by Uwem Akpan
I hated our house now and felt we could have sat out there forever, without wanting to go back in. The front door and the windows were open like the petals of a trap that would slam shut once the prey stepped inside. The angular sun shaved some of the shade off the veranda, catching one of the open windows, its metal gleaming like bait.
“Let’s not argue with him, so he won’t be mad at us,” I said to my sister. “Let’s go inside.”
“I want Mama.”
“Get up!” I said, and pushed her off my thighs.
We tiptoed to the door and peered in. Fofo lay sprawled out on the bed, like a monster dragged ashore by fishermen. His eyes weren’t completely shut. The scar on his cheek looked like a worm journeying from his eye to his mouth, or vice versa, eating his good humor. We sneaked into our bed and lay there, looking up at the roof. Though he had worked very hard all afternoon, he only succeeded in making gaping holes near the roof. They were many and ugly, rough and dreadful, like an unfinished haircut. It was worse than the space we used to have before we sealed it. Our walls now had long cracks, as if Fofo Kpee had made a mural of lightning on them. In some places, the plaster that covered the mud wall had come off, revealing a moldy interior. The smell of crushed stone lingered.
From the way he was sleeping now, we knew he would never have the energy to tackle the inner room. He didn’t talk to us when he woke up, and his face was subdued. He seemed even beyond the babble that had occasionally become his lot in those days.
I made food for myself and my sister because he refused to eat or drink. We ate quickly without talking. He just lay on his bed and stared at the holes he had created, as if whatever was upsetting him would reach in through them to hurt us. He lay faceup, his hands clasped under his head, his elbows up, his legs crossed. One moment he was as still as a corpse, and the next he startled at any sound.
That night we slept better than we had in a long time because of the holes he had made. We didn’t have any lessons.
BIG GUY VISITED US the following day. He appeared unceremoniously, storming in without knocking. Fofo was lying on his bed. Big Guy came in ordinary clothes and looked unkempt and worried. As if he had been expecting him, Fofo didn’t stand up to receive him or even look at him. Actually, once he saw Big Guy, he sprawled out so the man couldn’t sit on his bed. Our visitor ignored him too, turning his attention to us.
“Mes amis, hey, how you dey today?” he said, slipping into a big smile, flashing us a thumbs-up.
“Fine,” we said.
He sat on our bed, in between us.
“I can see Fofo dey feed you well well.”
He plucked at my sister’s cheeks playfully. I hated the fact that what he was saying was true. We looked well fed these days. Our faces had become rounder, our cheeks had filled out, our ribs had disappeared, and our tummies had lost their bloatedness.
“I get good news for you o,” Big Guy said. “We go travel next week.” He rubbed his palms against each other as if he were praying to us. He pointed at Fofo, who shot him a wicked look, then glanced away. “We dey almost ready, OK . . . or, Mary, you want travel quick quick?”
“Today!” she said.
“Talk am again, bright gal!” Big Guy exclaimed, giving Yewa a high five. “You know better ting.”
Fofo turned and glared at us, and Yewa turned to me, uncertainty clipping her earlier abandon.
“Pascal . . . today?” Big Guy said, turning to me.
I pretended I didn’t hear him. An awkward silence filled the room.
“See, de children dey ready,” Big Guy announced to Fofo Kpee gleefully. “No disappoint dem now o. It too late. No be so, Mary?”
“Yes.”
“Who be the wife of Fofo David?”
“Tantine Cecile.”
“Any children?”
“Yves and Jules.”
“Your city for Gabon?”
“Port-Gentil.”
“Excellent. Pascal, you dey too quiet today. Mama dey like your maturity. And Tantine Cecile dey look forward to see you. . . . Say something, abeg, son. . . . Antoinette and Paul dey greet you. . . . You no want travel today like your sister?”
