by Ishmael Beah
Bockarie pulled the man aside. “What about my pay? I need that money.”
“Didn’t you see that they took all the money that was here? If we do resume, we will owe you a month’s pay.”
Bockarie raised his voice. “What if you don’t resume operations?”
“Then you have had some experience here that you can put on your résumé!” The man laughed and walked off. Some of Bockarie’s colleagues were gathered around a radio listening to a program about the cocaine plane. The argument took hold of the listeners and they, too, started debating. The issue was whether people should care about whether their country was used to bring drugs to Europe and the West. People disagreed on the matter.
“Why should we care about them, their children and families? They didn’t when we had a war and all the arms and ammunition was brought from their borders to us,” one of the debaters on the radio asked. Bockarie didn’t pay much attention to it. He had his own problems, which no one else cared about.
He was supposed to meet Kula at her hotel so they could celebrate by sharing a large bottle of beer. How was he going to explain this to her? He stepped outside and was greeted with a gust of hot wind that he despised. He loved hot weather, but everything had become sour. His children would not eat today again. He walked to meet his wife.
She was waiting for him at the entrance to the hotel, and she was crying. She had been fired because Pascal and the Chinese manager had fallen out and hence anyone he had employed was let go as well without any pay. They held each other, Bockarie remaining stronger for both of them. She was not crying out of weakness but for her children. Their words to explain to each other what had happened were broken, and when they got home, their children heard only a broken story as hunger cut through them and their capacity to listen. All their faces were ravaged with the gathering shadows of hopelessness. Kula’s face was stained with tears that contained the burden of yesterday and they rolled down her face, which had become older and rough with the worries of a broken tomorrow. Night was coming and tomorrow would arrive in one form or another. If anyone had told them that they would look back at this day while having conversations that mended the repetitive brokenness in so many lives, they wouldn’t have believed it.
They had all been sitting quietly for nearly two hours. No one moved much except for Oumu, who was restless because she wanted to ask her father to tell a story but didn’t know if it was appropriate. She thought about moments when she had heard stories from the elders. Something brought the voice of Mama Kadie to Oumu’s mind. “Always press your bare feet to the ground and listen to what the earth says and what it has to give you for the day. She always has something, but you have to listen to receive it,” Mama Kadie had said to Oumu during one of those times when the little girl had sat with her, peppering her with questions, which Mama Kadie had enjoyed because she knew the little girl was ready to receive the stories of the past, the ones that strengthen your backbone when the world whips you and weakens your spirit.
Oumu remembered these words now as her family sat together hungry and silent, the parents avoiding the eyes of their children. She looked at her family. Each person’s head was bowed in defeat, or perhaps that was all they could do. She stood up from the little chair she had been sitting in near the wall by the door. She removed her flip-flops, bent down, picked them up, and placed them on her head. She walked outside and slowly pressed her feet to the ground, walking around the yard a few times before something propelled her feet toward the main road. It was where she had last seen Colonel. He had waved to her and placed his hands on his lips as he had done on the first day she’d arrived in the city. As he had instructed, she hadn’t told the rest of the family that he was nearby.
Perhaps he might have some encouraging words for her, she thought, although she didn’t really know what good that might do. As she walked, she hummed a tune that was sung at the end of a story she’d heard. It was a story about how, if you went to sleep without the story of the night having been told, you would wake up somewhere strange and it would be long before you came back to yourself. She hummed it quietly to herself, keeping it within, rather than letting it into the outside world where it would be drowned out by the noises of those struggling to end another difficult day. She stopped at the edge of the boisterous street where she had arrived and raised her head to look for Colonel.
He had been watching her the entire time, his frame in the darkness.
“Oumu, wait over there,” he called from across the street. “I will come to you.” He looked to see if there were any cars, and then quickly crossed to her, holding a basket of food. He handed it to her without saying anything more, but his eyes said she must take the food home to her family. She smiled, her lips so dry from hunger that they held on to each other, so that her smile was not as wide as the dance of her heart. They stood side by side for a bit, and Oumu gathered some strength and lifted the basket with her small hands to see if she could carry it. She set it back on the earth briefly.
