It doesn’t work.
We trundle into the clearing, Moussa and the girl in the lead. Ahead of us is the long, low sleeping hut, with the water pump off to its side. To our right is the large, clear area with the drying platforms for the seeds. To our left are the toolshed and the storage lean-to. Because we’re all carrying bags that need to be stacked against it, we turn and walk there. I feel damp and chilled across my neck and on my upper arms. My skin prickles with waiting.
When it’s my turn, I hand my sack to Ismail, the youngest of the brothers, who hefts it in his hands for a moment and scrunches up his long, skinny face, considering. Ismail is the one who decides every day whether or not we’ve made quota. He makes his decision based on how much he thinks the bag weighs and a quick look inside. It really bothers me that he never counts the pods, because even on days I come in high, I’m still never sure if I’ll have enough.
“Ayi,” he tells me, no. Not a surprise since I handed him a near-empty sack. I’m in trouble anyway and making quota wouldn’t have helped me out of it, so I poured most of my sack into Seydou’s while we waited in line.
I go to stand in the middle of the clearing near the fire pit with the one other boy who didn’t reach quota today. Everyone else begins to make dinner. Moussa is talking with his brothers, still holding on to the tied girl. My only comfort is seeing Seydou join the group of boys who made quota. But knowing that I have to take his punishment for him, again, makes it a small victory, laced with resentment.
“How close were you?” asks a voice at my elbow.
I turn in surprise, then shrug. The other boy who didn’t make quota is Modibo, a skinny boy with a big head but not nearly enough brains to fill it. He hasn’t been here very long, and he’s not learning quickly enough what he has to do to survive. He’s sloppy with a machete and reckless with pesticides. He gets hit nearly every day, though he’s too stupid to do anything big enough to get beaten very badly. He needs to learn fast, though, or the bosses will get frustrated with him. Then, who knows how much he’ll be hurt.
“Not close,” I say in a tone that I hope ends the conversation.
Waiting for a beating is almost as bad as the beating itself. Having to stand still and see it coming nearly drives me insane every time it happens. I think the bosses do it on purpose. It’s twice the punishment and it gives all the other boys time to look at us sideways and decide to work harder tomorrow.
The bosses finally finish talking. Moussa hands the girl to Ismail, and picks up a large stick. He walks toward us, holding it loosely in his hand. Beside me, Modibo has started to whimper. I don’t let myself shrink away. For all my bravery around Seydou, though, I hate to get beaten.
Stay strong! I tell myself. But it’s no good. Once he lays into me with the stick, and fear turns into pain, I lose my resolve. He’s going out of his way to show the girl how bad it will be. By the time he’s finished I’m sobbing and begging him to stop, cowering on the ground. I hate that the others can hear me, can see me, but I can’t help myself.
Finally, he’s done.
“Let that be a lesson to you,” says Moussa, and he turns to deal with Modibo, hitting more softly now that most of his frustration is out. He leaves the girl till last. When it’s her turn, she shrieks and lurches, but Ismail holds his end of the rope, and she can’t get away.
The beating she gets is bad, but not as bad as the one when we tried to escape. I gingerly pull myself into a sitting position. He must be going easy on her because she’s a girl. I wonder again how she ended up here. Her family must have sold her against her will for her to be fighting this hard to get away so quickly. But then my curiosity leaks out of me. It hurts to think.
I draw my knees to my chest and tuck my head, moving slowly, trying not to pull at the long, open welts across my back and shoulders. I let myself cry because I can’t help it. Besides, tears are like pus in a wound: either you get them out quickly or they fester and make you sick and weak. My tears dribble across my bare knees, leaving tracks in the dirt that has caked on me from scrabbling on the ground.
Let it out. Tomorrow you’ll need to be strong again. I tell this to myself over and over, like a lullaby. I give myself until Moussa’s finished with the others to be weak, then I make myself stop. I lift my face and rub the wet off, then I gingerly brush the dirt off my clothes and hair. Then, even though it hurts like dying, I straighten and look up.
