by Ishmael Beah
“I used to dance to that drum every time I walked by to my farm. The sound cheered me up all the way to work,” Sila said, mimicking some of the moves, crossing his feet over each other quickly and making the drum sound with his mouth. He was dancing so well that looking at him the children forgot about his missing hand. Bockarie joined in dancing while telling Sila that he, too, had liked the drum, closing the night in particular. He also said that it was actually how he met Kula, dancing in front of the drummer in the evening.
While the adults reminisced, the children watched one another. Oumu and Thomas clearly wanted to know why Hawa and Maada were missing arms and hands, but they didn’t know when it was appropriate to interrupt the adults. So they stepped onto the veranda closer to their age-mates to see if they had just put their hands inside their clothes as children do sometimes, especially in the morning when it was a bit colder. Oumu even touched the stump of Maada’s arm—he smiled awkwardly, trying to understand why this little girl didn’t seem to understand that his hands were gone. Thomas began to emulate the dancing of the adults as an excuse to get closer to Hawa and Maada to observe them more. The adults were too consumed with one another and their past to notice what was transpiring among the children. Perhaps it was a good thing that they learned to be with one another on their own without the adults, who made the situation more awkward at times.
“You should come to my house this evening. The children can play together.” Bockarie tapped Sila on his shoulder and waved goodbye to the children, who giggled, knowing they would have playmates later on. Their shyness had subsided a bit, and Hawa, with her only right hand, waved to Oumu and Thomas, who hesitantly waved back. Sila wasn’t worried, as his children had been through this so many times that it was no longer a worthy conversation. Bockarie knew that his children would ask him questions about this family. “Your mother will explain better, so wait until we get home,” Bockarie said before the children let their inquisitive tongues loose and while their eyes remained on Sila and his family as they walked home. He had to say something but he hadn’t the words, nor did he know how to explain why or how Sila and his children were like that.
Just then a man came running as fast as possible and halted next to Bockarie, almost hiding himself behind him and his children. The man pointed to the path and shouted, “Someone is coming again to do away with us all. Run, everyone!”
A few people who had left their verandas returned to see what the commotion was all about. Most of the others already had their bundles ready to run into the bushes. Soon enough, Colonel emerged from the path holding a machete. He was walking hurriedly with deliberate intensity, marching like a soldier, holding the machete not like a farmer but as someone ready to use it for a fight, his strong arms raised and ready to strike. This was out of habit. The man had seen him from afar; now Colonel saw the man pointing at him and the many hesitant eyes directed his way. He stopped, dropped the machete on the ground, and waited. Victor, Salimatu, Amadu, and Ernest came into view with bundles of wood on each of their heads. The man sighed with apologetic eyes as people now turned to look at him, some relaxing and bringing their bundles back inside their houses. Who was to be blamed? A machete in someone’s hands these days, especially in a young person’s hands, had a different meaning. The man went toward the path and shook hands with Colonel before passing, perhaps his way of saying it was not his fault that he feared Colonel.
“We have wood for sale if your household needs some. Please tell everyone we are at the house at the end of town near the oldest mango tree,” Colonel said to the dispersing crowd. He didn’t introduce himself to Bockarie or anyone else as he walked on. Bockarie later learned about him and the others from Pa Kainesi.
As soon as they arrived home, Thomas and Oumu went to their mother and asked why Hawa and Maada had no hands.
Kula looked toward her husband, whose eyes said, I didn’t know what to say.
“Well, it was an accident that happened in this country when you were just babies, and it happened to many people,” she told the children, and then she preempted their follow-up question. “It is an accident that people do not want to speak about just yet. So don’t ask questions, okay. In time you will know if necessary.” She hugged them both.
“Mother, we also saw a man running away from a young boy and then he realized he was wrong!” Oumu said.
“So many stories already this morning! Go in and eat with your brothers and sister.” She released the children from her arms and placed her head on her husband’s back, leaning on him and folding her arms around his waist. He turned to face her. She always had a smile waiting for him that made him feel at peace. He put his hands around her waist and squeezed her until she giggled and playfully pinched him. They laughed and stood together for a while, holding each other to gather the strength that was needed for this day, another day of waiting.
“Mother, Father, I am going to see Mama Kadie. She said I should visit whenever I need a story for the day.” Oumu distracted her parents, who looked at each other and nodded to her request. They knew she would go anyway, or harass them to tell her stories.
“What story do you need for today, if I may ask,” Bockarie said, kissing his daughter’s forehead.
“Mama Kadie will know when she sees my eyes,” Oumu said and skipped off.
