“Maybe she is,” I say slowly, “but she also spent a whole day taking care of you after you got hurt when you were really sick and Moussa wouldn’t let me stay with you . . . even though she was hurt too.” It doesn’t even come close to covering what she must have gone through in that hot, stinking hut with a raving Seydou so soon after what they did to her, but I leave it at that. “And then, instead of running when she had the chance, she came to the bosses’ house with me and helped me get you out of there. In fact, the only reason she’s caught right now is because she jumped on Moussa to stop him from catching us.”
Seydou considers this for a moment. Then he leans against my chest again.
“What about the other boys?” he asks. “Are you going to help them escape too?”
I stare at the round top of his head in silence for a moment. It would never even have occurred to me to try to get the other boys out. How on earth would I get that many people away? Walking through the bush without leaving a trail would be impossible. It would be as good as paving a road for the bosses to come and catch us. I don’t even know if we could trust most of them not to turn us in. Plus, if there were no boys here to work at all, then the bosses would have nothing better to do than chase after us, making it all the more likely that we’d be caught. But I don’t have time to argue all that out with Seydou, so I just put my mouth near his ear again and say, “No, I’m not. Now stop talking.”
Seydou glares at me with a rage I think is ridiculous. We’ve never been that close to the other boys. I ease away from him and scramble up the tree to look at the camp again. I see Moussa and the pisteur come out of the open door of the sleeping hut, shaking hands. The pisteur, a big man with a round head and wide shoulders, hands Moussa a thick wad of bills. Moussa is smiling openly. He looks relaxed and content. My eyes flick to the toolshed, locked, even on a loading day. I look more closely. The boards are even again, our hole patched, and I see the edge of the toolbox pushed under a bush nearby. There can be only one reason the tools are not in the shed and the shed is locked.
I slide down the tree, furious at the world, and flop in the uneven leaf litter next to Seydou.
“They got her,” I hear myself whisper. Bile rises in my mouth. Yes, the bosses are all smiles now, but I have some idea what they’ll do to her once they’re finished with more important business.
“What are you going to do?” asks Seydou. He’s still angry at me, but he’s never been one to hold a grudge or wish a beating on anyone. I look at him for a moment. Even hurt, even annoyed, he expects me to be able to fix things.
“I’m going to set the farm on fire,” I say, and push myself slowly to my feet.
I half carry a stumbling Seydou down the hill, until we’re out of sight in the forest near the toolshed.
“You have to stay very quiet now,” I whisper in his ear. “You can’t cry again like you did on the hill or they’ll hear you and come get you. Do you understand?”
I hate to see the look of fear darkening his eyes, but at least I know he’ll be quiet. I put a hand on his back and give it a little rub.
“Okay, I’m going to set a fire somewhere to distract everyone and then let Khadija out,” I say. “You’ll be okay here?”
He frowns, but eventually nods.
I slink to the edge of the camp. The bosses seem to be finishing their business with the pisteur, and the boys are milling around. Too many eyes. I consider setting the far groves on fire, but the leaves around my feet are heavy and damp. A fire there would be difficult to light and easy to put out.
I drum my fingers against the tree in front of me, considering. Other than for work, I can’t think of any time the bosses leave the clearing except to go to their house to sleep . . .
Their house.
And with that thought, I’m off, loping through the bush at the edges of the camp like a soundless shadow, heading for the bosses’ house. I make it there in record time. Not able to believe what I’m doing, I light their little propane burner with the matches on the counter. Fingers shaking, I turn the flame up as high as it will go, and then I drag the three mattresses from their bedrooms and lean them so that they’re over the flame. The fibers curl away from the heat, blackening, and a horrible smell fills the house. When I see orange flames licking the stuffing, I leave. On my way out the door, I grab a shirt for Seydou, and the rest of the packet of matches. Hands shaking, I tuck the bosses’ wadded shirt into my belt and put the book of matches in my pocket. Then, ducking under the billowing black smoke filling the house, I race off again into the bush.
