by Ishmael Beah
Meanwhile, that night, as during many others, the police and armed guards showed up in town looking for Colonel. They even questioned Salimatu about his whereabouts but nothing about what had happened to her. Miller and Ernest took over the wood selling business in the absence of Colonel, and Kula began cooking for them full time, something that apparently Colonel had discussed with her. Salimatu was looked after by Kula, Mama Kadie, Miata, and especially Mahawa, who became a close friend. The two young women were always together everywhere, giggling and taking turns carrying Tornya. Sometimes one couldn’t tell who was the real mother of the child.
* * *
For a week, Bockarie and Benjamin tried unsuccessfully to snatch the principal’s ledger. And every day, after another failed attempt, they would pass by the notice board at the mining site to see if the list of new employees had been posted.
It was a Wednesday, and they were going to check the notice board once again, not hopeful at all. It was just a new routine to delay going home and to play with the possibility of something, anything, happening. A conversation began between them about what would happen if they got employment at the mining company. They spoke about the impact that it would have on the students who wouldn’t have teachers for however long it would take to find their replacements. They also knew that no one was seeking an unpaid teacher’s position and that one of their colleagues would likely be manipulated by the principal to take their places. They were unsettled by the ramifications of their decisions. They got even sadder when they thought about the brilliance of some of their students and the enthusiasm for learning the children had under all sorts of difficult conditions.
Bockarie thought specifically about a boy and a girl who walked eight miles one way every day from the nearby chiefdom to attend school and scored one hundred percent on every subject. The students had told him that they took turns reading their notes aloud to the other while they walked to and from their village. It was the only way they could have ample time to study, as by the time they got home they were too exhausted to study for long. The girl and boy had also convinced the teachers to give them lessons on weekends, when they should be resting from the long walks.
“I think we should still continue to give lessons even when we are no longer teachers,” Bockarie said.
“I agree. Could we still charge, or is it going to be for free?”
“We have to charge. You know our people. If it is local and free they think it is not good. And some students will slack off.” Bockarie’s response made both of them feel slightly better about leaving the school.
“Look—I wasn’t expecting this to happen today.” Benjamin pointed ahead of them and they hastened, nearly running. A crowd of men and young boys—boys whose youthfulness struggled to cling to their desperate faces—stood around the empty notice board. There were more than fifty men and twenty boys, most of them new to the area.
As Bockarie and Benjamin came closer, they could hear the low voices of men wishing one another good luck, their utterances filled with anxiety. Ojuku, they learned, would soon bring the list containing the names of those whom the gods had blessed and cursed at the same time.
While they waited, they chose to look at this possibility of employment as a blessing. It was really a short wait but it felt longer, and Ojuku played with the emotions of the crowd, showing them the small power he had over them. He stood behind the wire fence and pretended to have a phone call while scanning the list of names and raising his head up to survey the faces in the crowd. Having exhausted mocking the crowd, and worried about his foreign bosses catching him in the act, he finally came out of the gate.
The crowd surged around him, their huddled weight pushing him quicker to the board where he pinned the list of twenty names. The crowd, no longer recognizing Ojuku’s importance, almost trampled him on their way to get a look at the list.
Benjamin and Bockarie waited behind the crowd, watching, and slowly, men and boys who had run forward with enthusiasm started dispersing, disappointment in every part of their bodies. It could be seen in the way their arms refused to swing, stiffly tucked by their sides, resisting their natural rhythm. It could be heard by the way their feet stamped deeper into the dusty ground, as if wanting to bury the bodies they carried. After those many miserable men and boys (who would rekindle their spirits somehow and return here again to apply) had departed, a few jubilant faces congratulated one another, forging instant friendships, especially if their job placements were the same.
Benjamin moved ahead of Bockarie toward the list and, turning around, he picked up his friend and raised him in the air before setting him down closer to the notice board. They had both been employed. They had work that would pay. Benjamin would be a processing operator and a mechanic, and Bockarie a clerk and a lab technician.
“Do you have any idea what these jobs titles mean or what they require of us?” Benjamin asked.
“I am at a loss—but we are employed!”
The remainder of their walk home didn’t feel as unbearable as usual. Their new jobs would start soon, though on different days—Benjamin first and then Bockarie. So they needed to write their letters of resignation before the end of the week. But most important, they needed to take the ledger from the principal.
“We have to take the ledger from him tomorrow if we want to have time to copy its contents and hand in our resignation letters on Friday,” said Benjamin.
“I agree, and we can return the ledger that very morning.” Bockarie’s response was quicker than usual, and that made Benjamin raise his head to meet his friend’s eyes. With another handshake they parted ways and went home in moods that most men in town were envious of. Benjamin was going to bring his family over to Bockarie’s home that evening so they could all celebrate together.
* * *
“I know you have good news when that handsome face of yours is this bright,” Kula said when she laid eyes on her husband. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing every part of her body closer.
“The children are watching,” he warned as he kissed her.
