly a sham. Many of the tasks that had seemed so mysterious were simply unnecessary errands, invented to bring him out and have him followed, until William Handkerchief had discovered where he lived.

  In retrospect, Elimane should have been suspicious. Just as he’d returned to the plane from the phantom box pickup, William Handkerchief had sent him a text to meet at a bar by the beach for a new assignment. It was one of their typical deals: an overexcited foreigner, a briefcase, a guarantee of safe passage through airport security. But this time the mark was solo, and Elimane had wondered fleetingly why his presence was needed at all.

  “Well, that went smoothly,” he’d remarked when the foreigner departed, preparing to leave as well.

  “Stay and chat a bit, Sam,” said William Handkerchief, much to Elimane’s surprise. He never stayed a minute longer than necessary after such transactions. Elimane was wary, but he told himself that even in such a relationship, to which distrust was essential, something resembling intimacy eventually crept in.

  “So, young fellow, have you ever heard of Bai Bureh, the fellow who fought against the British because he didn’t want to pay taxes to them for his hut?” Again Elimane was caught by surprise. They’d never spoken of history, or any personal interest at all. He hesitated before responding, taking a long swig of his beer to buy time.

  “About Bai Bureh, I know only what I have learned in school, like everyone else,” he said.

  “Ah, school,” said William Handkerchief. “That is where they give intelligent minds the false idea of hope instead of cultivating the cunning and maliciousness that are needed to survive here.” He laughed quietly and swallowed the rest of his gin in one gulp.

  Elimane sensed that something was up, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it in the words that had been spoken. Something about how they had been spoken was making him uneasy. Casually, with the edge of sarcasm William Handkerchief seemed to enjoy in him, Elimane asked, “What made you ask about Bai Bureh? I didn’t take you as a man who cared for history.”

  “Oh, I only care for history if it can make me some cash.” William Handkerchief laughed. “Otherwise the past remains dead to me. You, on the other hand, take reading seriously. I always see you reading a book when we are waiting for business, and you seem lost in it, not like I pretend to be when in fact I am observing people.” And with that, he stood up, paid for the drinks, shook Elimane’s hand, and left, without a word of a next meeting or ass
ignment.

  Elimane had gone to join Ndevui, Kpindi, and Namsa at the night market, where they wanted to watch the people as much as the Spanish soap operas no one understood. He arrived during one of the many commercials about skin-bleaching products, which made him think of Khoudiemata and her fierce hatred of them. Where was she, and what was she doing? he wondered. By the time the family had returned to their home, he was drunk enough to forget the strange conversation with William Handkerchief, and fell asleep.

  The next morning, Elimane had slept late, uncharacteristically. He had slept while Ndevui left for his run, and while he and Kpindi dribbled their latest soccer ball—an unripe pumpkin—around the clearing. He was still sleeping when the boys and Namsa left for the market, and when Namsa, without his watchful eye, was picked up by the police and carted out of town. It was only the sound of a flock of birds taking sudden flight nearby that finally woke him.

  He left the plane to urinate, and that was when it happened. He heard movement in the bushes, and instinctively he moved deeper into the brush to hide. First to emerge were two of the bodyguards he recognized from Frederick Cardew-Boston’s lot. But why were they here? Were they following Khoudiemata? That would make sense—like all wealthy men, the father was a suspicious sort. But Khoudi hadn’t been there since Thursday morning. That was when it came to him: He was the one they had followed. It was he who had brought them to the invisible world of the little family that he had worked so hard to build and to protect.

  Behind the men, William Handkerchief came into the clearing. “Burn it,” he ordered them. “Burn it so that they can never live in it again.” He lit a cigarette and stood smoking as his men went to work. The men left only when they saw that the fire had truly taken hold, gaining an appetite that would not be easy to contain.

  Elimane waited in the bushes until he was certain that the men were gone. Covering his face with his shirt, he tried to make his way back inside the plane. But the thick toxic smoke and heat were too much for him. He took what water there was in the plastic buckets outside and came as close as he could to dumping it on the blaze, but it did nothing but encourage the flames to lick at the buckets too. He was forced to back off before the fire tried to devour him as well.

  At the main road, he saw the tire marks left by the hasty departure of 4x4s. He knew he must find Khoudiemata to warn her, but he had no idea where she was. He went to all the bars along the beach and other places that he knew the beautiful people frequented. It was only when he had exhausted his search that he had come to Encounter Two.

  “They must have been looking for you too, Khoudiemata,” Elimane said bitterly. “I may have made a mistake by following Frederick Cardew-Boston, but you’re the one who found yourself a Njamete.”

  The others turned to her for explanation, but she was silent.

  “It’s our freedom that makes us so dangerous,” said Ndevui. “We don’t owe anyone favors, we live by our wits, we can interpret our history and circumstances as they make sense to us, not the way anyone else wants us to.” The others were surprised. Ordinarily, Ndevui could scarcely stand to listen to such theories, let alone give voice to them.

  “I couldn’t have put it better,” said Elimane. “You have been listening to Shadrach the Messiah, and now you have tasted the strength of your own intelligence.”

  “Philosophy is not enough to get you off the hook,” said Khoudi. “No matter what, the fact remains that your jealousy brought about the destruction of our home. You couldn’t just let me be on my own.”

  Her phone rang. She looked at it, then shut it off without answering.

  The others turned from one to the other, as if hoping for an apology. But once the truth had been stated, there was no taking it back. A line had been crossed. Something had come to an end.

  Ndevui began to pace, the fear of abandonment upon him.

  Kpindi turned to Khoudi. “Sister, you know all the places to look for us, once you have cooled off.” He gave her a hug, and she hugged him back, marveling once again how much like a brother he felt to her, wondering if it was the last time.

  Namsa tugged at her hand, tears in her eyes.

  Khoudi looked down at her. “You are coming with me, little one.”

  Khoudi looked at Elimane, with pity and love. She and he, above all, could not afford to say goodbye. They knew that if they allowed the emotions dancing within them to play fully outside and among them, it would weaken them not only for the task of surviving but for the extra sharpness and effort to help others survive. Elimane looked back at her, and they acknowledged all that had been good between them, and all that had been painful. Then Khoudiemata took Namsa by the hand, and the two of them made their way toward the road.

  Only Namsa turned to watch the boys as they went, until the three of them had disappeared into the bushes. She and Khoudi emerged onto the road, the skeleton of a new family.

  * * *

  —

  How strange—or perhaps it wasn’t strange at all—that they would all meet again at the entrance to the beach, where an old lookout tower remained intact, though its body was aged with the salty wind from the sea and the rains that came and went, and the sunlight that shone every day on this forgotten place where someone might once have stood and watched the arrival of what changed everything. This morning, however, it was a stage for Shadrach the Messiah, and a couple dozen people had paused in their day to be entertained by him.

  “Good morning,” he cried. “Good morning, my sons and daughters, my friends, my compatriots of this land heavy with lies and deceit.” The air was cool, and it escaped his mouth, a mist, as he danced to his own words, his colorful patchwork robe swirling around him.

  “You! All of you, and especially you who suffer every day as you carry our history, the history as it has been taught to you. But if you learn your true history, you will be able to carry it in a way that it emboldens you, and your life will not be such a burden to you.”

  As he spoke, he began to weave his way among the listeners. And as their eyes followed him, they found one another. Ndevui with his running shoes around his neck and his earphones, intent on the music in his own head. Kpindi with his eyes averted, pretending not to see Khoudi with Namsa, in matching traditional cotton robes and head wraps, toting Khoudi’s suitcase. Elimane sitting on a rock nearby. He was writing vigorously in a new notebook, and it was not clear whether he had looked up long enough to see them, but he seemed absorbed and content.

  “Once, there were three women and two men, warriors all, who wanted to hear from those who had come across the seas, supposedly to befriend us. Even though they didn’t know we existed,” Shadrach added with a laugh, and some of the crowd laughed with him.

  “But every visit with their new friends was by appointment. What sort of friendship was that? So the three women and two men took white clay from the river, and charcoal, and they painted their bodies so that they looked like skeletons. They drank medicine from a plant that would bring complete stillness to their bodies, and then they climbed into an elaborately carved boat that was delivered to the new friends as a gift, a work of art from the natives, as they called us. The colonial boss proudly accepted the gift and put it on display in his living room, where he conducted the affairs of his so-called empire. The warriors sat still for five days, until they had learned everything they needed to know about the truth of our new friends. On the fifth night, during a feast, the skeletons came alive, stood up, and carried the boat on their shoulders out the door, disappearing into the night.

  “The colonials were in shock. By the time they recovered, it was too late to catch those lively skeletons. For the rest of that season of the sun and later the rains, the soldiers from another land searched for the lively skeletons in vain.”

  Shadrach paused and regarded his audience. “May you all be the lively skeletons of whatever season you choose.” And with that, he jumped into th
e air and took a bow, then continued on his way, mumbling gibberish.

  Khoudi looked at her phone to check the time. Manga Sewa would be here soon. What was it he had said? Have you ever lost something, and after you have given up finding it, the most wonderful thing happens?

  As she waited for him and whatever would come next, Khoudiemata whistled a new little tune to herself, set to Shadrach’s words. The lively skeletons, the lively skeletons, everything is correct. She liked the sound of it.

  acknowledgments

  I am deeply indebted to my family, my tribe—my wife, Priscillia, and our children, Kema, Farah, and Kailondo. Your presence has expanded and deepened my imagination and added to my life in the most remarkable and beautiful ways I could ever imagine. You are the very definition of life, and I love you all so very much. I am blessed to see the world through your eyes every single day. And Priscillia, merci for always believing in every idea and vision of mine, and for diligently reading my earlier drafts.

  I wrote this book while living in Nouakchott, Mauritania; Saint-Louis, Dakar, and Gorée Island in Senegal; Sierra Leone; Nigeria; and Los Angeles, USA. These settings and the people I met there helped me imagine the characters and landscape of this novel. I am thankful for having had the opportunity to live in all these places, and to have them become part of me.

  Throughout the writing of this book, I have become reacquainted with old friends, and made new ones who have now become family, a part of my growing and evolving tribe. Thank you, Eyal Aronoff and family, for offering to my family the beach home where I incubated and wrote parts of this book. Ann Norman, I so appreciate your checking in and offering the necessary connections and support. Tremendous thanks to Pam and Bill Bruns, and to Patty and Kenneth Turan, for welcoming us to the west side of Los Angeles and becoming the foundation we needed to call this place home, and for your encouragement of Priscillia’s artistic endeavors and mine. Most important, you introduced us to Devin Williams, who joined the tribe as my sister. I will be forever grateful that our paths crossed.