by Ishmael Beah
What happened on the first day of the new uniforms was “necessary,” the elders would later say. It was necessary to wake up the joyous muscles of the hearts of the teachers and students, if only for a day. And it was another kind of lesson to be learned: even horrible things can contribute in the creation of natural comedy. Even the most absurd situations can be punctured.
It was a wonderful sight at first. All the students—at least those with proper attire—in their brand-new blue-and-white uniforms and their white socks and black shoes, convening from the various parts of town and surrounding areas to walk together to school. It brought smiles to the faces of those they passed. In sharp contrast, the teachers walking alongside them looked shabby, which only served to remind the teachers of their condition. Anticipating this, Bockarie and many others left early. But when the students began arriving, sluggishly dragging their feet as they lined up for assembly, the teachers—the principal included—couldn’t contain their laughter. They looked at the students in their brand-new uniforms and their brand-new socks and shoes, and they laughed so hard that even the students joined in. For the whole forty-minute assembly they all laughed, and kept on laughing throughout the day.
Here is why. The mining company had begun digging a new site for its operations not far from the school. So there had been more trucks than ever that morning, maybe a dozen or more, one after the next, after the next. And there was no escaping the dust they raised. Red dust. All the white shirts were now the color of the dust, as was the students’ hair. Their black shoes were unrecognizable. Standing together, they looked as if they had been washed and rolled in the dust. Even their eyelids were dusty. Some tried to beat it off themselves, but then the dust just rose from their bodies in clouds and sailed above their heads only to settle on other students. They struggled to keep the dust from staining their work. It would fall from their uniforms into their notebooks and onto the white pages covered with neat handwriting. However much they dusted, the uniforms stayed dirty. The more they tried to wipe the dust away with their soiled hands, the worse it got. And the teachers could do nothing. You couldn’t send everybody home for untidiness!
In time, the students came up with a way around the problem. They would wrap their books in plastic; wrap their uniforms, shoes, and socks in plastic bags, too, and wear ordinary clothes to and from school, washing their feet and changing just before they reached school grounds. And they started arriving earlier, leaving their homes at 6:00 a.m. to avoid the stream of heavy dust. It was risky because they couldn’t see the live electrical wires in the dark, and the passing vehicles, in the last remains of night, couldn’t see them.
Abu was full of plans, none of which he discussed with his parents or his siblings. The goals of all of them were simple: to attend class every day no matter what.
On the first day of new uniforms, after his father and siblings had left for school, he helped his mother with chores around the house. She tried to explain that his father was really trying and he shouldn’t feel too bad about missing school.
“You know, your father had to make a tough decision, as he wanted all of you to be in school. I can give you some homework to do if you want,” she said as she packed her goods for the market.
“I know, Mother, I know it isn’t easy, so don’t worry too much.” He smiled reassuringly and offered to help carry her baskets.
As soon as he returned home, he took his notebook and pen, and wearing ordinary clothes and walking barefoot to avoid ruining his white sneakers, he followed the forest path to the school compound. It was the shortest route, but it went through two swamps with mud up to one’s waist; hence, it was not frequented by many people. Abu stripped off his clothes and made his way through the mud, stopping to wash off before climbing the hill that brought him to the back of the school grounds.
As he reached the clearing, he crawled to the windowsill of his classroom. The window was always open in the morning, after the teacher lifted the boards that prevented animals from climbing into classrooms at night.
Under the window, Abu sat and listened to the lessons, diligently taking notes. When the bell rang for lunch, he quickly ran, head down, into the bushes to avoid anyone laying eyes on him, and he waited there, studying his notes. When lunch ended and classes resumed, he crawled back to his spot.
At the end of the school day he made it back home, running faster, before his father, brother, and sister’s return. They regaled him with the story of the uniforms, and they laughed together all evening. Their grandfather pensively suggested that perhaps the ministry of education should consult with each school and ask the teachers to prescribe appropriate attire for each region. He lay in his hammock and gently pushed on the earth with his walking stick to swing himself.
“We can help you swing, Grandfather,” the little twins offered. “Next time,” he said, “but you can come and sit with me.” And Oumu and Thomas cuddled with the elder.
The next day, it was Abu’s turn to wear the shared shoes to school. His father told him to be ready to walk earlier than usual to avoid the dust. Abu waited, all smiles, the next morning. He’d pushed extra socks in the toes of the shoes so that his feet didn’t slide back and forth in them, but his family laughed when they started walking and suggested he take them off until they were near school grounds. This did indeed make the walk less strenuous. In school, Abu’s friends made fun, calling him “canoe feet”—he literally looked as if he were standing in two miniature black canoes. But he didn’t mind at all; he was just happy to be in school.