Bockarie asked his wife to make chicken stew for the family and to cook extra rice to celebrate his employment. He sent his oldest son, Manawah, to buy soft drinks for everyone and some batteries for the cassette player. Pa Kainesi looked at his son with warning eyes. Still, the old man could not resist when Manawah brought the batteries back and Bockarie played Salia Koroma, an old favorite musician of his father’s. The musician, accompanied by his accordion, sang parables of the old ways, and the songs made Pa Kainesi get up and start singing and dancing. He sent his granddaughter Miata to invite Pa Moiwa and Mama Kadie over. They arrived with reluctance but soon livened up and danced around, singing and remembering those days of their youth.
Benjamin, Fatu, and their children, Bundu and Rugiatu, came by. Fatu had prepared food that she brought in a basket. She handed it to Kula, who pulled her away for a private conversation. They giggled as they dished out the food they had cooked, preparing one large plate for the boys and men, and a separate one for the women and girls. Then they all sat together on the veranda and ate. At the end of the meal the music resumed and the small party went on for hours.
Mama Kadie gathered the children. “A man arrived at the river with a goat, cassava leaves, and a lion. He needed to cross and could only do so with one of the items at a time. The lion would eat the goat if left alone with it, and the goat would eat the cassava leaves as well. How would the man cross the river?”
Such banter was exchanged into the night.
At some point, Thomas and Oumu flanked their father while delighting in the cold bottle of Fanta they shared. Each child would take a sip, then pass the bottle to the other with excitement.
“Father.” Thomas got Bockarie’s attention—and everyone else’s.
“We”—the little boy pointed to his sister Oumu, and Benjamin’s children, Bundu and Rugiatu—“we want you and Uncle Benjamin to get a new job every day. We love the part
y, especially the Fanta!” The other children clapped for Thomas, and for their parents, and for their siblings, and for their friends … and the night went on toward daylight, as it must be.
* * *
At school the next day, Benjamin went to see the principal. He knocked on the half-opened door and the principal sprang up and walked quickly to him.
“How can I help you?” he asked with nervous irritation.
“Could I print some flyers for our after-school lessons closer to the end of the school day?” Benjamin stood in the doorway, but the principal wasn’t letting him in.
“Why closer to the end of the school day?” The principal dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief.
“It is the only free time I have and I don’t want to use class time to do this task,” Benjamin said. “Do you want me to?” He broadened his eyes at the principal, who became quiet for a while.
“Of course you mustn’t use class time. And I made a promise to help you and your nice, quiet friend. You, on the other hand, are a rebel.” The principal looked at Benjamin with strong eyes that were meant to intimidate but didn’t succeed.
“I didn’t come here for insults, but if that is what you want, I will be glad to exchange as many as needed with you, sir.”
“You don’t like to be a subordinate, eh? Okay, enough of this unnecessary chatter. Come by my office when you are ready. I will be here,” the principal said, and continued, “There is very little petrol left in the generator and it will not last more than five minutes. We must finish it, anyway. Anything to help my students and dedicated teachers!”
Benjamin nodded with a wry smile. The principal remained standing in the doorway watching the fast and confident gait of Benjamin as he walked away.
Later on, during the printing, which lasted for three minutes before the generator started coughing, Bockarie came by and asked to speak with the principal privately. Before they stepped outside, leaving the task of watching the printer to Benjamin, the principal sized up Benjamin with a look that reiterated that he didn’t like him at all.
Benjamin ignored him, and as soon as the principal turned his back, Benjamin resumed his bent-down posture by the printer, collecting the papers and laying them in his open bag on top of the ledger so that the ledger ceased to be visible.
“So what is this private matter you would like to discuss with me?” the principal asked Bockarie while looking back to the office at Benjamin.
“I love teaching, sir, but I am having a difficult time doing it with the same enthusiasm I used to have.” Bockarie got the principal’s attention back to him. He was about to continue when the generator made a funny sound and everything went off.
“I shall talk to you another time,” the principal said as he began walking back into his office. He used the excuse of needing to make sure that Benjamin had printed enough flyers to get out of a conversation he didn’t want to have. Bockarie nodded in agreement. In his office, the principal eyed Benjamin, who showed him the inside of his bag with the pages sticking out.
“Well, that should do for a while.” The principal managed a smile and picked up his own bag to go home. Outside his office, he shook hands with Bockarie and Benjamin again before pushing his motorcycle, which he climbed on at the top of the slope for the ride downhill. They walked home quietly; Benjamin never asked what Bockarie had said to the principal and Bockarie didn’t inquire as to how Benjamin had taken the ledger.
That night, they stayed up until almost morning. They collected all the kerosene lamps and flashlights in both households and took turns providing light while the other copied the ledger down to the very last detail.
Then they penned their terse resignation letters, both of which ended with the promise that they would “continue to contribute to their students’ growth through their after-school lessons.” And they composed the final demands, which guaranteed the secrecy of the principal’s ledger, in exchange for … for … for what, exactly?