“I will go back now before Mother and Father start to worry about where I am.” She held Colonel’s hand in the way that people much older did when they had more to say than situations permitted, in a way that promised that the conversation would be sweeter and completed the next time around. Colonel crouched down to be at eye level with Oumu. He whispered something in her ear.
“Tell them this when you think it is appropriate to do so,” he said. She nodded, turned around, and walked back to her family, hastening her steps, balancing the flip-flops on her head without even knowing they were there anymore. She entered the silent room where everyone sat still, willing something—anything—to happen. She set the basket down and pulled out some plates, and started dishing rice and potato-leaves sauce with fish. The smell of the meal brought back everyone from wherever they had been. They raised their heads in shock, but with the hunger still in their throats, they were unable to ask where Oumu had gotten the food. She took the hands of her parents and brought them to the meal, then waved for her siblings to come closer and gather around. She passed water in a small bowl so that all could wash their hands before they started eating together.
Kula made sure that the food was not too hot before everyone dug in. They ate ravenously at first, at least the first five handfuls of rice. Another silence ensued, but this time it was followed by sighs of relief as the delicious taste of the rice and the sauce spread in their mouths. They were all sweating because it had been a while since they had had food in abundance.
They ate the rest of the meal more slowly, enjoying every bite as though it was the only time they had ever tasted this simple meal. Oumu stopped eating before anyone else and sat back in her chair licking her hand. Then her parents stopped, followed by Manawah, Miata, and then Abu, leaving more food for Thomas. He ate all that was left and licked the plate clean. Each of them reclined against the wall of the room, forming a circle, their palm-oil-laden hands resting on their knees.
Oumu sensed that her parents would soon ask who had given her the food. “The one who gave me the food told me to tell you that the world is not ending today and that you must cheer up if you want to continue living in it,” she said.
“Who is that?” asked Kula.
“Colonel,” Oumu said.
Bockarie and Kula looked at each other and smiles passed across their faces. Before either of them said anything else, Oumu asked, “Mother, can you tell us a story?”
“I don’t see why not.” Kula sat upright, cleared her throat, and waited for the silence that invited all spirits to such gatherings.
“There were two brothers who decided to leave home and journey to another land. In those days, before one went on a journey, you performed a ceremony of cleansing yourself thoroughly by washing every part of your body and your heart. Therefore, on the day of the journey, the brothers went to the river and began washing themselves. They took out their hearts, cleaned them, and laid them on a rock to dry a bit as they scrubbed the rest of t
heir bodies. It was believed that by washing one’s heart, particularly before a journey, you allowed yourself to experience that journey purely.
“The brothers were playful and always joked around with each other, so they started playing diving games. Laughter took hold of them, and when they were done washing, they left, forgetting their hearts on the rock by the river. They realized this only after they arrived at the new land and couldn’t find pleasure, understanding, or feeling in the new things that their eyes saw. The older brother touched his chest and realized that his heart wasn’t there. His little brother did the same.
“They picked up their sack and started walking back home as fast as they could. When they reached the river days later, their hearts were still there, but the arrival of day and night had altered them and ants had eaten certain parts. The brothers washed the hearts and put them back in their places, but they could no longer experience things the way they had.”
Kula finished and the silence deepened.
“So they must find a way to repair their broken hearts by relighting the fire that is now dull within them. They should live for that.” Oumu’s voice broke the silence and cleared it away. That is what happens when old wisdom and new wisdom merge, and find room in the young.
It is the end, or maybe the beginning, of another story.
Every story begins and ends with a woman, a mother, a grandmother, a girl, a child,
Every story is a birth …
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The writing of this novel was possible because of the support of family and so many people and places that gave me inspiration, strength, supportive feedback, and just their presence in my life during this journey.