By the time I’ve made it to where I left Seydou, the pillar of black smoke has caught the attention of the people in the clearing. For a moment I pause to appreciate the sight of the bosses panicking, herding the boys into the sleeping hut and running with the pisteur in the direction of the smoke, but then I snap to attention. Time has just gotten more important.
“I’ll be back,” I tell him again. “Stay quiet and be careful.” Then I’m sprinting to the bush where I saw the toolbox.
I pause there, panting, my heart racing as if I have been running for kilometers. Though my gut is screaming at me to go, go, go! I slow and take one last look around to make sure no one’s sitting at the edges of the camp. I examine every corner and look extra carefully at the pisteur’s truck. Everything seems deserted.
I open the toolbox and pull out a hammer. Every nail that I pull out of the boards makes a terrible groaning sound and I grimace at the amount of noise I’m making. But I don’t stop until enough of them are loose for me to crawl inside.
I hope I’m right, I think briefly.
“Khadija?” I call softly.
When there’s no response, I make my way to the front of the shed. She’s lying beyond the light from the hole I’ve created and she’s not answering. I crawl carefully over to her and roll her toward me. New swelling is disfiguring her face. I touch her cheek gently, then remind myself that there will be time to worry about her once we’re gone. I turn and root around in the shadows until I find a machete. Then I saw through the ropes binding her legs. The rope frays apart and I untangle the ends. Legs matter more than arms when you’re running, so I do them first. But then I get to work on her arms and hands. I tell myself it’s because I might need her to do something as we run but really it’s because I just can’t stand to see anyone tied up anymore. When I’m halfway done, she stiffens under my fingers.
“Khadija,” I whisper. “It’s okay. It’s me, Amadou.”
“Amadou? You came back?” Her voice is a cracked whisper, but I smile to hear it anyway.
“Awó,” I say. “Now keep quiet until I get you out.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I feel the tension go out of the muscles in her arms. I untie her hands and then, before stepping away, give her fingers a quick squeeze of reassurance. She struggles to her feet.
As we shuffle though the shed, I take one more look at all the things that have made up my life on the farm for the past two years: tools for cutting, tools for pruning; oil for motors, oil for cooking; chains for machines, chains for people. I only realize I’ve been chewing on my lip when I taste blood. I stop.
Machete. Rope. Poison. Chain.
Anger curls in my stomach. I want to make them all vanish. The faded label on the side of the fertilizer drum with the picture of flames on it flutters. Even though we don’t need a second fire, I decide we’re going to have one.
“Get into the woods,” I whisper to Khadija. “Seydou’s there.” I give her a gentle push, and reach through the hole for the toolbox. When I’ve found a screwdriver I head over to the giant metal drums. I center the screwdriver on the picture of the flames and pound it into the drum with the base of my machete. Then I pull the screwdriver out and do it again. And again. I throw the screwdriver into the spreading puddle that’s leaking out of the punctured drum, and uncap the cooking oil and t
he machine oil and pour them onto the whole mess.
The fumes are overwhelming and I cough and pull the collar of my shirt over my nose. It doesn’t really filter out that much, but it makes me feel better about what I’m breathing. I crawl out through the hole, machete clenched in my hand, and, fingers shaking, pull out the matches.
When the first little red head scratches to life, I rip a sleeve off of the shirt I took from the bosses’ house and use the match to light it. Then I toss the tiny fireball into the mess of poison and oil I’ve made and peer in the hole after it as it lands with a splash in the puddle on the floor. For a second, nothing happens and then, with a whoosh, the air around the drums catches fire. The flames, unnaturally bright, flare toward me. Plumes of dark smoke billow out the hole in the wall. I scramble away as fast as I can.
The heat at my back pushes me past the edge of the forest, where Khadija is watching, mouth hanging open. I grab her elbow and steer her through the bush to the place I left Seydou. But when we get to the clearing, he’s not there.