“We must make demands that we can monitor,” Bockarie said.
“I want to make sure that he keeps the school open no matter what, and that all students—especially those who are brilliant and cannot afford school fees—are supported by some of the money he is embezzling,” said Benjamin with a yawn.
Bockarie added kindling to the glowing coals in the fireplace, to restart the fire to boil water for tea. With his back turned to Benjamin, he said, “I think that we have to be specific. Keeping the school open, that he can do to some extent without us forcing his hand. Regarding the students, we have to name the ones we want him to pay for, and it has to be a reasonable number.”
“I hope you are not feeling sorry for this fellow. If I had children in that school, I would include them in the terms. Hence, I am not sure why you haven’t brought that up.”
Benjamin’s comment, though it surprised Bockarie, freed him from the burden of having to sound selfish. “Let’s make that part of the terms, then,” he said quickly, with a smile that came about in time to beat the yawn that wanted to possess his jaws. They also agreed to add the names of all Colonel’s siblings—Amadu, Salimatu, Victor, Ernest, and Miller.
“Where do you think Man in Charge is, anyway?” Bockarie asked.
“I do not know, but I am not worried about that boy. He knows how to take care of himself better than you and I!” Sipping their hot tea, they finished writing their demands, which included getting supplies for teachers, paying school fees for all of Bockarie’s children and fifteen other students, providing chalk for the after-school lessons, and making sure that school remained open no matter what. Roughly calculating the cost of all these things, they realized it would be half of the nonexistent teachers’ salaries that the principal had on the payroll.
“He will still be able to buy petrol for his motorcycle when we are finally paid, though he won’t be smiling half as much,” Benjamin said with a little laugh.
They didn’t sleep that night and their walk to school the next morning was sluggish and slow. But the miles and the heat gradually wiped the sleep off their faces even if their bodies remembered they had been starved of a night’s rest. Nearer to campus, Benjamin got into a much happier mood than his friend. Bockarie was still anxious and would remain so until they had returned the duplicate ledger. He started worrying less, though, when Benjamin disappeared while the students were sorting themselves out for assembly. And when Benjamin returned, he was smiling even more than before.
When assembly finally commenced, the principal made his way to the front of the gathering, holding the ledger under his arm. This was very unusual, him carrying it openly, and Bockarie was especially relieved they had returned the thing earlier. After the principal finished his announcements and stepped back for the singing of the school song and the national anthem, he began leafing through the ledger. Bockarie’s and Benjamin’s eyes were on him as he pulled out the paper that contained their terms. His jaws tightened as he read, and he immediately looked toward Bockarie when he was done. Bockarie averted his gaze. The principal folded the paper and pushed it into his right pocket while his eyes surveyed the teachers to see who was responsible. He ruled Bockarie out of the equation because of the explicit mention of his children’s school fees in the terms. But when the principal’s eyes finally met Benjamin’s, he gave him a wry smile and a mocking half salute.
The principal walked to the back of the assembly and stood next to Benjamin. Underneath the voices of the students singing, he said, “So you are behind this madness, my friend? Do you have any idea what problems I can give you?”
“You mean you can sack me. That is the only problem you are capable of giving me right now.”
“Not only will I sack you but I will make sure you cannot teach anywhere in this country.”
“In that case I will make it easy for you. Here is my resignation letter effective today. Sir.” Benjamin handed the principal the paper.
The principal knew he had no more grip on Benjamin, but he had to
say something that didn’t completely reveal the defeat he now felt. “I am not done with you. You are under me for today and I am going to make it hell for you.”
The principal walked away, crumpling the resignation letter but not throwing it on the ground. Benjamin wanted to respond that “you can only threaten someone with hell if they have never had hell,” but he let it go. Throughout the day, during his lessons, the principal passed by the window of his classroom, distracting him and his students. He had Benjamin step outside and spoke to him in whispers. “I want to see you at the end of the school day,” he demanded.
“There is nothing to discuss. You have my terms,” Benjamin said, starting back to class.
“Who else is involved in this? And how do I know that you won’t continue with more demands?” The principal stepped gently in front of Benjamin and turned to the side so the students would not see this as a confrontation.
“No one else is involved. I have your secret in a safe place and the terms will remain the same. Also, you are in no position to negotiate anything, so stop bothering me.” Benjamin brushed past the principal and returned to his classroom.
Benjamin didn’t tell his students that it was his last day. But they were used to the impermanent nature of things and could instinctively tell when circumstances were about to change. They needed no explanations. Therefore, at the end of class, some students came to their teacher one at a time, shook his hand, and walked out. Those who didn’t like the idea of goodbyes just left, avoiding eye contact. Benjamin felt slightly sad that he was abandoning them. He sat in the empty classroom and remembered all that had passed in there.
“Everything comes to an end, like life itself,” he mumbled to comfort himself before getting up to depart.
Bockarie waited for Benjamin to perform their routine of walking home together. It was their last walk as teachers.