The Bitter Side of Sweet

by Tara Sullivan

  Not wanting to be seen disobeying her command to sleep, I crouch under the window and crab walk my way forward. The cut grass tickles my feet and my calves ache from squatting but I’m almost at the next corner of the house where I can stand again when a snippet of her conversation makes me stop dead in my tracks.

  “. . . awó, tomorrow. If you can’t do it tonight, then you need to get us out of here tomorrow.” I lower myself to the ground and listen. There’s a pause while the person on the other end speaks, then, “Ayi!” Mrs. Kablan quickly catches herself and lowers her voice. “No, my article isn’t finished yet, Alain. But that’s not the point! My daughter was kidnapped, do you understand? And it’s no coincidence that she was dumped in one of those hellhole farms—they knew what I was doing and did that intentionally. Do you have any idea what she went through there? Looking at her and those poor boys she brought with her . . . the little one is missing an arm! No, Alain, no! I can’t finish the article for you. It’s more than another assignment for me as well, but my daughter’s safety has to come first. I just got her back. There’s no way I’m staying here a moment longer than it takes for you to get us visas . . .”

  I feel strangely disconnected from my body as I hear her continue to argue with Alain, whoever he is. Mrs. Kablan is leaving the Ivory Coast.

  Khadija’s going with her.

  We’re not.

  22

  I crouch there, listening, until she’s done with her call and has slumped at the table. Then I sneak around the house and slip in through the door to the front room, where I’m supposed to be asleep.

  For a few minutes I lie there and stare at the ceiling, trying to get my racing heart to slow. Finally, unable to bear it alone anymore, I let myself into Khadija’s room without knocking. Khadija leaps up. I was right. She’s not asleep either. Instead, she is sitting on her bed, rebraiding her hair into tight, straight lines and staring out her window.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Just . . . checking,” she says, sinking back onto the mattress and glancing out. I see that, through her window, she has a clear view of the gate. Fabrice, absent a few minutes ago when I did my lap of the house, is now leaning in the open doorjamb, chatting to Sandrine, who seems to be leaving again, and we can see into the street beyond. There are people passing by and others linger in small groups, having conversations. I scan them all automatically, looking for the nephew, but I don’t see him anywhere. Then again, since I don’t know who else I should be looking for, that one absence is not very comforting.

  “Did you see anything?”

  “No,” she says. Her tone makes me think she doesn’t know what she’s looking for either. “But I still can’t fall asleep.”

  I remember Mrs. Kablan holding Khadija as soon as she got her back, saying, You’re all right. Looking at her now, surrounded by her things, wearing a clean yellow shirt and navy skirt, braiding her hair—even with all that, I can see that she’s not all right. Her eyes are still a little hollow, her smile still a little slow. She pauses before she leaps now, calculating the possible cost. This is not the same Khadija who left this house. Getting home did not make her all right. I wonder whether she will ever be all the way right again. I sigh and push away thoughts of what it will be like to take Seydou home to Mali. It hurts too much to think that, after all this work, there may be some journeys that you just never come all the way home from.

  Khadija rubs her forehead. “I keep feeling like any second someone could come here and take me again.”

  “Well, you won’t need to worry about that for too much longer,” I say, scowling. “You’re going to France tomorrow.”

  “What?” Her hands drop from her hair.

  “I heard your mama talking on the phone to someone and she’s making plans to get out of here.” Khadija gapes. “Plans for two,” I can’t help but add, bile churning in my stomach, “not four.”

  “What?”

  “Is that all you’re going to say?” I snap.

  “I . . . I don’t understand why she wouldn’t tell me . . .”

  “How should I know why she isn’t telling you?” I slump on the end of her bed and sink my head into my hands. “I know why she’s not telling us. She’s no kin to us and doesn’t care about us, but that doesn’t make it any better.” I know I should stop talking but the words keep trickling out. “You said, you promised, that she would help us get home and now Seydou and I are going to be left behind, to fend for ourselves in an Ivorian town we don’t know. I wish I’d never listened to you—I wish we’d never come here with you.” Shut up. “I wish we’d never met you!”

