The Bitter Side of Sweet

by Tara Sullivan

  “Seydou! Seydou!” I wave. It’s unnecessary, really, since he has to bring his sack to the lean-to, but I do it anyway.

  Beside me, Khadija stands too, but she is only a vague shape that I ignore. My eyes are completely fixed on Seydou, who has turned at my call. I shuffle toward him, stiff from a day of sitting, drinking in the sight of him. His little legs are trembling, whether from the weight or exhaustion, I can’t tell, but he’s walking. Before I’m able to offer to help him, Seydou drops his sack with a thump beside the others hemming us in. The rest of the boys line up behind him, each beside his own sack, waiting for Ismail.

  “Hello, Amadou,” he says. The weariness in his voice makes my heart tighten, but I don’t let him see this. “How are you doing?”

  I think about the swollen muscles and broken skin of my back, how the cuts split open again and again because I wouldn’t stop working. How I had to cover up with sackcloth at midday and how it rubbed me raw. I think about how hungry I am and how tired. I look at Seydou.

  “I’m okay,” I say. “How was your day?”

  “I kept up, Amadou,” he says with a weak smile. “I told you I could keep up.”

  “That’s great,” I say. “And you were super careful? You only cut pods the way I taught you?”

  He looks away.

  “I’m fine,” he says, and I know he wasn’t doing it the way I told him to. Although, really, the fact that he kept up with the rest of the team should have told me that already.

  I’m furious with him.

  “No, it’s not fine! You got lucky today, but that’s no reason for you to think you’ll be so lucky again. If I’m not put on crew with you, you do it right tomorrow, do you hear me?”

  The other boys have stopped chatting with each other and have turned to watch us fight.

  Seydou is furious now too.

  “You’re always telling me what to do! Well, today you weren’t there and I was just fine! I kept up, so I don’t want to hear you telling me what I can and can’t do anymore! You treat me like a little kid!”

  “You are a little kid!” I roar.

  Ismail arrives. Seydou grabs his sack and stomps away from me, to where Ismail is hefting the boys’ sacks to check quota. When Ismail tells him he’s made quota, Seydou pointedly turns his back on me and goes to the far side of the fire, plopping on the ground between Yussuf and Modibo. He wraps his arms around his knees and scowls into the flames.

  I haven’t had my work checked yet by the bosses, so I don’t chance following him.

  I stalk to the blue barrel and grip the edge roughly.

  “That went well,” Khadija murmurs dryly.

  “I ka da tugu,” I mumble, rubbing my hand over my face in frustration. But she doesn’t shut up.

  “Do you think they’re going to feed us tonight?” she asks, changing tack.

  My stomach rumbles loudly and I grimace. A few handfuls of cacao seeds aren’t enough for a whole day.

  “I hope so,” I say, and leave it at that.

  Ismail must be in a good mood. Today, everyone makes quota.

  When he’s done hand-weighing the sacks, he and Moussa come lean over my barrel. Our barrel. I know, from having watched our progress creep up the sides hour after hour all day, that it’s slightly more than halfway full.

  “Hmm,” says Moussa.

  I hold my breath. Finally, he turns and looks at me.

  “This is what the two of you have done today?”

  “Awó,” I say.

  “And how many did you eat?” Ismail asks, narrowing his eyes.

  I freeze. How many does he think we’ve been eating? Will he believe me if I say none? I decide to be honest and hope that it won’t earn us both another beating.

  “A couple handfuls each, no more.”

  Moussa and Ismail stare at me for a long time. I don’t blink or glance away. That’s what a boy would do if he were lying or ashamed. I want to show the bosses that I’m neither. Finally, Moussa says, “I believe you. Very well, stay here. I’ll have someone bring you some dinner.” I sag with relief. Moussa turns to Khadija. “And you, wildcat? Have you learned to work calmly instead of acting like a crazy girl?”

  Khadija stares at him, her eyes like river stones. But then she looks down.

  “I did the work,” she answers.

  If Moussa notices that she didn’t actually answer his question, he doesn’t point it out.

  Moussa and Ismail join Salif and the boys by the fire. We stay put. I can hear Khadija’s stomach whining to my right, and my own stomach feels like it has fallen in on itself like the thatch roof of an old house. It’s the hope that has made me hungry, I realize. Without the promise of food, I would have ignored the feeling and gone to sleep. But Moussa’s promise of a hot dinner keeps me awake, leaning forward.

  Finally, after most everyone is done eating, I see Moussa walk to Seydou, a bowl in each hand. For a moment Seydou hesitates, then he takes the bowls from Moussa and brings them to us. With the fire behind him, Seydou’s shadow stretches all the way across the clearing. If I could eat shadows, I would already be full.

  “Here.” Seydou puts a bowl in my hands, then shoves the other at Khadija. I want to say something to get him to do things my way tomorrow, but as soon as the bowls leave his hands, he turns on his heel and stomps back to the fire.

  I sigh. I guess we’re not patching up yet. I promise myself I’ll talk to him if I get the chance tonight.

  “Eat slowly,” I think to tell Khadija before I dig into my dish. “If you eat as quickly as you want to, your stomach won’t know what to do with it and you’ll vomit.” I shouldn’t really have to tell her this. In my village, girls always ate last and were used to not getting enough food. But Khadija is a rich girl who went to school. I would hate to see a bowl of stew go to waste in the dirt just because she’s soft. She doesn’t make eye contact with me, but she pauses between sips, so I know she heard me.

  The first bite of banana I pull out of the stew is hot and slick with oil. It burns my tongue but tastes so, so good. I chew it slowly, not only to show Khadija how to be smart when you’re hungry, but also to make it feel like I’ve eaten more. There are chunks of white meat in the stew tonight. One of the boys must have managed to kill a lizard or a snake. The meat is rubbery but it’s a rare treat to get such a filling meal, so I savor every bite. Too soon, I’m done. I run my tongue around the inside of the bowl, pulling in the last bits of moisture, and then wipe my face with my arm. Beside me I hear the soft clatter as Khadija puts down her empty bowl. She has timed her eating to end exactly with mine. I don’t know why this annoys me, but it does.

  With dinner finished, I look across the clearing to where the other boys and the bosses are. They’re talking in small groups, half of them in shadow and half of them in the light of the fire. Those assigned cleanup are scraping the bowls and the pot with old ashes and placing them to one side. There is a relaxed air to the camp. Soon everyone will be sleeping. No one ever has much energy left after a day in the fields during harvest season.

  I see Khadija rub a finger around inside of the shackle on her ankle. After a day of sweating into it and having the metal rub dirt against her skin, the whole area is swollen and must be sore.

  Moussa comes over to us, jingling the key to the manacles in his hand.

  “Moussa, can I sleep in the hut tonight?” I ask respectfully when he’s close enough that I don’t have to shout. I don’t want to push too hard. I can put up with a second night in the toolshed if I have to and I’m still hoping that, if I’m good, Moussa will let me go with Seydou in the morning. What’s most important is that I’m there for Seydou tomorrow.

  Moussa looks at me for a second, calculating how comfortable I have earned to be.

  “I suppose.”

  “I ni cé,” I say sincerely, heaving myself to my feet.
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br />   “Hmm,” says Moussa.

  “What about me?” It’s Khadija.

  “What about you?” asks Moussa.

  “You’re not going to leave me out here, are you?”

  I’m surprised at her question. It shows, again, just how little she knows about life here. Of course Moussa will let her sleep inside. It’s far too dangerous to sleep outside this close to la brosse. Anyway, why else would Moussa have brought the keys? I sigh and shake my head. This girl has a lot to learn.

  “You’re going to let me sleep inside the shed again, right?” she presses. Though she’s trying to hide it, she sounds frightened. I see Moussa’s face soften slightly.

  “Awó,” he says. “Sit.”

  Khadija collapses on the new stack of bags from today’s harvest and Moussa bends down to release the chain on her leg.

  The thought of not having to sleep away from Seydou in the toolshed again soothes my spirit. I’m so happy that I almost don’t catch the quick gleam of excitement in her eye. In a split second my feeling of peace is gone. My head whips around to look at them just as Moussa turns the key in the lock and the catch springs free. I open my mouth to say something, even though I don’t know what it will be, but no sound makes it out of my mouth before it happens.

  The moment she hears the snick of the lock opening, Khadija rams her knee into Moussa’s face. Moussa, still bent over the lock, takes the impact in his nose. He reels, cursing, and I see blood dripping darkly through his fingers. I take a step forward, my hands outstretched, not sure what to do. But there’s nothing I can do. Quick as a fish, Khadija has kicked free of the open manacle, grabbed one of the machetes we used for shelling, and sprinted away from camp, into the darkness of the trees.

  I’m so stunned by what happened that for a moment I don’t do or say anything. The sight of Moussa struggling to his feet snaps me out of it.

  “I—she—” I stammer.

  Moussa slaps me across the face so hard I fall to the ground. My lip splits open and when I touch my face, my fingers come away wet with a mixture of Moussa’s blood and my own. I scramble to my feet and try to move out of his way, but he grabs me by the arm.

  “Oh no, you don’t!” he growls. Then he bellows for the other bosses as loudly as he can while pinching his nose shut to stem the bleeding. “She’s escaped again! Come help me!”

  The camp explodes into activity. One boss herds Seydou and the rest of the boys into the sleeping hut, which is hastily padlocked, while the other grabs torches, machetes, and ropes. Moussa hits me with his free hand. He has to let go of his nose to do this and blood soaks the front of his shirt. How is this my fault? I think, covering my head.

  Luckily, Moussa doesn’t have much time for me right now: he has a girl to catch. After one last ringing smack, I’m shoved, hard, into the toolshed. Losing my balance, I just have a chance to see Ismail and Salif set off into la brosse, whacking at the bushes and shouting to each other, before Moussa slams the door in my face and locks it.

  After the three bosses’ shouts fade into the distance, a tense silence descends. Well, maybe the silence isn’t all that tense. But I am. My face is still throbbing from where Moussa hit me, the blood from my lip is dripping off my chin into a small puddle between my legs, and I am winched tight inside, like a metal spring, twisted around myself to the point where it is almost impossible to stay still. And yet I am still. Other than the drip, drip of my bleeding, I make no sound. Even my breath is a small, tight thing.

  What will happen when the men get back? Does Moussa really think I helped the girl escape? What will they do to me? I flop, groaning, against the rough wooden wall of the toolshed.

  Somehow, in Moussa’s mind, this is going to be my fault again. I contemplate what it will feel like to get a second beating like the one I got last night. A wave of fury engulfs me. How could she? She must have known that I would be blamed. She must have been thinking about escape for hours, not telling me about it, plotting away as she scooped seeds. Why on earth did I ever trust her? I sit up, clenching my fists, wishing I had someone that I could beat. Wishing that someone was her. Oh, just let me get a chance, Moussa, and you won’t even have to worry about punishing her. I’ll be happy to do it for you. After all the trouble she’s caused me, she deserves it.

  I bang my fist against the ground again and again and the anger flashes out of me through the pain in my knuckles. But when I’m done, I’m sorry I did it. Not only are my knuckles now cracked and bleeding too, but when the anger leaves me, there’s nothing left inside but the smoldering embers of my fear.

  What can I do?

  It is a question without an answer. Or at least, it’s a question without an answer that I like because, I discovered long ago, the answer to that question is nothing. Nothing to help myself, very little to help Seydou. I can’t get us out of here. I can’t do anything that will make this better. The only thing I can do is count, and wait.

  Khadija’s earlier words echo in my head: If you really wanted to do what’s best for him, you’d get him out of here. This girl has no idea what she’s talking about. I remember my first week here in the camp: new, frightened, Seydou crying against me all night long, asking for home, for Moke, asking when we would leave. Me telling him all sorts of pretty lies: At the end of the work season, when we don’t come home, they’ll come looking for us. We’ll be fine. I’ll get you out of here soon. But none of the lies came true. No one looked for us, or at least, no one found us. We are not fine, and I did not get us out of here soon. Now, two years later, it looks like I won’t get us out of here ever.

  I move to the far back of the toolshed and slide along the wall until I’m sitting in the corner. I don’t want to lie all the way down in case that makes me so stiff I can’t get up quickly if I need to. And I don’t really want to be waiting by the door when they get back.

  Because I know they will be back. No one has ever escaped this farm since I’ve been here, and I’m sure that a well-fed girl isn’t going to be the first.

  I think over her attempted escapes so far. If I didn’t have to take care of Seydou, I could take advantage of situations like she does, I know I could. I’d do a better job of slinking through the forest too. And cutting through the chain? If she had strong arm muscles like me, she would have been through before dusk and there would have been no need for the trick that left Moussa with a bloody face.

  But just the thought of leaving Seydou behind makes my stomach clench. I got him into this mess, and I can barely live with myself for that. I’d rather die than also be responsible for leaving him here while I sprint to freedom.

  I sigh and rub my face against my knees.

  How far will she get tonight? Will she make it away entirely? I can’t decide whether I’ll be angrier with her if she escapes successfully or if she’s caught and brought back here. I hope they catch her, I decide. That way they may be too busy beating her to have much energy left to come after me. Although, given how angry Moussa was, the beating she’ll probably get may kill her.

  I’m surprised by the twinge of sadness I feel when I consider her possible death. Of course it’s a shame when someone dies, but she is nothing to me and I am nothing to her, so the feeling of loss comes as a shock. I realize that, although it would be worse for me, a part of me hopes she has gotten away. For whatever reason, for all the trouble she’s caused me, I would rather think that the wildcat was out there somewhere in the world, even if she is mocking me for staying behind with every breath, than to think that she has left it.

  I sit with that strange thought until, against all odds, I drift off to sleep.

  6

  I’m woken later in the night, though I’m not sure how much later, by the men returning to camp. Their rough shouts and the sound of blows are punctuated by the girl’s crying. I lean forward, trying to see with my ears. I hear the scuffle of feet and the lock clicking free on the toolshed,
the creak as the door swings open. The first shaft of light from the torches they took with them darts in through the cracked door and, without even thinking about how pointless it is, I scurry behind the big drums of pesticide in the corner, hiding from them like a child.

  The sudden light when they enter makes the shadows of the barrels behind me leap against the wall. They’re shouting at her, hitting her, furious and frustrated. I can’t see them, and I realize they can’t see me.

  They’ve forgotten about you, whispers a small hopeful voice inside me. They’re so mad at her that they don’t even remember you’re in here. Stay quiet and maybe they won’t find you.

  Their shadows dance above me.

  I hunker down, trying to squash the uncomfortable feeling I get whenever someone else is being beaten. Then I realize that they’re not stopping at beating her.

  I scrabble desperately to find my empty place and sink into it so that I can be somewhere, anywhere but here. I curl into a ball, hiding my face in my knees, and cover my ears with my hands. I can’t see even their shadows now, but try as I might, I can’t block out the sounds. Her cries get more frantic as she fights them, and then, terrifyingly, stop altogether when she gives up. I try not to hear any of it, but my empty place stays just out of reach.

  The sounds of angry men fill the space around us until they know they’ve won and finally go away, locking the door behind them, leaving us in the dark together.

  For a while I sit there, shaking, even though I haven’t been touched.

  She’s no one to you, why do you care? I try to tell myself, but the words are a lie. I try to remember that she betrayed Seydou, that she got me beaten, that I’m in trouble again because all she does is think of herself. Then I hear a rustling as she pulls herself back together and a soft, broken sobbing, and all I can think about is how terrible it is to be alone when you’re hurting. Without actually deciding to do it, I find myself crawling out of my hiding place and through the dark toward her.