When Abu returned home that day, he had already devised another plan for the next day. He handed the shoes to Manawah, got his homework done, and then started working on his new plan. To avoid his family’s suspicion, he made an excuse that he was going to a schoolmate’s house to copy notes he’d missed during his absence. Instead, he threw his white sneakers into a plastic bag filled with black markers he’d found in a dustbin out back of the mining company’s living quarters and ran to the edge of town, near the blacksmith’s hut, and began working. Shaking the old markers for whatever ink they had left, he carefully painted his sneakers until every part of them looked seamlessly black. He let them stand in the last strong rays of the evening sun and then carefully wrapped them up. He ran home excitedly, tossed the sneakers through the window he had left open, then went to sit with his family on the veranda.
Kula was helping the young twins, Thomas and Oumu, with their homework. She had almost gotten her master’s degree in nursing and education before the war interrupted. And she’d worked a few years as a nurse and had taught in the refugee camps they’d lived in for years of the war. One didn’t get certifications for such things, but she liked using her mind, and now, when her husband was correcting papers and would pass each one to her for a final opinion, she found contentment.
“This is my favorite part of the day, when all my roles, my experiences and education, are put to use simultaneously,” Kula told Bockarie, her weary face brightening, revealing the beauty that sometimes got lost in the relentless drive to keep a family together. She took the papers he handed her, made her comments with red ink, and passed them back. “I must check on the rice.”
* * *
The evening students and Benjamin arrived for their lesson, and the family retired to the rear of the house. Later, as the students headed back to their homes, Benjamin told Bockarie he had applied at the company and was waiting for word. He said he would rather teach but could not do it anymore.
“If I get the job, I will instruct all the drivers to slow down and avoid dusting a lanky, pensive, and hungry-looking teacher on the road!” Benjamin joked.
“You’ll save me soap money! Good luck with it, brother. I sure will miss your company and humor,” Bockarie said.
“But I haven’t gotten the job yet, so I will see you in the morning.”
He shook hands with Bockarie and was about to depart when Colonel emerged from the dark cloak of the young night. Withou
t a word, he handed the two teachers their fees for the lesson. He had wrapped the money in an old newspaper. As soon as he handed it to them, he turned to leave.
“You don’t say much, young man,” Benjamin said, snapping his fingers to get Colonel’s attention.
“Let the young fellow be,” Bockarie interjected.
“I am always quiet so that I know what to say when I must speak.” Colonel’s voice caught them by surprise.
“He is very smart, too. Why don’t you go to school?” Benjamin turned to Bockarie, and by the time his eyes came back around, Colonel was gone.
“He is like a ghost—but he shows up to pay!” said Bockarie.
“An honest ghost. Not many around.” Benjamin took his share of the money and gave the rest to his friend.
The next day, Bockarie, sixteen-year-old Miata, and seventeen-year-old Manawah left home for school, leaving—or so they thought—Abu behind. However, as they stood in assembly before entering classes, their eyes found him. He smiled at their confusion.
His father pulled him aside. Where, he asked, had he gotten these odd-looking black shoes?
“Creativity and determination are in my genes, Father,” Abu said as he ran off to class. Bockarie laughed—he had said these words often at home, words that his son now spoke back to him. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard but was thrilled by the resourcefulness of the boy, even as his mind tried to answer his own question. Where did he get the money to buy a pair of black shoes?
At the end of school that day, as they walked home, it began to rain. Everyone was happy even though they were getting soaked. They preferred the rain, because it would tame the dust for a while. Students and teachers protected their books with plastic bags and ran for cover. It was during the run that Bockarie saw what his son had done. The marker began to wash off Abu’s sneakers, and soon they were white with spots of black here and there. While they huddled under a corrugated iron roof left behind by the mining company, Bockarie, Miata, and Manawah stared down at Abu’s feet and laughed. And then they began to praise him.
“Creativity and determination, eh? Come here!” Bockarie hugged his son, wiping the rainwater off his face. Abu said nothing about the plan he already had in motion for the following day: he’d convinced another boy to lend him his shoes, since he was a better note-taker.
At the end of the school year, Abu was first in his class and so were his siblings. His father remained puzzled about Abu. But he was proud of the enthusiasm the boy had for learning. He was proud of all his children and the mature way they dealt with the conditions of their lives. He knew he had to do better for them.
7
KULA WAS HUMMING. Her spirit was still dancing from the happiness of the previous evening when she had sat with her family. She cherished those moments. They had become rare. And she had no childhood memories of family, only those as a mother.
“Shall we go to the river, my daughter?” She mimicked an English accent, making Miata laugh.
“How come you are always content with simple moments, Mother?” Miata asked as she tied her waistcloth and prepared to pick up the buckets, one filled with the dirty clothes that needed washing.
“I like them because they are pure,” said Kula. “They come with no requirements or explanations, and they are meaningful, or at least they should be. Like life itself is supposed to be.” She closed her eyes and turned her face toward the morning breeze. Miata sometimes didn’t understand her mother, but she could feel the happiness emanating from and about her, and that was enough. Kula felt her daughter’s confusion, but she just smiled and motioned for them to go. Kula went to the river every morning to bathe and to wash clothes so they didn’t pile up. Bockarie called her the “incremental woman,” as she wouldn’t allow her work in any area to accumulate. Her daughter came with her at times, especially on weekends, when she wasn’t leaving for school before dawn. On their way to the river that morning, Miata carrying the two buckets—one on her head, the other swinging in her arms—they came across Benjamin sitting on the path, rubbing his palms together to warm his fingers from the cold morning air.