On that same day, when the sun was in the middle of the sky, a group of children had ventured into the river for a swim. As they splashed in it, making the water swing harder to both shores, they had shaken loose a body that had been hanging from the branch of a tree for who knows how long. The children’s frightened shouts filled the air, waking the town from its slumber and bringing adults running with heavy hearts. They found a stick and fished the body out. All they could tell was that he was a young man whose genitals had been cut. Memories of that particular past filled everyone’s minds again and they quickly covered the body, as though this would halt the invitation of unpleasant sights into their minds. The children who had been swimming in the river were all too young to know what had happened not so long ago. They had seen burnt villages and houses and holes in walls, and their minds had told them it was fire from a burning farm that had consumed the houses. The adults were happy to agree with such innocent explanations. But as everyone stood with the children at the banks of the river, Oumu, whose innocent mind still thought people died only of old age, asked her father, “Why is this man dead in the river? He does not look older than grandfather.” Bockarie and all the other adults searched one another’s faces. He cleared his throat and said to his daughter, “The young man was drowned by a bad genie, a water spirit, because he went swimming at night, and by himself.”
The children looked at the faces of their parents to confirm this explanation. The adults asked them to head to town, announcing that storytelling would take place that night about humans and water spirits. The children were delighted—their parents had told them of such gatherings, and now they would witness one for the first time. Mama Kadie said she would tell the story at the town square. They raced one another to their various homes, leaving the adults by the river. Pa Moiwa called out to Colonel, who had been sitting on a stone by the river observing things.
“Man in Charge, could you and your caboodle help us with some firewood for tonight’s gathering?”
“Yes, Pa Moiwa, and you will have the firewood for no charge. Our contribution to the town.” He turned away to look at the river. Pa Moiwa went back to the adults’ discussion about the body.
Before they took the body to be buried in the cemetery, they decided to take canoes early the following morning to look for any other bodies that were floating under bushes at the edges of the river and to clean up as best they could. They knew they couldn’t clear everything. A massacre had happened on the river, and though the blood no longer cloaked the surface of the water, there may have been all sorts of things underneath. A fisherman among them suggested he would use his nets to dredge whatever he could from the bottom
of the river. What he didn’t say out loud was that in that process, he would also catch fish, which he could sell to them.
* * *
Sila and his children arrived at Bockarie’s house all dressed in colorful, embroidered traditional clothing. Their clean Vaseline-covered bodies were shiny in certain spots and dry in others. Sila carried raw rice wrapped in a cloth, which he gave to Kula as soon as they arrived. It was a tradition to bring a particular kind of red rice to signify that one was grateful for the friendship of the person whose house you visited. She hugged him and kissed his cheek, his smile growing wider. She then wrapped her arms around Hawa and Maada, squeezing them at the same time. They giggled—it was the first time they had met someone who didn’t make them feel uncomfortable, someone who hugged them with no hesitation. Sila admired the attitude of this wonderful and beautiful woman. He stared at her, hoping to catch her eyes to thank her, which was more genuine than the handshake he lacked these days.
“I see that you have come to take my woman away from me!” Bockarie joked.
“Well, now that I am missing an arm, women don’t find me threatening, and I don’t complain when they come closer.” He laughed and put his left arm around Bockarie’s shoulder. Bockarie didn’t know whether to hug him or shake his hand.
“But the hugs and kisses are only accepted from women, man!” Sila said. They walked to the front of the house, where most of the family was gathered. Miata, Bockarie’s older daughter, Mahawa, and Oumu had gone to the river to bathe and fetch water for the evening. The visitors began their round of greetings to the elders. Mama Kadie was holding Tornya.
“Shake my hand with your left, and we should do so from now on, as this hand now has the responsibility of both,” Pa Kainesi said to Sila.
“But this isn’t proper. The right hand is customary for greetings.”
“Times have changed and so must certain traditions. The respect for the tradition is in your eyes and mannerisms. So from now on I choose to shake your left hand.” Pa Moiwa and Mama Kadie shook Sila’s hand and rubbed the heads of his children. Maada and Hawa felt comfortable knowing that the elders treated them the same as all the other children.
As the adults settled on benches and hammocks to talk, Manawah and Abu, Bockarie’s oldest sons, and Thomas took Hawa and Maada to the other side of the veranda. First they rubbed the Vaseline properly on parts of their faces that were dried and then they played word and riddle games, avoiding activities that required both hands. There were moments when they felt themselves thinking too much about the fact that Maada and Hawa were amputated, forgetting to look at their faces. Maada at one point stood up so the stump of his hand was at Manawah’s eye level. He swung himself around and his stump slapped Manawah. He laughed, falling playfully to the floor. Manawah got the point. They would get used to it eventually and would play naturally together.
When the girls returned from the river, they helped to serve the food: country rice with chicken, fish stew with onions, and eggplant cooked in coconut oil with hot pepper and spices. While the food was being spread out on large plates, Bockarie boasted, “My wife’s cooking is so good that when you smell it, you start thinking of stealing the pot for yourself, running with it into the bushes, and eating until your stomach is as tight as a drum.” They all laughed, the smell of the stew now stronger; they could taste it. The first plate was placed in the circle of the men, and they called on the boys to join them. Mama Kadie left her friends to sit and eat with Kula and the girls, who had their own plate of food. The feasting began. The adult men fed Maada, taking turns shoving rice and pieces of meat in his mouth. The boy was content sitting on the ground against his father’s leg. Hawa ate using her right hand, as did everyone else, and was assisted only when she wanted water.