With tremendous gratitude to my wife, Priscillia, who is my muse, and for her insightful feedback, which was valuable in sharpening my imagination to develop and reintroduce some of the characters in this book. Thank you, my love; you are my radiance of today and tomorrow. I am indebted to my grandmother, Mamie Kpana, for her wisdom, which she inserted into my memory and spirit as a child and until now. She is my philosopher of life and the inspiration behind one of the major characters of this novel. Bi se kaka mama! My mother, Laura Simms, whose unwavering encouragement, experience, and love for storytelling and writing continues to reignite my passion to write. For my other mother, Sarah Hoveyda (or as some would understand it, my mother-in-law), whose joy and enjoyment of every moment always grounds me and reminds me of simplicity and the beauty of it: . Thank you to my cousin Aminata; her husband, Khamis (Mohamed); and my niece, Mariam, and nephews Reyhan Kamil and Ayaan Kamal for your mannerisms and languages that return me to the past, when I was a boy in my village, in my home. To my family in New Caledonia, my sister, Nadia; my brother, François; and my nephew Madiba, merci beaucoup for the happiness you brought me because of your presence during the long quiet hours of editing this novel in Brooklyn, New York. Madiba, happy man, you were four months old but your laughter was medicine. Thank you for sometimes kicking my computer closed to remind me that I needed a break and to look out the window with you and discover the world outside through your eyes and laugh with you.
To Sumaili, JV, Prince, and Valentin, for your questions, curiosity, conversations, your strength, love, and happiness you brought to me during the times we sat outside on the veranda in Bangui, Central African Republic, as I edited and you had your English lessons. These moments certainly played a part in how I wrote.
I have written this novel in my country, Sierra Leone, in Central African Republic, in Italy, France, and the United States. My gratitude, as always, to my homeland, to my people for shaping my purpose for writing and for the remarkable dose of inspiration. I am grateful to the Civitella Ranieri Foundation for granting me a fellowship in 2011 that gave me the space, time, and isolation I needed to begin putting together this novel. It was a blessing to be in Umbria, Italy, at such a magnificent location that gave my imagination fresher wings. In addition thank you to all the staff in New York and in Italy, and to my fellow artists I was in residence with.
My thank-you to the people of Central African Republic, to the city of Bangui, where I finished the novel and was inspired daily by the strength and resilience of those I encountered, and especially to the children who left an indelible impression on me of what it means to be human anywhere and at any time.
Ira Silverberg, I am forever grateful to you for introducing me to the world of publishing. Thank you, thank you.
I am extremely lucky to have an editor like Sarah Crichton, who is rare. As always, it is extraordinary and a pleasure working with you, and I am looking forward to more. Thank you all at Farrar, Straus and Giroux. I truly feel part of the family.
And last, thank you so very much to my agent, Philippa Brophy at Sterling Lord Literistic, for your trust in my vision and always looking out for my well-being, and also to Julia Kardon for always answering my many questions and for your patience and professionalism.
ALSO BY ISHMAEL BEAH
A Long Way Gone
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ishmael Beah was born in Sierra Leone in 1980. He came to the United States when he was seventeen and studied political science at Oberlin College, graduating in 2004. His first book, A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier, was a number-one New York Times bestseller and has been published in more than forty languages. Time magazine named it one of their Top 10 Nonfiction Books of 2007. Beah is a UNICEF Ambassador and Advocate for Children Affected by War; a member of the Human Rights Watch Children’s Rights Advisory Committee; an advisory board member of the Center for the Study of Youth & Political Violence at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville; a former visiting scholar at the Center for International Conflict Resolution at Columbia University; a senior research fellow at the Center for the Study of Genocide and Human Rights at Rutgers University; cofounder of the Network of Young People Affected by War (NYPAW); and president of the Ishmael Beah Foundation. He has spoken before the United Nations, the Council on Foreign Relations, and many panels on the effects of war on children. He lives with his wife in New York City. You can follow him on Twitter at @IshmaelBeah.
SARAH CRICHTON BOOKS
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
18 West 18th Street, New York 10011
Copyright © 2014 by Ishmael Beah
All rights reserved
First edition, 2014
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Beah, Ishmael, 1980–
Radiance of tomorrow: a novel / Ishmael Beah.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-374-24602-0 (hardback) — ISBN 978-0-374-70943-3 (ebook)
1. Villages—Sierra Leone—Fiction. 2. Sierra Leone—History—Civil War, 1991–2002—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.E2417 R33 2014
813'.6—dc23
2013036856
www.fsgbooks.com
www.twitter.com/fsgbooks • www.facebook.com/fsgbooks
eISBN 9780374709433