Panic floods me and I start to hunt furiously through the bushes.
“Seydou!” I whisper-shout. “Seydou!” Khadija stands a little way off to the side, rocking slightly on her feet, looking around the area with an unfocused look. Her oval face is lumpy with swelling and her braids are frayed so badly that stray twists of hair surround her like a furry halo. I whip from side to side, looking for tracks, but we’ve chewed up the area so much with all our moving about that there’s no clear trail. My frustration gets the better of me.
“Why aren’t you helping me look?” I bark at Khadija.
“Because I just found him,” she says softly.
Her answer pulls me up short. I wasn’t expecting that.
“Where?”
Khadija raises a hand and points through the trees, into the camp. I follow her finger and curse roundly. Because Seydou is not looking for me, not waiting for me. Seydou is not being quiet or careful like I told him to. With only one arm, Seydou is standing in the middle of the clearing, for anyone to see, pounding away at the door of the sleeping hut with a shovel, trying to let the other boys out.
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Dammit!” I level one savage kick of frustration at the nearest tree trunk and then I grab Khadija by the hand and we race into the clearing. No point in hiding now. Our only hope is to get Seydou into the bush before anyone catches us. I could strangle myself for giving in to the urge to light that second fire. The smoke will bring the bosses back sooner. The odds of our escaping are getting smaller and smaller by the second. I curse myself, curse my brother, curse this whole misbegotten day, and wish like crazy that I could start again and do things differently.
“Seydou!” I shout. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” With all the racket he’s made with the shovel, and the noise from inside the hut, I don’t even care that I’m shouting.
Seydou looks at me, his eyes shining with fever and tears, sweat leaving tracks in the dirt on his face.
“You said we wouldn’t . . . you wouldn’t . . . save them . . .” He’s crying now, sobbing the words out between labored breaths. He’s barely able to muster the strength to lift the shovel off the ground. He swings it weakly in his one remaining hand. The shovel makes a pitiful thump when it slides into the door. “But I’m not going to leave them here, Amadou. We can’t leave them here!”
I want to slap him to his senses. How are we to escape if we waste time like this? But I can see the rebellion in Seydou’s face and I realize that there is a quick way and a slow way to get him away from that door. And though it goes against all my better judgment, the quick way is to let him win.
When I grab the shovel from him, Seydou cries out, thinking I’m going to make him leave, but instead I drop my machete, push him to the side, and heft the shovel. I catch Khadija’s eyes. She wraps her arms around Seydou, pulling him from me. He struggles weakly against her, but she’s bigger than him and she doesn’t let go. I glare at the rusted padlock. It whispers to me of all the nights I spent in that hut, heard the click of the lock, and despaired. All the anger of the day, all the frustration, all the fear: I put them into my swing, using my whole body to bring the blade of the shovel onto the lock. With a ripping of wood, the screws that hold the latch in place are yanked out. The padlock, still shut tight, falls harmless at my feet and the door swings open. Inside I meet the stunned eyes of twelve boys. They take in the curls of smoke drifting over the hill, Khadija with her arms wrapped around Seydou to my right, and me, with a shovel on my shoulder, standing in the swinging door with its ruined lock, the toolshed a blazing pyre behind me.
Yussuf steps forward, his huge eyebrows raised comically on his skinny face.
“This is the best chance you’ll ever get to run,” I say, dropping the shovel at his feet and retrieving my machete. “Do whatever you want, but don’t follow us.”
And with that, I scoop Seydou into my arms, grab Khadija by the hand, and run from the clearing as fast as I can.