By the time they finished, the sun had successfully hidden itself from the eyes of the sky and put out its fire. They decided to move to the town’s square, the adults walking slowly while the children ran ahead, hiding behind houses and jumping out with noises to scare one another on the way.
* * *
The light from the fire painted the dark shadows of everyone on the walls of the houses behind them. The young people weren’t as plentiful, and some sat reluctantly by the fire. The eager ones were the generation of Oumu and Thomas, who had heard of moments such as this from their parents, and some exceptional ones like Hawa and Maada, who, despite what they had endured, had a joy within them that such a tradition sparked even more. The other few, who had arrived in town without parents and roamed about, helping here and there to get some food, sat by themselves. They listened to the story with one ear focused on the gathering and the other on guard. Colonel and his brothers and sister were among this group. He had gathered every young and parentless individual in town to fetch wood and prepare the fire. During that work he had also told them it was their duty to make sure that things went smoothly, to prevent any outside intrusion, and had assigned each a position and task for the night.
No matter who was present, and why, the entire town had come to hear a story from Mama Kadie and from whoever else would be moved to tell. This was the tradition—the elders, mostly women, would tell a story, and other elders would join in afterward. Some nights it would go on until even children were called upon to retell stories they had heard. Tonight, Mama Kadie stood up inside the circle and walked around the fire as she told the story, adjusting the wood every so often to make the fire brighter or duller depending on the mood of the tale. Some of the boys who had sat away gradually came closer.
“Story, story, what should I do with you?” she had shouted, the call for the teller to start, and the audience responded, “Please tell it to us, so we can pass it to others.” She went on a number of times until everyone was asking to be told the story.
“Once upon a time, when the world had a common voice for all things on the surface of the earth and beyond, the chief of the humans, a woman, was a dear friend of the god of the water spirits. She would go to the river very early in the morning to have a conversation with her friend, who emerged from the river in different forms and sat on the banks with her. Sometimes she came as a beautiful woman, as half fish, half human; other times she came as a muscular, handsome man. All these forms were what the human chief had committed to her mind and thought about before their meeting. They talked about their worlds and the need to maintain the purity of the river, which was the source of life for both their peoples.
“In those days, no one drowned in rivers, as the water spirits aided everyone who swam in them. The humans were required to stay away from the river only at midnight for a few hours so that the water spirits could perform their bathing ceremonies uninterrupted. The relationship went on for centuries until one night a callous young man, who had arrived very late on the other side of the river, decided he must cross into town immediately even though he’d been warned to wait just a few hours. As he rowed the canoe across, he frightened the water spirits; some of them hid and others transformed into strong currents because of the shock. He struggled to row against the currents, and one of the water spirits, in the form of a beautiful girl, decided to aid him. She made herself visible and guided his canoe to shore. The young human and water spirit fell in love and started meeting each other to swim when no one else was around.
“One night while they were playing together in the river, the young man, not listening to the girl, went to a deep, turbulent area of the river and drowned. This brought about distrust between the humans and the water spirits. Before the chiefs on either side could speak about what had happened, the man’s father, a hunter with too much temper, had already killed one of the water spirits with his arrow.”
“Did the hunter have guns or just arrows? He could do more with guns and grenades that he could just shoot or throw in the water and kill all the water spirits,” a young man interrupted, with eyes redder than the flames and memories of the recent past in his imagination. He called himself Miller. Colonel had not noticed this y
oung man before and made a mental note to find him the next day. Mama Kadie walked over and sat next to him and told the rest of the story as if only for him.
She told of how in those days there were no guns or grenades, of how a small misunderstanding had changed the relationship between the humans and the water spirits, and how the act of one person whose heart had been quickly consumed by negative fire had caused the water spirits to hide from humans forever. So every now and then when a human laid eyes on any water spirit, it would try to protect itself by drowning that human, especially adults whose minds would conjure only the worst image of the water spirits. It was only children whom they did not attack, except in rare circumstances, for the water spirits still saw them as the only pure humans.
It was an important point that needed to be made about the nature of distrust and how it can spiral into violence. It was also a story to reassure some of the younger ones that their innocence was not to be feared any longer, as it had come to be during the time of the war. Sometimes a story does not make immediate sense—one has to listen and keep it in one’s heart, in one’s blood, until the day it will become useful.
The sighs of relief from the children filled the night when they heard that they were exempted from harm. The muscles of the night shook with a slight wind, rejoicing as they received these innocent sighs once again.
The last story, told by Pa Kainesi, brought about tremendous laughter in the crowd, something none had done in a while. He began: