by Ishmael Beah
“Good morning.”
The elders returned his greeting, searching for the honest part of his face. They asked to have an audience with him about the behavior of his workers in general. The elders limited their words when they had something important to say.
“Yes, I would want to hear your concerns more than anything else,” he said. “I am rushing to work now, but please come to my home tomorrow for some respectable sit-down and chat.”
He climbed into his vehicle and left without offering the elders a lift back to their homes. This was not a respectable thing to do. One always asked to accompany the elders, even on foot, and even if your eyes could see where they lived, and especially after they had walked to seek a discussion with someone younger.
But even though Wonde’s behavior made the elders shake their heads with doubt, they knew they had to try, as there was more at stake than tradition. Tradition can live on only if those carrying it respect it—and live in conditions that allow the traditions to survive. Otherwise, traditions have a way of hiding inside people and leaving only dangerous footprints of confusion.
* * *
The path to the hill where the mining headquarters was and where Wonde lived no longer existed. It had either been flooded or replaced with dusty roads that offered no suitable place for human feet. The elders managed to walk slowly on the side of the road. They wondered why Wonde hadn’t sent a vehicle to collect them, but they went anyway, hoping a conversation would mend whatever had been broken and prevent further problems. It was the weekend, so there weren’t many vehicles on the road. The four miles felt longer than usual, and when they arrived at the company’s living quarters, there was a gate. There, the security guards told them that they must have an appointment to continue beyond the metal post. They tried to explain that Wonde had invited them to come by.
“Why would we walk all this way if we had no business here?” Pa Kainesi asked the guards.
“We are only allowed to let in people who have appointments, and if you do, your names should be here.” One of the guards flipped through the pages of a book.
“Do you have a note in there that says three elders?” Pa Moiwa tried to lighten the situation. No one laughed, though.
“Your individual names will be here if the person you’ve come to visit wants to see you.” The guard looked through the book some more with eyes wide open, as if he wanted the names of these elders to appear on one of the pages even though he knew they wouldn’t.
“You must be able with that walkie-talkie in your hand to call Wonde and tell him we are here,” Mama Kadie said, pointing to the radio.
Now caught between respecting his elders and afraid of losing his job, the guard called on his radio to inquire. As soon as he said hello, Wonde angrily instructed him to go to the telephone in the security booth. The elders were perplexed. They waited, their ears catching only the guard’s voice, and he pressed the phone to his ear as though he didn’t want Wonde’s insulting commands to escape and reach them.
“Yes sir, yes sir, yes sir…” The guard nodded on and on. When he hung up the phone, his face became that of a person who had been told to convey words that tormented his spirit. The only thing he could do was keep most of the message—the parts that made his eyes ashamed of being on his face—to himself. He simply told the elders that Wonde would not see them.
They didn’t understand. Wonde was a cunning fellow, but this was out of the ordinary and completely unacceptable.
“Did Wonde tell you what his reasons are?” Pa Moiwa searched for the frank part of the young man’s eyes. He didn’t give them to the old man.
“He cannot see you.” The guard motioned for them to walk back the way they had arrived. The elders could have walked up the hill to find Wonde on their own, but there were private security guards standing in formation along the hillside. They weren’t dark skinned, they were white, but the way they acknowledged the presence of the elders showed that they weren’t from afar, that they understood some African customs. And their mannerisms—bowing their heads just a bit even in their military uniforms to give way to the elders—showed that they were Africans. They were South African mercenaries from the former Rhodesia. The sight of them made Pa Kainesi think about conversations he used to have with his son and friends about the fact that there are Africans who are white-skinned in North Africa and elsewhere. And some of these white-skinned Africans didn’t like dark-skinned Africans at all, for no apparent reason. “It is because they are disappointed Africans! You know they are not black as Africans are supposed to be,” his son would respond. Pa Kainesi looked at the armed men again. There was something in their eyes that detested the very fact that they were familiar with the customs of the place in which they now found themselves. The elders avoided gazing too much at this well-armed group and turned to the guard one more time to express their disappointment with looks that wounded deeper than words could have.
A vehicle heading in the direction of Imperi approached the gate, and the guard tried to convince the driver to give the elders a lift. He refused, as they weren’t allowed to give natives a ride in the company cars. He whispered this into the ear of the guard. Pa Moiwa heard him though, and commented, “A native in the car says natives aren’t allowed in the company’s car.” A strained smile came across his face. The gate was lifted and the driver sped off.
The elders began walking back home, their old bones becoming weaker under the hot sun. They said nothing to one another throughout the journey and parted as soon as they arrived in town. Bockarie saw his dust-laden father dragging his feet. His clothes seemed to sag on his old frame, and for the first time, his face had lost its glow.
I have never seen my father’s countenance like this, like that of a man who just lost his last ounce of dignity. He has been through so much, why now? Bockarie thought to himself. He took his father’s hand in his for a while before going inside to bring him a cup of cold water. Pa Kainesi drank the water and looked up at his son.
