by Ishmael Beah
“Everybody sit down on the ground. Sit so you can see me, only me,” he shouted, even as the older chiefs struggled to bend to the ground. The gathering protested a bit with murmurs, and the vice president said, “I will use my law to punish you,” he shouted, referring to the law of Lion Mountain as his. “If you all do not sit on the ground and keep quiet, I will show you my power. You’ll wish your mother hadn’t given birth to you.”
That was the end of the discussion. Bockarie walked away, refusing to sit on the ground.
* * *
He stayed for another day and left for Imperi the following morning, earlier than he had planned. He hoped to move to the capital city and to see Benjamin’s family again. Rugiatu and Bundu cried as he left.
Bockarie sighed with relief and coughed out the dust and smoke he had inhaled on the road when he got to Imperi. As the vehicle pulled away, it revealed the welcoming faces of his family. The littlest children ran across the road and jumped into his arms, followed by hugs from the others and then a kiss and a much-needed caress from Kula. She whispered something to him that made him smile. At home, his father’s first words were news that the dredge had fallen again. More people were missing.
“That dredge is cursed because it is operating on burial grounds,” he concluded. The foreigners said otherwise. They called it mechanical failure due to the incompetence of the workers.
While the family sat on the veranda in the interlude of the afternoon, Bockarie described his plan to move away.
“There is nothing here to do for me, for us. We will only become like those who have accepted that this is the best outcome of their lives.” He returned to his pensive mood.
“I was thinking of discussing this with you, my husband. I agree that we must leave this place that is barely home these days, for the sake of our children,” Kula said. But Bockarie’s father said he would stay behind.
“This is my land and I must witness whatever happens to it. Someone must stay around to witness this part of our history. It is the only way to pass it on orally; we must experience it to make the telling meaningful and effective. Kadie and I have decided to do that.” He warned Bockarie to be careful in the city, where he had once been; he saw it as a place where people no longer heard the whispers of the past in their hearts, where people did not sleep well enough to dream of stories.
Mama Kadie came by while Pa Kainesi was speaking and added her voice to the warnings. A young man had come here from the city to attend his father’s funeral. The young man had on dark sunglasses throughout the funeral, even when stories about his father were told. “How can the spirit of his people find him if he covers his eyes at the funeral? How will the elders know what stories to tell him if they cannot find his eyes, which tell what he needs?”
She sighed. “We must not forget everything of the past. Take care of your traditions and guard the useful ones when you are out there.” She turned to Bockarie and held Kula’s hand.
Two weeks later, Bockarie, Kula, and their children, after gathering some money and selling whatever they thought they wouldn’t need in the city, departed. The children were on holiday break, so they would start the next school year in the city. Other than close family members, Bockarie and Kula had cautioned their children not to speak of their departure to anyone. Sometimes people’s bad thoughts interrupted or placed a barrier on new beginnings. The only people who knew were Mahawa, Sila and his children, and of course Colonel’s group, even though they didn’t come to say goodbye. They didn’t like such things. Mahawa and Sila and his children did come, though, to say their goodbyes.
“Actually, I came by to have one of your meals one last time so I at least have a memory of how good food should taste,” Sila said, laughing along with everyone. Kula hugged him and his children, who had tears in their eyes. Mahawa was sobbing, her lips shaking. She held Miata’s hand, both of them sitting on a mat on the ground outside. Tornya was asleep on the mat.
“Please don’t forget us,” Mahawa finally managed to say.
“I will not, my sister.” Miata squeezed her hands.
“Oumu, my child, come sit here with me for a bit.” Mama Kadie extended her hand. Oumu went to sit on the bench next to the elder and soon the two of them were so deeply engaged in a conversation it was as if the others present didn’t exist.
“I have a last story to tell you and you will know when you need to tell it,” Mama Kadie said, and for five minutes or more she whispered earnestly into Oumu’s ear. The little girl stared straight ahead into the night until gradually, as the story came to an end, a smile emerged. She then turned her eyes to Mama Kadie’s face and thanked her without words. She laid her head on the old woman’s lap and let her tears run onto the elder’s wrapper.
“There shouldn’t be sadness in our parting, my child. You have my words within your spirit and so we will always be together.” She touched Oumu’s cheeks and waited until her tears had passed before she released her and spoke to the rest of the family.
All the ceremonial goodbyes were done at night so that in the morning no one would see such deliberations and suspect what was happening. Mama Kadie and Pa Kainesi touched the heads of everyone, passing on their blessings before they went to pretend to sleep. When those you love were leaving you, even for good reasons, sometimes sleep would not visit.
On the morning of their departure, it rained, just sprinkles. They waited in the last blanket of darkness for the transport vehicle to arrive, which showed up even later than the normally expected lateness. But things mostly happen at the appointed time, even when we think they do not.
13
THE ROAD TO THE CITY was still covered with the residue of night when the Bedford truck left Imperi. It was slightly better than the “Get You There” that Bockarie had taken to Kono. The Bedford wound its way through the dams, the driver honking every so often to alert other drivers to the presence of his vehicle, as its headlights were barely as bright as an old flashlight.