We make it past the first line of trees before I look back. The camp is in chaos. A few boys are already disappearing into the bush, each in a different direction. Others seem to have decided not to run and they’re sitting in the doorway to the sleeping hut, staring at the burning ruin of the toolshed, looking lost without the lock. Yussuf stands in the middle of the clearing, giving orders to a small band of boys to collect the things they will need. I meet his eyes once more and he nods: thanks. I feel a strange stretching in my cheeks and realize that I’m smiling. I nod back, wishing him luck, and then turn into the bush with my little family, and vanish.
Since the bosses are still at their house, I let us walk along the piste leading away from the camp for about ten minutes. I’m stumbling from sheer exhaustion, Khadija is injured, and, after his exertions with the shovel, Seydou is barely conscious. Right now none of us have the energy to fight our way through the bush, but when I look over the treetops and see that there is only one plume of smoke, I make us leave the road. The going is terribly difficult, and soon we have to walk with Seydou slung between us. Half an hour later, Khadija stops and rubs her back.
“Amadou? Can we take a break?” she asks. It’s the first time she’s complained.
“No,” I say, sighing. I pull the almost-empty water bottle out of my pocket and hand it to her. “Here, drink this. It might help.”
She looks crushed, but she takes the water from me without a word. She drinks and I pull Seydou against me so that she only has to move her own weight. We keep walking.
Seydou is getting heavier and heavier in my arms and I have to keep shifting my grip so that I don’t drop him. But as it is, he’s barely dragging himself along beside me, clutching his ruined arm in front of him, so I don’t ask him to walk by himself. After another hour of this we’re tripping and falling every few steps, and even though it still feels far too close to camp to let our guard down, I give in.
“Okay,” I say, “let’s take a quick rest.”
I carefully part the greenery that shoves up against us like living walls and lead us deeper into the bush, smoothing the traces of our passage the best I can. We settle and Seydou slumps onto the damp ground. I groan—it feels so good to let go of him. I’m soaked in sweat from where he’s been leaning against me. I didn’t realize how hot he was. He must be feverish again. It’s too depressing to think about.
I untie the shirt I stole from the bosses’ house from around my waist and pull it over Seydou’s head. I have no idea what the bosses did with his shirt when they took him to their house. After it had been used as a bandage for so many days, they probably had to burn it. The bosses’ shirt is huge on Seydou and the sleeve I ripped off to start the fire doesn’t line up with his injury, so he has a full arm sticking out of a damaged sleeve and a damaged arm sticking out of the full sleeve. I sigh. He looks ridiculous, but at least he’s got a shirt on now. If nothing else, it co
vers the scars on his back so I don’t have to look at them anymore.
Then I peel off my own shirt and drape it over a low bush to dry and let the air wash against my skin. Seydou lies where I left him, eyes closed and slightly sunken, chest heaving in and out inside his oversized shirt with the effort of staying alive. Khadija is pressing her palms to her cheeks to cool her face. She pokes the edge of her skirt into the empty water bottle to gather what little moisture is left in it, then uses the corner to wipe away some of the grime on her face.
I look at the trees around us. The bosses’ farm stretches in the opposite direction, so we’re already past the tended groves, but there are still a few cacao trees scattered around. The birds must have carried some seeds out here. I heave myself to my feet and pull myself to the nearest one that has ripe pods on it. I cut one off, split it open, and bring it to Khadija.
Chewing the seeds is gruesomely familiar, but we need the moisture and the energy. Seydou refuses to eat, glaring at Khadija and breathing shallowly. I look up from trying to force him when Khadija sighs.
“We can’t keep going like this, you know,” she says.
“What?”
“There’s no way we can keep running with you half carrying Seydou and me barely able to keep up. We don’t have any food or water, and if we don’t get far away from camp quickly enough, they’ll catch us.”
I flop onto my back.
“I know. But I don’t know what else to do. We have to keep moving.”
The sparkle in her eyes when she looks at me is a surprise.
“I never said we should stop moving.” She smiles. “I said we should stop moving slowly.”
I’m too tired for these games. I want to sleep for a week.
The Bitter Side of Sweet Page 12