“We returned here to repair ourselves, but this isn’t the way to begin. We need to maintain how we sit down respectfully with one another.” He said no more and just sat in his chair under the mango tree in the yard all afternoon and evening, mumbling to himself, eyes fixed on the distance.
That evening, Amadu came to deliver wood from Colonel’s group to Kula. Colonel, with offers of free bundles of wood, had gotten Kula to be one of his many customers. While Amadu was stacking the bundles of wood by the mango tree, he overheard Kula talking to her daughter Miata about how the elders had been mistreated.
“This is why your grandfather is so quiet this evening. He is a man of few or no words when he is angry or bothered deeply by something,” she said. Kula had turned to look in the direction of Amadu, but not because he was eavesdropping. She had put aside a dish for Colonel and his group, something that had been agreed upon by the elders and her husband. It was customary in small towns and villages for mothers and women in general to put aside portions of food that they had cooked for their families for children with no family of their own or sometimes even single men. Also, Colonel always sent a bit more firewood than Kula paid for, and she wanted to return the favor of goodness.
“Please take this to your Man in Charge for all of you.” She handed him the bowl of rice with beans, dried fish, and palm oil soup on top. Miata laughed at the name Man in Charge, but also at Amadu, whose face lit up when he smelled the food.
Upon Amadu’s return, Colonel whistled with two fingers in his mouth, which was a signal for all the boys and the girl to gather immediately. Miller, Ernest, Salimatu, and Victor left their various tasks and rushed to the bucket of water to wash their hands. Victor, who had difficulty eating hot food, usually came with a bowl so that he could take his share as they all dug in and wait for his food to cool.
This evening, though, Victor didn’t bring a bowl, which made the rest of them laugh as they congratulated him. They then devoured the food as though they hadn’t ea
ten for days.
“She cooks better than Salimatu. I feel I have actually had food after this meal,” Ernest said, and Salimatu slapped the back of his head. Colonel turned the other way to smile just for a second before his face returned to its customary state. At the end of the meal, Amadu told Colonel what he had heard. Colonel listened pensively and said nothing afterward.
Deep in the night, when the stars themselves were drowsy, dulling the brightness of the sky and causing it to nod, Colonel left his room and went into town. He stopped at the carpenter’s workshop, where he quietly took some nails and borrowed a hammer and screwdriver. He searched until he found Wonde’s vehicle, the only one in great condition, parked carelessly outside a woman’s house. Colonel went to work, driving nails into all the tires. Using the screwdriver, he opened the vehicle and removed the battery from the walkie-talkie that was on the passenger seat. He threw the battery in the bushes and quietly closed the door of the car. He returned home passing by the bar to see if any men were misbehaving so that he could ambush them afterward. They were drinking and shouting but nothing beyond that as far as Colonel could see. He returned the carpenter’s tools and went home to wait for another night to pass, as he was still learning to sleep.
Wonde, as usual, emerged from the house in the morning and finished tucking in his shirt and fastening his belt on the veranda. He had a bottle of water, and he rinsed his mouth and spat before drinking some and washing his round, bearded face. He strutted to his car whistling with an air of self-importance. His mood was soon spoiled when he saw his flat tires. He looked around, scratching his head for answers, then got down on his knees to see if the tires were at least manageable to drive on. Confirming that none of them had any air whatsoever, after he had repeatedly pressed them, he kicked one in frustration, then reached inside for the radio to call for help, but the thing wouldn’t come on. When he noticed the battery was gone, he threw it back in the car, slammed the door, and went to sit on the veranda of the house he had slept in to think, holding his head in his hands. He raised his head with a smile when the idea came to him to pay someone to deliver a note for him at the company’s main site. Surely someone would come get him immediately.
What he didn’t know was that word had spread about how he had mistreated the elders, and no one wanted to help him. Wonde began dangling money in front of people passing by. “You could get all of this if you do a quick errand for me,” he coaxed. “Come on.” But everyone ignored him, even those on their way to labor for a week for much less than he was offering them for that day.
“I cannot believe that no one wants money for a simple errand,” he grumbled after many more failed trials to entice someone with his wad of cash. After an hour or so, Miller walked by and Wonde took out even more cash, wiping his sweaty face that was used to the air-conditioned car and office but not the sun and humidity that drove away the fresh air of morning.
“Young man, take this money for a small errand. Be smart.” Wonde held out the money, his voice exhausted. Miller walked toward him, nodding. Wonde explained his demands and gave him a note to deliver, and Miller nodded again, pocketing the money. Then he tore up the note and threw the pieces in the air before walking away. Wonde stared in a stupor of disbelief, so used was he to getting his way with every inhabitant.
It was then that Wonde began the trek to the mining site. Everyone was at work, so he couldn’t catch a ride from one of his workmates. Passenger vehicles passed him, and as if the dust, too, wanted some revenge, it rose thickly and coated his stocky face. He coughed and spat on the ground and cursed, and he walked as though his feet had forgotten their natural tasks. For days, that story of Wonde was told all around town. It made the people laugh. It made them believe, too, that the world still had an arsenal of consequences for those who disrespect the elders and the land.