About ten minutes into the journey, they nearly had two accidents. The first came about because a sharp turn had been constructed the night before and the sign to turn left came into view only when the driver was faced with a pile of iron pipes and machines parked at the edge of the dam. He applied the brakes, which grumbled with a terrible sound, to slow down enough to just make the turn. The passengers fell on one another this way and that. Everyone was now properly awake.
“This road changes so often that I am never sure where I will end up,” the driver said, laughing. Turning back to the passengers, he went on, “Now that you are all awake, I will collect the fare while we are all still alive.” He signaled for his apprentice, who went around and collected the money.
“Why the rush, and what good will the cash be in your pocket if we don’t make it?” an old man asked, carefully separating his money so that he gave the most wrinkled notes to the apprentice. “These are almost dead. They need to be used perhaps one last time.” He smiled at the young fellow, who carefully smoothed and folded them. “Answer my question, Mr. Driver.” The old man turned his body sideways toward the front of the vehicle.
“This way,” said the driver, “I will die with money in my pocket, and I may be able to bribe some angels to let me into heaven for a bit. If you pay now, I may be able to afford an hour or several days in heaven!” The driver laughed and honked. The passengers laughed as well.
As soon as Bockarie handed over the money for his entire family, the vehicle swerved and its back tire got stuck in the dam. A truck with one headlight almost crashed into them. The driver couldn’t tell where the rest of the truck’s body was on the road. The passengers got off and helped push it back on track.
“Driver, you should pay us for helping you push your vehicle,” someone said.
“I just saved your lives by avoiding that accident, so consider that your payment.” He jumped in and restarted the engine.
The journey was long. Whenever they went down a hill, the driver would turn of
f the engine to save petrol. The children’s favorite parts were the stops where people would crowd the vehicle on both sides, shouting out what they were selling. Perched groundnut. Bread. Soft drinks. Biscuits. Cold water … Their father bought them a few sweets at such stops. As they left the interior of the country and came closer to the capital, the road got better in the sense that the driver could at least drive on his side of the road for a period of time. Also, there were now more vehicles and some had white people in them and insignias that proclaimed they were SAVING PEOPLE IN THIS LAND. These vehicles with only three people in most of them overtook the crowded passenger ones with overwhelming speed.
“Please tell them to slow down and save some of us from this wretched vehicle. Then again, at that speed, they may not reach whoever they are going to save!” the old man who had spoken earlier said to Bockarie.
“I have never seen these organizations in my part of the country,” Bockarie said, scratching his head.
“Let me guess. You have no good roads that lead to your town and no electricity.” The old man nodded, clearly indicating that Bockarie needn’t answer such an obvious question.
“You must only save those you can get to with some comfort. I am an old man so the truth doesn’t sit inside me anymore!” He howled with laughter, and just then another one of those vehicles zoomed by.
Small kiosks selling all sorts of items began appearing on the sides of the road. On the pavement, especially wherever there was some light, a horde of young people sat with their feet on the tar road. Some stood around, others ran up and down the street looking for something that wasn’t obvious. It was approaching evening and Thomas and Oumu were getting exhausted.
“We are almost there, Kula,” Bockarie said to his wife, whose eyes had posed the question. None of them, except Bockarie, had been to the capital city. Manawah was excited, though a bit nervous about how he would fit in with all those city boys. He was looking forward to all he could discover without the restrictions of a small town where everyone knew you. His younger siblings, Miata and Abu, felt the same about the freedom. Miata, however, was worried about whether her old dresses and skirts would attract the young men, but of even greater concern was that her parents might relegate her to house chores and looking after Thomas and Oumu, as they both planned to seek employment. Abu had no worries, only a plan to search for the nearest football pitch to play every evening. He thought perhaps he’d join a junior football league, too. The parents and three older siblings harbored their anxieties, as well. Bockarie at some point had the thought that he and his family might be too late to find any luck in the city. It seemed if there was good fortune to be had, it would have been grabbed long ago by one of these people walking on the road with determined faces.
The vehicle began to slow down and it turned off the main road into a smaller dirt drive that had more potholes than the countryside. For an instant Kula thought they had returned to the roads that led to Imperi. The driver turned off the engine and a cloud of smoke shot out, making all the passengers cough. The driver ran to the front with a jerry can of water, opened the hood, and poured the water in the engine.
“We are here. This is the last stop,” the driver shouted, his head under the hood. The apprentice went through the loads that had been tied on top of the truck and found Bockarie’s, tossing the bags, one after the other. More vehicles began arriving at the park, from various parts of the country.
Bockarie and his family stood by and waited for Benjamin’s uncle, who was supposed to meet them. The place was so crowded it was hard to know where to look. People were going about their business; traders were selling their commodities. Thomas and Oumu came awake with the energy emanating from the boisterous crowd.
“Mother, can we buy some balloons?” Thomas pointed to the fellow who was blowing them up and making figures.
“Another time, children,” she said, holding tightly to the hands of her small ones. Bockarie paced around their luggage, thinking this might have been a mistake. What if the man they were supposed to meet didn’t show up? He, Bockarie, had no other plans.
Oumu saw someone across the street who looked like Colonel. She rubbed her eyes to be sure. He smiled and put his hands on his lips for her not to say anything to her parents, whose attention she was trying to get. Colonel put his hat back on and disappeared in the crowd. He didn’t go far. He was near enough to watch the family; he wanted to know where they would be staying. Oumu’s eyes searched for him, but she gave up after a while.
“Mister, don’t look so nervous. Have a seat here with your family.” One of the traders offered Bockarie and his family a bench. He called a young boy to bring them bottles of cold water and Coca-Cola for the children. Bockarie wanted to say that he didn’t have money for these things, but the man, as if reading Bockarie’s mind, said, “You are my guest until whoever you are waiting for arrives. Do not worry. And don’t thank me; this is what decent people should do for one another. This is how we are and how we all used to be.” He smiled and went back to his business bargaining with a customer.
The family drank quietly, observing the unceasing movement of people. A man went by carrying six bags of rice, fifty kilograms each, stacked on top of one another. “How can his neck withstand that?” Kula asked out loud, as the man stopped a few stalls from them and added even more bags on top of what he was carrying. Their eyes left him at the junction, where he turned off and a group of young women emerged, walking with an ease that was contrary to the rhythm of the crowd at this vehicle stop. A young fellow who was passing the group retraced his steps and tried talking to one of the young women. Their exchange caught the attention of Manawah and Miata more than everyone else. They wanted to immediately start learning the young parlance of the city.
The man said, “Baby girl, ah lek u bo. Ah want for tell you sontin wae ah nor want for leh no wan yeri” (Young woman, I like you and I want to tell you something that I do not want anyone else to hear).
The girl smiled while pretending to ignore him. She was coming from a school function with her friends, and they proudly wore hats from one of the popular secondary schools for girls.
“I don’t have time for idle boys.” She deliberately responded in English either to intimidate or to discourage the young man. She continued on with her friends. The fellow walked faster and slowed down next to her.
“I am a man of words myself and right now my words are looking to please your ears if you will grant me that pleasure, sweet rose of my day.” He managed to impress her with the sentence—but it wasn’t enough.
“You are not M3 material so I don’t want you,” she told the young man, who was now trying to hold her hand. Her friends laughed, smacking their lips with bubble gum. The young man was ashamed but not defeated; something in his eyes said he would try again. He walked backward, and each time any of the girls turned around, he would wave to them.
“In the old days, all you needed was a ripe washed mango to court a girl. Nowadays, they want M3—mobile, money, and motor vehicle. You have to have at least one of these, or the appearance of it, to be eligible for a longer conversation with most girls and women.” The man who spoke, as the family sat laughing, introduced himself as Mr. Saquee, Benjamin’s uncle. He was tall with a face that was constantly jovial, almost beyond his control.
“Welcome to Freetown! It isn’t as free as it used to be, but it is our freedom land nonetheless!” He took a packet of mints and handed some notes to the kind trader.
“Thank you, Mamadou,” he said as he received his change. He then shook hands with Bockarie and acknowledged everyone before offering to carry a bag or two. Abu took the hands of Thomas and Oumu, and the rest of the family carried the remaining bags. They didn’t have much in them; it was a hopeful gesture to arrive with big empty suitcases. “One has to be hopeful in every aspect of your life—your stride, your smile, and laugh when you can find it, even in your breath, to be able to live in Freetown.” These were the last words Bockarie’s
father had whispered to him. Bockarie still felt his warm morning breath in his ears.
They followed Mr. Saquee, all of their eyes glued to him so they wouldn’t lose him. Maybe it was a family trait, as he walked as fast as Benjamin had, even with his age. Kula was next to him and Bockarie kept up the rear, with the children in between. Colonel followed at a good enough distance that even Oumu couldn’t detect him.
There were many things their eyes wanted to feast on, but Mr. Saquee’s pace denied them most of it as they hurried between the rows of houses made entirely out of corrugated iron, not just the roofs. There was a remarkable liveliness among these congested houses. It seemed that wherever possible, men and women, girls and boys, returned every night to celebrate whatever little the day had given them. They did so with the vigor of music blaring from their unlivable homes, in passionate conversations about football matches and, inevitably, about politics.
This isn’t Imperi. There may be possibilities here, Bockarie thought to himself.
They arrived at a cement house that stood at the edge of the town of tin shack houses—pan bodi, as they’re called—and the rest of the city. Mr. Saquee showed them the single room he would offer them for free for a month. Other arrangements would be made after the month had passed. His wife brought them some food and water, and after the meal, the children and their mother went to sleep. She took the only bed in the room; the two girls, Miata and Oumu, slept on a mat at the foot of the bed in the small space between the bed and the wall. Manawah, Abu, and Thomas also slept on the floor near the door, which had to be opened carefully at night to avoid hitting the head of whoever lay closest to it.
Their father went to sit on the veranda with Mr. Saquee to thank him for welcoming them and also to get directions for the appointment he had the next day for an interview to teach summer school. He had gotten a contact from one of his old teacher friends at Imperi and had called ahead of time.