by Wayétu Moore
He turned away from me again to face the window. I appreciated his company and goodwill. I fell asleep again and when I woke, the bus had stopped. Surprisingly, Jallah was not beside me, but outside facing the field peeing, the shortest in a line of men. I glanced down the aisle and the driver was outside stretching. My luggage was still under my seat where I left it and my purse was in my lap. After twenty minutes or so, Jallah and the others boarded the bus. I stood up to let him in.
“Sorry-oh,” he said. “I did not want to wake you so I jumped over your legs. I thought sure I would disturb you but you were in a deep sleep.”
“Oh yes. I am tired. I have not gotten sleep lately but it is hard to stay awake with the ocean so close. Even on a bumpy road,” I said, still high with slumber. “How much longer?”
“Nani,” he said. Four hours.
“Oh, good,” I said. The noon sun made the bus even hotter than it had been that morning. I took my handkerchief from my purse and wiped the sweat from my forehead.
“You know, I was thinking,” Jallah said. “I want to help you.”
“Oh?” I asked.
He leaned in toward my seat and looked over his shoulder and across the aisle to see if anyone was listening. I was startled by this and I pulled away.
“No, no,” he said. “Listen.” He began to speak in Vai again.
“I did not want to seem too anxious before, and you can never be sure who you are talking to. But I have been thinking, I know of a woman. A rebel,” Jallah said quietly. “She is a Vai woman like yourself but she grew up in the city and she joined Taylor’s army.” My heart beat quickly and I sunk like stone in my seat. “Don’t be afraid,” Jallah continued. “Listen to what I am saying. I will tell you what I learned, what everybody learns during wartime. Not all fighters are bad. They all look bad. There is blood on their clothes. They high. Most fighters, they will do bad things, but not all of them are bad. Do you understand? Some of these rebels them they get forced to fight, they have no choice, but they stay good. You understand what I saying?”
“No,” I whispered, my heart still racing. I thought for a moment that perhaps Jallah was a rebel in disguise. If I screamed, the driver would stop the bus and it would lengthen my trip to Bo Waterside. And who knew if the people on the bus would turn against me if I prolonged their trip?
“Let me explain,” Jallah said. “They go to villages and to some poor towns near the cities, the rebel leaders them, and they tell the young people to come join their army for money. They say, ‘I will make you rich, come fight for me. I will make you commander. Make you king. Make you chief.’ They promise them their family will be safe during the war and they will make money to send to them, so many of them, they say yes. Then the others who say no, they force them. They beat the boys, rape the girls them until they agree to join their army. So many still trying to be right with God even with all the bad bad things they now do, you understand?”
“What are you saying? I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head.
“I know this woman, this girl her name is Satta. She is Vai and she is with Taylor army but but—” he leaned in again, so close to my ear. “If you pay her enough money, she will go and get your family for you.”
“What?!” I asked loudly.
“Not too loud,” Jallah said as the bus passengers looked our way. I gestured my apologies to them and looked at Jallah.
“When the rebels see her passing with people, they do not humbug her, and she learned this while saving some neighbors of hers who were Krahn,” he said. “And you know what is happening to Krahn people.”
“I know, I know,” I said, desperately wanting him to continue.
“So she has made a business from this,” Jallah said. “You pay her and you tell her where to find your family and she will go find them and walk them across checkpoints.”
“And what do you get from this?” I asked.
“Mostly just a comfortable bed in paradise. But she gives me small small change for finding people for her,” he laughed.
“Of course.”
“Nothing is free, sister. She can bring them to you in Bo Waterside. If you want.”
“Yes, yes,” I said, with hope that I could finally see a shape to. “But is it safe?” I asked in English. “Is it safe?” I asked again in Vai, quieter.
“It has been so far,” Jallah said.
“Can I meet people she has helped? Just to be sure?” I asked.
Jallah shook his head, waving his finger.
“They are all gone. Those who can afford her usually run far far away from this place once they get out of Liberia,” he said.
So far his proposal was my only option but I did not know this man. I thought of what Gus would do and say, or Ol’ Pa or Ol’ Ma. But none of them were there. Fear orbited. This man could have been a killer—a rebel himself. My husband would call me foolish for entertaining the suggestion, or for even conversing with him in the way that I had during their trip. But the griots and djelis would say that perhaps this was another sign.
“I want to meet her,” I said. “Please, if I can.”
“Good,” Jallah said, delighted by my decision.
We arrived in Bo Waterside late that afternoon. I was happy to stretch my arms and legs. I kept Jallah in sight, now my only lead in finding my husband, my girls. Bo Waterside was twice as crowded and busy as Freetown. There were some who were running down the road, some who walked with buckets of water, bundles of belongings or other goods on their glowing black heads. Market vendors shouted to pedestrians. “Plum, plum, plum, plum” or “Rice here. Rice! Rice!” or “Who want buy salt? Salt! Salt for you!” The smell of fresh fruit mingled with the fumes of rotten and deceased things. I waved my handkerchief over my nose in the heat.
“It takes some getting used to,” Jallah said, walking up behind me. “You will need a hotel first, yes?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, following him.
There was a busy road that intersected with the bustling market. Jallah pointed at the intersection. Vendors waved their goods across my face as I proceeded.
“Move from here, we are fine,” Jallah said, driving them away. “You look American so they will try to sell you anything.”
“How?” I asked.
“We know our people,” Jallah said. “We can always tell when someone has been away.”
Some trucks approached and people moved out of the road. I stepped aside as the trucks sped by. A few hundred yards in the distance, along a dusty road, I vaguely made out the checkpoint. There was Liberia, so close.
“Come, come,” Jallah said and continued walking.
We turned onto the street that intersected with the market and Jallah led me directly to a zinc door, painted blue, beside an alleyway with clothes hanging on either side. I was reluctant to follow and stood at the entry.
“No, please. Come,” Jallah said. “It is a good one. NGO people here,” he said.
I entered a foyer with tile floors, dark and redolent of dry rice and fish. A woman, very heavy and warm, entered the foyer waving.
“Allo-oh, Jallah,” she said. She went to the window and lifted the flimsy blinds so that the sunlight could make its way in. She turned around and the long, skinny braids that hung from her head followed.
“Hello, sister. This is Mam, my Vai sister,” Jallah said.
“Allo-sister,” the woman said loudly. She held out her hand and I shook it.
“You from America? I have room for you. I have one American man stay here. He preacher. He go to Liberia, he come back next week. You very beautiful. You stay here, I have room for you.”
“Okay,” I said, struggling to process everything the woman had said.
“Are there many other hotels in this area?” I asked in a low tone, peering out the window in hopes that I did not offend the woman.
“This is the best one, I tell you,” Jallah said.
“What wrong? This nice place, close to everything. Close to borde
r, to market, to everything. What wrong? Plenty American people stay here. Where you from, Freetown? You from Liberia?” the woman rambled.
“Liberia, yes,” I said. “Can I see the room?”
“Yes, yes, come,” the woman said and opened a cabinet against the wall. There she retrieved a key and moved a curtain at the edge of the foyer.
“I will follow,” I said. Jallah and the woman laughed.
“That’s good. You are smart woman. Beautiful woman. I have room for you,” the woman said.
I followed them down a long and narrow hallway, lit by a skylight partially obstructed by orphaned leaves and garbage on the roof. The woman opened the third door and handed me the key.
“Here your room, sister,” she said and I saw clearly all of her small teeth.
The tile floors had been swept and the glass windows were barred from the outside. There was a metal bucket in the corner. The bed was made of dried mud, and cords of straw broke through a thin mattress.
“Straw mattress?” I asked.
“Yes, the very very best. Stay here. Bathroom down hall. We have running water. Your room.”
I gazed at the tiny room.
“Only ten dollar one night. American dollar,” the woman added.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll take it.”
“Good, good.”
“Come, come with me outside,” Jallah said. I was tired and hungry. I nodded and followed Jallah to the road outside.
“Here, take my number,” he said, writing his number on a sheet of paper. “She has phone inside. She is nice woman. The building has security. You will see.”
Down the dusty road, crowds continued to move throughout. I could tell those who had recently made it out of Liberia. Their clothes almost swallowed them whole and behind their eyes something had been taken.
“I will go call Satta and bring her here. Stay close by and I will call if there is trouble,” Jallah said. “I must go home now but please believe me you are safe, sister.”
“Okay,” I said confidently. “Bie-kah,” I said in Vai and hugged him.
Jallah disappeared into the crowd, his duffle bag dancing against his leg as he walked. I stared at the zinc door and instead of going back inside I strolled to the market road where dozens of vendors and traders were teeming, yelling above each other to ensure the last deal of the day. As I passed, women turned their heads in the direction I walked. There was one woman in particular who wore a lappa decorated with black traditional masks wrapped around her head. She was a heavyset woman who waddled as she moved intently toward me.
“You want me braid your hair?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” I answered and quickened my pace to a market table I had noticed while walking with Jallah, a table with metal silverware strewn across it. I approached the vendor and those who were standing before the table parted for me.
“Allo, Ol’ Ma,” the vendor said.
“You want salt, Ol’ Ma?” a vendor asked.
“No,” I said.
“Ma, T-shirt for you. Good price,” another said.
“No, no,” I said, more convincing.
“One knife and fork please,” I said with authority. The silverware clanged and screeched as the man found a pair for me.
“Butter good for you?” he asked.
“Steak,” I said. “Please.”
“Just one set?” he asked, and the others around the table glanced at me askance.
“No, a set of four,” I corrected myself.
“That will be one dollar American,” the man said and wrapped the metal in a sheet of newspaper. I paid him, and grabbing my purchase, I rushed to the next vendor, a woman selling kala.
“Kala, kala, kala, fresh kala bread,” the woman said.
“Yes, two bags please,” I said.
“For you one dollar American. Usually two dollar but I give it to my sister,” the woman said.
I paid her and put the bread in my purse.
Back at the hotel, the woman was sitting in the foyer against her locked cabinet.
“Allo-oh!” she said when she saw me. “There now, I tell you I’m the best one.”
I quickly paid the woman and went to my room, locking the door behind me. I sat on the bed and listened closely for threatening noises—signs to confirm that I was moving in the right direction—but nothing could be heard above my beating heart.
That night, I unfolded the silverware from its wrapping. I gripped the handle of a steak knife and took it to bed with me. The straw from the mattress poked at me from every angle. I closed my eyes but I knew I would not sleep well. The darkness was deep except for a dribble of moonlight that entered my window in streams. I held the knife close to me, waiting in the night, unsure of whether or not I slept.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Jallah did not show up the next day. When he still did not come on the following day, I began to call the number he had given me every hour of the following day, and the day after that, beginning at dawn.
“No worry, he come,” the proprietor had said, recognizing the number in my hand every time I emerged from the room to use the telephone. “He good man. He come back.”
During my second afternoon, I used the phone to call Facia to tell her all that had happened and to ask advice, but the service was so poor that I could tell by Facia’s response that she wasn’t hearing all that she was being told.
“You are well? You made it to Bo Waterside?” Facia asked several times.
“Yes, I am well,” I yelled. “I am here.”
“Service to America not good this time. Wait for night, you try again,” the boarder said. I did not know Marta well enough to call her, and I did not want to worry her with trouble so soon.
I waited in my room for most of the day and slept with my knife by my side during the night. I heard other boarders in neighboring rooms, their snores loud. I brought a book with me but was too distracted to read. I looked over the papers in my purse, including the letter from my Fulbright sponsor that I would present to the American embassy in Freetown. I pressed my fingers against the letters, along the lines of each of my daughters’ names, my tears staining the page. I frequently took out all of the dresses from my valise and shook them for bugs, then folded them again and neatly placed them in my bag. I sat facing the wall, then stood against the door facing the window. On a few evenings I went outside and strolled up and down the street and around the market, listening for any news of what was happening on the other side. I would always hurry back, afraid I would miss the call. It had been almost one week and I resolved that if Jallah did not return by the end of the week, I would attempt to cross the border myself. I decided this while pacing my room, my slippers beating the tile floor.
“Come,” I heard the boarder yell outside. “Mam, sister come!”
I ran out of my room to the foyer, where the boarder had placed the phone on the counter.
“That him,” she said and smiled. “See, I tell you.”
“Hello? Jallah?” I asked, my nerves fluttering.
“Yes, I found the girl,” he said cheerfully.
“Good! I have been trying to call you!”
“Yes, I was trying to find her. We will come to you tomorrow morning. No worry,” he said. He had hung up the phone quickly, and I stood in the void with his tarrying words.
“Good, right?” the boarder asked, gathering her braids into a ponytail above her neck. I nodded.
“All good,” I said.
On the following morning I kneeled before my bed, resting my knees on the hem of my dress, and I prayed, murmured my thanksgiving before asking God for favor. The boarder let me borrow two folding chairs for Jallah and the woman to sit.
“Can’t we meet in the foyer?” I had asked.
“You can,” the boarder said in a low tone, lower than I had ever heard her speak. She then came close to me. “But some meetings should be private.”
“Yes,” I said. “I understand.”
Jallah and S
atta arrived an hour later and the boarder knocked on my door. I stood up from my bed, where I had hidden the knives at either end of the straw mattress.
Jallah shook my hand and gestured toward the girl behind him.
“This is her. Satta,” he said.
Satta was wearing camouflage pants and a stained shirt. Her short hair was braided into cornrows with endings that jutted out from behind her ears. She had stocky shoulders for her small frame, and her eyes were red and sunken, fighting to be desirous again. She nodded toward me and took a seat on one of the chairs against the wall. I sat on the mattress.
“So, uh, as I told you, Satta, our Vai sister has family still in Liberia,” Jallah said, trying to ease us, but he sounded so unnatural that it worried me.
“You are Vai?” I asked Satta, in Vai.
“Yes,” Satta answered in English. “Where is your family?”
I looked at Jallah. He waved at me to speak, assuring me that the woman was trustworthy.
“They are hiding in a village near Junde,” I said. “You are Vai. Was your family’s village close to there?”
“I know the area,” Satta said shortly. “Yeh.”
“Yeh, it is longer to get there by foot. You have to go through the forest. The easiest way is by canoe,” I said.
“Yes, I know.”
“From Junde,” I said. I tried to speak to Satta in Vai again but I sensed that the woman did not want to talk about anything personal.
“Jallah said you have done this before? You ever had trouble?” I asked.
“No. Never trouble. Me, I just wear my full suit and carry my gun,” she said pointing to her back. “They don’t humbug me. They think I transporting.”
“A gun? You ever had to use it?” I asked.
“Not when I working like this, no,” Satta said and looked away from my face.
“And what is transporting?”
“Taking civilians someplace. To rebel leader, to town, holding them for questioning, anything,” she said. Beneath the toll the war had taken, as Satta spoke, I thought that she was beautiful, her skin and eyes once youthful and forgiving. I wondered what had made her this way, what had undone all that was remarkable about this woman.