  I finally make myself stop talking.

  A silence puddles around us and I wish I could take back what I said. It’s just all so hard and I’m so, so tired. I finally look up. Khadija is looking at me but her eyes hide whatever she’s feeling.

  “Come on,” she finally says, and gets to her feet.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m done trying to figure out what’s going on by myself.” Face set, she pulls open her door and heads toward the kitchen. I scramble after her. “That didn’t work before. We’re going to go talk to Mama.”

  “Um . . .” I follow her half-braided head. She’s not letting me catch up. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I spare a moment, since I’m already worrying, to worry about Seydou waking up and finding me gone. Other than the few nights on the farm when we were punished with sleeping separately, we’ve never been apart. I don’t want him to wake alone in this strange house and panic.

  “You made sure I got home,” Khadija says. “I’m sure as hell going to do the same for you.” A step ahead of me, Khadija stomps into the kitchen. Her mother whirls around, clicking her phone shut.

  “Khadija,” she says, smiling, not sounding pleased at all. “Amadou. You’re awake. What are you two doing?”

  Khadija’s chin goes up.

  “Trying to figure out why you’re lying to us!”

  For a moment there is silence. Then Mrs. Kablan’s false happiness peels off her face like bark stripped from a tree. The looks she and Khadija exchange make the room crackle like the air before a lightning storm. Now I know where the wildcat got her temper. Then Khadija’s mother looks away. The silent war has ended.

  “I’m not lying to you,” she says softly. “I have never lied to you. I’m only trying to keep you safe.”

  “Well, that didn’t really work either, did it?” whispers Khadija. I’m horrified at her rudeness but her mother crosses the room in three steps and scoops her into her arms.

  “I know, baby, I know. I’m trying to fix it,” she whispers, her ruined fingers stroking the sides of her daughter’s face.

  “By taking me to France and not telling me?” Khadija pulls away. Mrs. Kablan goes still. “By abandoning Amadou and Seydou? By pretending nothing ever happened? It did happen, and they matter to me, and you can’t just keep hiding everything. I deserve to know. We deserve to know what’s going on.”

  I lick my lips, worried that Khadija has pushed too far and gotten us in trouble. It would only take one angry word from Mrs. Kablan, and Seydou and I would be out on the street. Whether Khadija liked it or not, there would be very little she could do about it.

  Mrs. Kablan sinks into one of the kitchen chairs and covers her face with her hands. Then she gets control of herself. She looks at us carefully, measuringly.

  “Amadou,” she finally says with a sigh, “please go to my room. On the table by my bed you’ll see a pile of papers, a large brown envelope, and a small notebook. Could you bring them here?”

  Happy for the chance to move, I leave the kitchen. There is only one door that I haven’t seen open yet: the one in between Khadija’s and the bathroom. I decide it must be Mrs. Kablan’s room. I glance at Seydou, but he’s still fast asleep. Opening the door, I see the things I’m looking
for on the table beside the bed, where she said they would be.

  As I cross the room to get the papers, I run my blunt fingers over tiny vials of makeup and perfume on the dresser, brush my calluses over the silky touch of the pile of clothes stacked on a chair. I briefly wonder what it would cost me to have given this kind of finery to my mother when she was alive, but I can’t imagine the numbers that must be attached, and every one of them would matter. And anyway, thinking about numbers makes me remember other numbers that matter, like how few coins remain from the money we stole from the bosses and how few hours are left before Mrs. Kablan takes Khadija to France. I squeeze my eyes shut to block all the numbers out, then pick up the pile of papers and head to the kitchen.

  By the time I get there, Khadija is sitting on a chair next to her mother, and they have their arms around each other. I guess they used the time I was gone to get rid of any hard feelings left between them. I’m glad. I put the pile on the table in front of Mrs. Kablan and take the seat across from them.

  She gives her daughter one more quick hug and a kiss on the forehead, and then she lets go of her to reach for the papers. She opens the notebook and I see that it is filled with small, neat handwriting and pencil sketches. I can’t read what any of it says, of course, but I recognize some of the things shown in the sketches: pods, seeds, trucks, drying flats, docks. Then she reaches into the large envelope. It’s filled with pictures. Mrs. Kablan fans them out in front of us on the table, then sits back to let us have a look. There are clear photos of cacao trees, the pods, the seeds, a ground dark-brown powder, and shiny, colorful packages of candy. Then there are blurry pictures, ones that are difficult to make out, of people far away working in fields and at the docks.

  Khadija holds up one of the blurry pictures.

  “What’s this even of?” she asks.

  Her mother shrugs ruefully.

  “Mobile phone pictures don’t make very good evidence.”

  “Phone pictures?” I ask. Phones are for talking. I don’t understand how now all of a sudden they’re giving Mrs. Kablan pictures too.

  “Awó,” says Khadija. “Like this.” She lifts her mother’s phone from the table. She points it at me and presses one of the buttons. Then she turns the phone around so I can see it. There on the screen is a picture of my face. It’s grainy and dark and the colors are slightly off, but it’s definitely me. It makes a sick feeling churn in my belly, though I can’t quite put my finger on why.

  Khadija has moved on from taking pictures of me, focusing again on the photos in front of us. “So, what is all this?” she asks.

  Her mother turns on the electric light that hangs from the ceiling, banishing the evening shadows that had begun to settle around us.

  “This,” she says, “is the report I’ve been working on. This is the reason they want me shut up before I can publish it. This is why you were taken.”

  Khadija and I stare blankly at the pile of pictures on the table in front of us. For a moment, Khadija flips through the notebook. Then she takes a comb out of her pocket and continues braiding from where she left off, as if she can’t stand for her fingers to be idle when her brain is churning.

  “I don’t understand,” I admit.

  “Well.” Khadija’s mother sighs. “I don’t really understand it either. But the truth of the matter is that this country’s main export is cocoa, and the chocolate lords will do a lot to make sure that the story of how it’s grown doesn’t get out.”

  “Wait, chocolate?” Khadija’s face is slack with surprise, her fingers frozen mid-movement on top of her head. “This is about chocolate?”

  I glance over.

  “What’s chocolate?” I ask. “I thought we were growing cacao.”

  “You’ve never even tasted chocolate,” Khadija’s mother says, shaking her head. “That’s just not right. Here.” She pushes herself away from the table. “Let me give you something to taste while we talk.”

  She pours milk into a small pot and starts to heat it. Then she adds sugar and a dark powder. After a few minutes, an amazing smell reaches me.

  “What’s she making?” I whisper to Khadija.

  “It’s hot chocolate,” she says. “Mama always made it for me as a little girl when I couldn’t sleep.”

  Khadija’s mother pulls the saucepan off the flame and pours a steaming liquid into three mugs. “Try it and tell me what you think,” she says.

  I lift the mug up to my face and breathe in the rich steam. Then I take a long sip.

  Khadija’s mother gives a soft laugh at the look on my face. The liquid is deep and dark and sweet and bitter. It’s hot and rich and tastes like comfort and secrets. I imagine what it would be like to have this waiting for me every time I couldn’t sleep.

  “It’s good, isn’t it?” Khadija’s mother says with a sad smile, tasting her own mug. For a few minutes we sip in silence, then she says, musingly, “You know, it’s not really true that you’ve never had chocolate before . . . maybe not in its refined form, but I’m sure you must have at least tried the seeds. Didn’t you?” she asks, looking at me with interest. “Didn’t you ever try the beans in the pods you picked?”

  For a moment I’m not sure why she’s changed the subject, but then I think through what she’s saying and a cold feeling enters me.

  “Wait,” I say, “you think that the pods we were growing on Moussa’s farm make this? No, you’re wrong. That was cacao.”

  “Awó,” Mrs. Kablan says. “You were growing cacao. But that’s what they make cocoa and chocolate from. Once the beans are fermented and dried, they get shipped out to other countries, where they’re roasted and ground into a paste that they turn into cocoa solids and cocoa butter. Then big companies take the solids and the butter and make it into every kind of chocolate—chocolate bars for snacking on, chocolate for baking, chocolate fillings, frostings, hot chocolate. They even use it sometimes in hand creams and such.”

  I’m staring at her, trying to process what she’s saying.

  “You mean . . . you mean that for the last two years we were kept on that farm to grow something that’s a treat for city kids who can’t sleep?”

  Mrs. Kablan nods, staring into the creamy swirls of her hot chocolate. I look into mine too, but the taste has changed in my mouth. Now I know the secrets of the dark, sweet liquid in my cup. The smell washes over me again, and this time I gag on it. It’s no longer the smell of a loving bedtime routine, but the smell of pain, and working for no pay, and not being able to go home. It’s the taste of Seydou with only one arm and I can’t get it out of my mouth.

  I push the mostly full mug across the table, away from me.

  “I think I’m done,” I say.

  “I don’t want mine either,” Khadija says beside me.

  “I can understand that,” says Mrs. Kablan. “These beans were grown on a farm that I know not far from here where no children worked without pay to grow it, but I can still see why you wouldn’t want it.”

  We stare at her blankly.

  “Chocolate,” says Khadija’s mother, rubbing her temples as if she’s getting a headache just talking about all this, “doesn’t have to be grown the way you were growing it. On small farms, yes, that’s the only way cacao will grow. But sometimes farmers make enough to pay their workers a fair wage for their labor. It’s just not the way that a lot of the chocolate in the world is grown. Usually, the big companies make huge profits, the middlemen in Abidjan get fat off the taxes, and the farmers make next to nothing.” Her tired eyes meet mine. “And so the farmers find workers they don’t have to pay. Usually, those workers are children.”

  I remember how Khadija thought the bosses’ house was so small and run-down. It’s true that, compared to the houses I’ve seen since, the bosses’ house was more of a shack. They didn’t eat all that much better than us boys, and they worked alongside us too. I try to imagine w
hat it would have been like to work on a different kind of farm, but can’t. Then another thought hits me.

  “Do you mean to say that kids are being forced to work on cacao farms everywhere, not only where we were?” I ask.

  “Thousands,” she says, gripping her mug with her abused fingertips. “But I’m having a lot of trouble finding all the information I need for my article. Some of the children working are family members of the farmers, or say they are, and others work but can still go to school. It’s hard to get a good count of how many children are being kidnapped and forced to work against their will.

  “And once the cocoa cartel bosses got an idea that I was working on a chocolate piece, they began to threaten me, and the people who were willing to talk to me before suddenly stopped talking, or disappeared. I was in the process of getting us out of the country because it was becoming too dangerous, but then they took you.” Her voice breaks and she reaches across the table and strokes Khadija’s cheek. “I couldn’t leave then, even to go home to Abidjan, because I had to hope that you were alive and, that if I was quiet and stopped working like they told me to, I’d get you back. I’ve been offering money to everyone I can think of for information on where you’d gone, and I wouldn’t leave San Pédro because it was the place you would know where to find me . . .” She stares into Khadija’s eyes. When her hand drops to the table it curls into a fist. “I care a great deal about the injustices of chocolate. But not at the expense of your safety. Now that you’re back, I’m going to get you out of here before they can find you again. From the beginning, I’ve tried everything I could think of to keep you safe. You don’t know how sorry I am that it didn’t work.”

  Khadija is staring at her mother, but I’m stuck on something Mrs. Kablan just said.

  “Wait a minute,” I break in. “If the cocoa people have so much power, why do you think we’re safe here? This is where they kidnapped Khadija from before!”