Miller handed the money over to Colonel and described the surprise on Wonde’s face when he tore up the note.
“I wanted him to follow me for his money so I could take him into the forest and deal with him there,” Miller said as he pulled out more of the money he had in his pocket. Colonel tried not to smile, even though he loved the story. The two of them had done things that bonded them so much more than they could ever say to any of the other youngsters. Often they reacted to the same sounds and acknowledged each other afterward. This act today, though, this handing over the money to Colonel without him asking for it or even having knowledge of it, was the birth of the two of them becoming partners in future actions.
“This is yours and you can do whatever you like with it,” Colonel told Miller.
“I know, man, and I have decided to hand it to you. You can decide how to use it best for the group. Also, I will only get into more trouble with that money in this town in particular,” Miller said, looking up the guava tree for that one fruit he had been waiting to ripen. Colonel held back another smile. He knew exactly what Miller was referring to, a habit to manage memories of the past. They agreed to add the money to the small pile they were saving to pay the school fees of the others. They sat quietly, and Colonel patted Miller’s shoulder before he disappeared into the night for his regular walk at the edge of the bushes around town, making sure that even the light from the moon, let alone the lamps, didn’t deliver his shadow from the night’s dark embrace.
* * *
Everything was in disarray during the preparations for full-scale mining to commence. Huge trucks, bulldozers, and other monstrous-looking machines came from out of nowhere and in full speed traveled down roads to start digging. They provided no proper passage for the travelers who had no other means but to walk, so with the persistence of bare feet finding a way around the roadblocks, people made paths in the bushes by the roads. But the mining vehicles rolled on in groups, leaving a thick fog of dust. It took minutes to be able to see where you were going, whether you were in the bushes or on the road.
Bockarie had started making his children Manawah, Miata, and Abu leave for school with him earlier than usual to avoid these dangerous commotions that now came with daylight. Benjamin, however, waited until it was bright outside. “What difference does it make, man? At least I can see them coming and run for my life.” He laughed.
One morning, as Bockarie and his children walked in the last brushstrokes of night, they heard boys shouting in agony down the road. Bockarie, trailed by his children, ran as fast as he could toward the cries. As they came to a halt, gasping, they saw what had happened. A young boy, sixteen years old, one of Bockarie’s students, had stepped on a live electric wire in the dark. The blood in his body had been sucked dry and his remains looked as if he had died a very old man. By the time his friends pulled him from the wire that continued to spark, burning his peeled flesh that had been left behind, it was too late.
This was the first death since life in the town began after the war. The boys just stood there weeping, and whoever came along did the same. A few men screamed at the vehicles passing by; others threw stones at them, breaking their side and rear windows, but the vehicles didn’t stop. As the group grew—students, teachers on their way to school, mothers and fathers who had come to see what the commotion was about—the more agitated the crowd became. They began uprooting electric poles and destroying anything with the mining company’s logo on it.
Bockarie put his arms around his children. It was the only way he could assure them that they were safe, since it could have been any of them. Benjamin came strolling up a while later. Nodding to Bockarie, he joined those shouting at the vehicles carrying the foreigners and local workers.
Before too long, three vehicles with police officers in riot gear pulled up. They threw tear gas into the crowd until the group dispersed, coughing, with burning noses and eyes. There was no school that day. Under the cloud of tear gas, a group of men took the body of the boy with them back to town, where the police chief and his men patrolled the streets, announcing through a megaphone: “Watch where you walk on the roads and there will be no deat
hs or problems.”
The police did nothing further. Instead of investigating what had happened, they blamed the boy who died for his carelessness. They neglected to mention the fact that there had been no danger signs alerting the presence of live electrical wires, or that the wires should have been covered in the first place.
The mining company’s work continued uninterrupted. The town grew tense with the people’s quiet fury. The atmosphere was so stiff that the wind didn’t move, and for the rest of that day it felt as though something was about to break. The police, sensing that something might happen, issued a direct warning that anyone caught sabotaging the mining company’s equipment would be arrested.
In near silence, the town formed a procession to take the boy’s body to the cemetery. But to make matters even worse, it was impeded by another procession, that of mining company machines. The local men operating the machines stopped to let the mourners continue. But soon one of the foreigners pulled up in his vehicle. He was exasperated and ordered the men back into their machines to proceed. Otherwise, he said, they would be sacked. The men argued that the procession would take only a few minutes to pass and that he should have respect for the dead. But he was already on the phone calling the police, who arrived immediately in two trucks, with batons and rifles with live ammunition this time. They began pushing the crowd out of the way so the machines could pass.
“Why are you doing this, my brothers? You are supposed to protect us,” some people said, stretching their arms toward the policemen they knew very well.
“Would you let this happen if it was your brother who had died, or your child?” the older women pleaded. A group of men shielded those carrying the coffin, batons hitting their backs, so that the boy’s body wouldn’t fall out in the commotion. The policemen succeeded in pushing the burial procession to the side for the machines to go ahead. They even fired a few rounds in the air.