“Good morning, ladies. How is your health and that of your family?”
“Everyone has their health, and good morning to you, as well, and how is your family?” Kula responded. “We are as well as life can allow us to be and we hope to continue that way.”
Benjamin rose and picked up his bamboo fishing pole. “I am going fishing upriver and will mind my step so as not to dirty the water for all of you. My wife is at the river, too, so I want her to have the cleanest water. I make no promises, though, after she leaves!”
He smiled into their faces, resting on Miata. She was a quiet girl and Benjamin liked teasing her.
“Miss Miata, you are becoming more beautiful, even more than your mother, which is difficult to believe! We should have already started hiding you from all these boys in town. Oh, trouble for your quiet father!”
Miata smiled shyly and hid behind her mother.
“Leave my child alone and go about your fishing,” Kula joked, tossing pebbles at Benjamin as he ran away, laughing loudly.
When Kula and Miata arrived at the river, things looked strange. The water was completely dirty and murky, and it smelled rusty. And it was high, as if a tide had come in. Water filled the banks and rushed downstream with uncommon speed. Other women gathered at the grassy edge of the river, their calm morning faces now lit with worry. They stared upstream to see what was going on.
“It wasn’t like this when I first came to fetch water earlier today,” Fatu told Kula. She said that the water had just now started rushing with this force, and that the women were thinking it would pass. “I lost my children’s clothes that I had laid out on the washing stone there,” one woman said.
“The river took my only bucket away. How am I going to fetch water now?” another said to no one in particular, with tears in her eyes.
“Perhaps we can find your bucket downstream later on,” a younger woman said consolingly. “In the meantime, I will lend you mine when I am done bailing.”
A woman with naturally beautiful wrinkles of age on her cheekbones spoke next. “Where can the water be coming from at this time of year? I have never laid eyes on such a strange behavior of the river.”
The women sighed in agreement. There was nothing to do but wait for the water to calm. The wait almost exhausted their patience. At the first sign of normalcy, they plunged into the river without paying much attention, so as to get on with their day as quickly as possible.
Kula and Miata returned home and hung the clothes out on the rope to dry, and they left a bucket of water in the yard. It would be used for cooking later on. Midday, when Miata went to turn the clothes over so the sun would dry them properly, she noticed there was rust on them and they smelled strange. There was none of that fragrance the sun usually left on the fabrics. She couldn’t understand it; her mother had done this for years and had never carelessly washed anything. Miata called out to her, “Mother, could you please come out and see this.”
Tying her waistcloth, Kula came out of the house to inspect. The whites, which were mostly the uniforms, were the worst. Rubbing the fabric, Kula could feel the rust on her fingers, and there was an oily substance that continued to stain each cloth she touched. She brought her nose closer and could smell something that made her wince. She touched it to her tongue and instantly felt an acidic sensation. Saliva filled her mouth, and she spat it out.
“This must be from the water. What has happened to the river?” she murmured.
Taking one of the white shirts from the line, she began walking toward the neighbor’s. I must see how their clothes look, she thought. She paused at the bucket of water in the yard. Miata joined her, and crouching down they could see that it was clear on the top but below the surface was a layer of rusty murk.
“Make sure none of your brothers or your sister drinks this water. I will be back,” she said and hastily walked t
o the neighbor’s house, where, sure enough, the garments on the clothesline were rusty and smelled.
“What do you think?” Kula asked.
“It is the water from this morning,” her neighbor said.
Together, the women began going from house to house, examining one another’s ruined washed clothes and the sediment settling at the bottom of their buckets and drums.
Their gathering got the attention of the men, whose immediate reactions were deep sighs, as it was plain they would now have to buy new uniforms for their children, especially if the river remained this way.
“We should have the men find out what has caused this,” Fatu said loudly enough so that the men lurking about heard. They nodded in agreement.
A few, including Bockarie, volunteered to walk along the river to explore the banks. Miller was among them, there to gather information for Colonel. It wasn’t long before they found the source of the problem. Several artificial dams had been created for the mining of rutile, but the dams were overflowing, spilling into and destroying the roads the company needed for its vehicles. So the company had begun draining excess water directly into the river, thereby contaminating it.
“The river was our only source of clean, drinkable water,” said the men. “Why did they not direct the water somewhere else?”
The farmers among them were livid. Their lands for planting next season had been dug up and flooded without any consultation. “This means that our rice fields have also been contaminated,” one of the farmers added, as he dipped a hand in the water and smelled it.
Among the gathering were men who had laid the very pipes that now spilled dirty mining water into their collective river. They had operated the very machines that dug up the land and flooded it. But they said nothing. Though they were ashamed and realized what their work had done, they had needed the job.
All the men began walking back to town, but Miller lagged behind to inspect whether there was a way to prevent the spillage. He knew Colonel would ask him about that.