I’m surprised to see that my team from today is coming over. I wonder why. Yussuf leads the way. Abdraman and Konaté look frightened, but they come anyway, and that’s worth something. Seydou is pale and shaking.
“Amadou, I’m sorry! So, so sorry!”
Annoyance seeps into me through the pain. I’m sick of taking his beatings for him. Tired of taking care of him all the time. It hurts so much, and once, just once, I’d like for someone to take care of me. But that’s never going to happen here. I try to pretend that wish doesn’t exist.
Usually I tell him it’s okay. But right now I’m in too much real pain to care if Seydou’s feelings get hurt or not.
“Next time, don’t be so stupid,” I manage.
Seydou snivels, but Yussuf barks a laugh.
“Well, I see that another beating didn’t improve your personality,” he jokes. “Come on.” He slides his arm under mine and across my chest, where he grabs hands with Abdraman, who has come around on my other side. Bracing off each other, careful not to touch my cuts, they help lift me to my feet and bring me to the circle of boys sitting around the fire.
I’m shocked by the help. Usually no one helps, for fear of making the bosses angry. My beating today really must have been worse than usual. Then again, today I’m being punished for two things, not only for coming in under quota.
I guess I got my wish. For once, others are looking out for me.
“I ni cé,” I murmur. The thanks feel strange in my mouth.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Modibo’s team help him to the fire too. The girl is still tied to Ismail, so no one goes near her. When Ismail comes to sit at the fire, he drags her along with him. She curls into a ball, her back to us. Moussa drops his heavy stick by the water pump to wash off.
“Are you going to be okay?” Seydou asks. “That was bad.”
I nod. It was. And I will be. There is no other choice.
“That stupid Khadija!” Seydou mutters. “I can’t believe I let her trick me!”
Khadija? I’m doubly surprised. First that this wild thing has a name and second that Seydou knows what it is. How long had they been talking this morning before she betrayed him?
I start to shrug, then think better of it when my back screams from the tiny movement. Moussa, finished washing up, joins the far edge of the circle. The reflection of the flames dances in his cold stare. I shudder and look away.
When the soup is ready and the bosses have eaten, the boys surge in to grab bowls.
“No food for the three who got beaten tonight,” Moussa says, as Seydou is about to hand me one.
I try to hide my disappointment. Eating always helps me forget, just for a moment, about everything else. Plus, after a long day I’m always really, really hungry.
“Water?” I ask.
Moussa shakes his head.
Seydou sits beside me, putting his soup to one side.
I slant a glare at him. I want him to suffer like I’m having to suffer for his stupid mistake. I want him to learn, want him to stop doing things that get me in trouble. From beside me I hear his stomach whine.
“Eat,” I order.
He looks at me. He shakes his head.
“No.” He sniffs. “I’m not going to eat when you can’t.”
“Eat.”
Finally, used to being the younger brother, he does as I tell him.
I lean forward, trying to find an angle where everything doesn’t hurt. I do
n’t find one. I look at the ground between my feet and try to pretend I can’t hear Seydou slurping guiltily beside me.
When they’re finished, the bosses sit by the fire, talking and laughing together in low tones, and the boys clean up and prepare everything for the morning. I try to stand but, again, my work crew covers for me. Sometimes the bosses let us help each other out, sometimes they don’t. Tonight no one tells them not to, so when Abdraman says, “We’ve got it,” I sit.
It’s worse to sit than to work, really, because then I have nothing to take my mind off the things I don’t want to think about. How badly everything hurts. The bosses relaxed and content across the fire. The blue-dressed back curled beside them. The yawning black shadow of tomorrow and all the days after it stretching over me.
Finally, it’s time to go to bed. I let Seydou pull me to my feet, sucking in a breath when the movement causes a fresh wave of agony to wash through me. I sway a little, and Seydou keeps me upright while I wait for it to pass. I have no idea how I’m going to work tomorrow. Just the thought of climbing a tree makes me wince.
“Okay, let’s go,” I say to Seydou. I hate that he has to help me instead of the other way around, but even leaning most of my weight on him I can barely walk, so I don’t tell him to go away.
“Ayi.”
Seydou freezes. Slowly I shuffle my feet around and face Moussa.
“You sleep in there tonight.” He points at the toolshed.
I shake my head wearily, not wanting to go. It’s common for them to put kids in there overnight for punishment: it’s small and cramped, full of bad-smelling chemicals, and there are ants that nest between the cracks of the wooden beams.
Moussa walks over and takes my upper arm in his hand and pulls me away from Seydou. My back screams at the jolt, but I don’t pull away from him either.
“But . . .” manages Seydou, before he’s silenced by a glare from Moussa.
“Get in the sleeping hut,” Moussa says to Seydou, then he half drags me into the toolshed and lets go of my arm. Without his support, I crumple to the ground with a groan, still not able to fully support my own weight. I land next to something soft that yanks away from me with a hiss and I realize that they’ve put the girl and Modibo in here too.
Moussa stands there for a moment, framed in the doorway by the purpling light of evening, his face in shadow.
“You allowed her to escape today,” he says, “so you’re being punished. Since I don’t think you’ll be able to keep harvesting tomorrow, I’m putting you on shelling duty until you’re better.”
My brain struggles to process why this is a punishment. I know the reason is there somewhere, but I can’t quite find it.
“Also,” Moussa goes on, “you won’t be allowed in the sleeping hut with the other boys until you’re on your work crew again. Until then, you sleep here.”
Moussa waits. He wants to make sure I really understand. I force my sluggish brain to work. Why is this all so bad? Then it hits me. If I’m locked in here, I won’t be able to look after—
“Seydou . . .” I manage, trying desperately to force my brain to cobble together a sentence.
“Exactly,” says Moussa, and locks the door behind him.
Seydou! In all the time we’ve been here, I’ve rarely slept apart from him, never left him for more than an hour or so as we worked. He’ll never survive a day without me. I want to get up, want to pace and yell, but even the slightest movement hurts and I feel light-headed from not eating.
Gritting my teeth against the pain, I scoot until I’m able to lean sideways against a wall. A sigh of relief escapes me. That’s better. At least now I don’t have the impossible task of holding up my own head.
Weak threads of moonlight struggle through the tiny cracks around the door. Even so, it’s almost completely dark in the toolshed. As my eyes adjust, I become aware again of the other forms hunched against the wall. Modibo and . . . what did Seydou say her name was again?
“Modibo. Khadija?” I try aloud, more to see if I was right in my guess than to really start a conversation.
Modibo is sniffling, clearly not in a mood to talk.
“Go away,” comes the retort from the girl. Her voice slurs as she tries to talk through swollen lips.
For a moment I feel a pang—we’re all locked in here, all hurt. Then I remember that all of this is her fault and my pity turns to rage.
“Go away? Go away?” I snarl. “You’ve pretty much made that impossible, haven’t you? I just got one of the worst beatings of my life and I’m stuck in this stupid, stinking shed instead of being able to sleep comfortably with the other boys, all because of you. You were certainly happy enough to go away this morning.” I choke out a bitter laugh at my joke. “Just trick a little kid and run, huh? Did you even think about the price other people would have to pay for what you did? Well, now you see what that gets you. I hope you’re happy.”
I want to say more, but even that small rant has exhausted me. I turn my face from both of them, each too stupid to see what they’ve done wrong, and try to fall asleep.
I jerk awake in the middle of the night, gasping. My quick movement dislodges some of the ants that were crawling on me as I slept. I brush off the rest of them, then swipe the ground in arcs, checking for snakes, spiders, or anything else that might be within reach of biting me, but there’s nothing. I settle back and wonder what it was that woke me.
I lie there for what feels like a long time, on high alert without knowing why. My noise and movement caused a sudden silence to fall around the toolshed. Slowly the sounds of the bugs in the trees and the machine-gun roaring of the tree frogs picks up where it left off. I feel another ant crawl across my arm, but I ignore it, straining for the sound that woke me. Then I hear it. A faint scratching sound, too rhythmic to be natural. I strain my ears to hear.
Scritch. Scritch.
Scritch. Scritch.
For a few moments I’m baffled. Then I puzzle it out. It’s the girl. I don’t know where she’s found her hope but there she is, in the dark, rubbing her rope-bound hands against the edge of the concrete foot of the shed’s corner post, trying to weaken the thing holding her there. I briefly consider handing her a machete from the far side of the shed. Then I shake my head, brush the bug off my arm, and try to fall back asleep.
4
It hurts too much to sleep more than about an hour at a time, and so I hunch against the wall, dozing between the waves of pain, until daylight seeps through the cracks in the shed door. I know that with the sun my courage will return, and I force myself to straighten so that, when Moussa opens the shed, I’m sitting unsupported.
I see the surprise in his eyes. I take the small victory. I need all the help I can get if I’m going to change his mind.
“Moussa, I want to work on a crew today,” I say.
Behind him the boys are craning their necks to see into the shed as they clean up from breakfast. My stomach whines, but I ignore it, not breaking eye contact with Moussa.
For a moment he stares at me with something that looks like admiration, but then he laughs and pulls a machete from the pile. He hands it to me and points to the edge of the grove.
“Go cut me a piece off the top branch of that tree and I’ll let you,” he says.
Limping, I walk to where he pointed. I can feel the stares of the other boys as they form into their work crews. I rest my fingers for a second against the irregular bark of the tree and take a deep breath. Then I clench the machete in my teeth and reach for the lowest branch.
It’s a good thing I’ve got the blade between my teeth because it keeps me from screaming at the pain that rips through me when I try to pull my body weight up using my arms. I scramble with my feet to get a hold on the trunk, but only about a meter off the ground the muscles in my back give out and I can’t go any higher. Arms trembling, drenched in sweat even from that li
ttle bit of a climb, I rest my forehead against the tree, trying to swallow my frustration before turning around. Then I drop to the ground and limp to Moussa.
“Thought so,” he says. “Let me show you what you’ll be doing instead.” He waves me in the direction of the storage lean-to.
“Seydou!” I call around him. Seydou looks up from where he’s getting ready across the clearing with Yussuf, Abdraman, and Konaté. At least they let him work with the same team as yesterday. I see Modibo shuffling out of the clearing with his work crew too. He must have managed to prove to the bosses that he’s ready to go back to the fields. I scowl. More proof that I got the brunt of Moussa’s anger yesterday. “Be careful today,” I say. “Promise me.”
He nods. “Get better, Amadou.”
I turn back to Moussa. He points again and I walk to the storage area. On the far side of the lean-to a metal ring is sunk in concrete in the ground. Moussa heads into the shed and comes out a moment later, bringing a long chain with the girl attached to one end of it. Just my luck. Modibo is in the fields and I’m left working with that one.
She stumbles along beside him and he lets her fall next to the ring. Next to me. Then he threads the other end of the chain through and reattaches it to her.
I glance at the girl I helped recapture. She’s glaring daggers at me. I look at Moussa. He arches an eyebrow. I realize he has to manage the farm and he can’t have feuds between kids, so he’s going to leave us here, armed, for a day to work it out. If we fight, if we argue, if we do nothing, we will have found a way to be together by the time he gets back. He doesn’t have to be involved, and his problem gets solved.
A distant part of my mind acknowledges the genius behind this plan, even as I now doubly dread my day.
I rub a hand over my face. “So what are we doing?” I ask.
“Good choice, Amadou,” Moussa says. He rolls an empty plastic rain barrel to us, then points to the sacks stacked to the roof of the lean-to. “We’re behind on shelling pods. You and the girl here will work on that. One of the pisteurs should be by any day now, and we need to have the seeds fermented and at least four days dry for him to be willing to take them. Get started.”
The Bitter Side of Sweet Page 3