I didn’t want to talk to him. Once he mentioned my Gabon siblings, I became angry and imagined him dancing naked before them. It was my strongest memory of our preparations. I was as uncomfortable as if he were sitting naked with us. Though I didn’t know that Fofo had come to detest the Gabon deal, I secretly enjoyed the cold shoulder he was giving Big Guy. And though I knew that Big Guy was just teasing us about leaving that day, I couldn’t bring myself to share in the joke. I prayed that Fofo would just tell him to go to hell with his plans.
But both men’s eyes were fixed on my face. Fofo’s face was solemn, pained, and the other face had a frozen smile that seemed to need my reaction to thaw into a full one. I didn’t know where to look. My throat felt like sandpaper, and my lungs burned as if they had no air. The room seemed to shrink, and I dug my fingers into our mattress. I tried to smile to hide my feelings, but I didn’t know whether my face cooperated or not.
“Yes, he would like to travel today,” Yewa answered for me.
Fofo looked at her sharply. Big Guy broke into a full smile. I breathed again, my forehead moist with sweat.
“Your fofo like Gabon, oui?” Big Guy asked her, as if to score an added point against Fofo, having won the standoff.
She nodded. “Yes.”
Big Guy began to tickle her, making her snicker as if she had water in her throat. He explained that we would soon begin school in Port-Gentil. He said schools in Gabon were as beautiful as schools in France, that we would catch up with classes as soon as we got there. Though he tried to be friendly, plying us with sweets and rubbing our heads and dancing to entertain us, there was something hollow about his performance that day. He wasn’t wearing his immigration uniform, but the stiffness I had seen in him when he came with our godparents hung over him. After a while, even Yewa didn’t like his exaggerated excitement anymore. Though she kept answering his questions, she did so with single-word answers, as if she had intentionally struck a compromise between Fofo’s discomfort and Big Guy’s need to fill up his awkward visit with chatter.
Then Big Guy resorted to laughing a big laugh, as if the whole world had suddenly become funny. Yewa only smiled at him, without a sound. He laughed until his frame buckled over, and he sat on the floor; he laughed until he began to sound unnatural. He made funny faces and rolled his tongue to keep Yewa’s interest. It was as if Big Guy was learning to be a clown, like Fofo, while Fofo was learning to be serious, like Big Guy. It was a badly acted play, and we sat there, a captive audience. Though he turned on the boom box and Lagbaja’s “Konko Below” battered the room, Fofo lay there, unmoving, like a fallen statue.
After a while, Big Guy yawned and went to sit with Fofo Kpee. Fofo sat up abruptly, as if he needed to protect himself. Big Guy put his arm around his neck.
“Smiley, mon ami, you dey take tings too serious.”
“I done make up my mind,” Fofo said, his face tight like a rock, his pinched lips like its eroded precipice. “Efó!”
“Non, abeg, no talk comme ça o,” Big Guy said. “I only dey joke yesterday. . . . I mean, if you no want work for our NGO anymore, it’s OK. Be fair to yourself, au moins. We no reach point of no return yet, so you still fit change your mind. But, no rush your decision.”
Fofo looked at him without saying anything for a while. “Peutêtre, we should suspend de plan for now.”
“You’re bound to feel like dis at de beginning. Moi aussi, I no like de plan at de beginning. It be like say you dey exploit de young, but actually you dey help dem. Dem go get plenty chance abroad. Already, we dey give dem food tree times daily . . . clothes, shoes, books . . . are dese bad tings for dem?”
“Maybe.”
“You no get liva o . . . coward, huh?”
“Show me person who no go fear?”
“Mais pourquoi? Why?” Big Guy pat
ted him on the back. “Abeg, courage, oui?”
“Hén, what? Leave me alone. . . . I no want teach dem new lesson.”
“Ah no o. We still get at-sea orientation for dem o. Na last lesson.”
Big Guy looked up at the space between the walls and the roof and nodded, smiling as if he had just noticed the change. “I see, I see. You done change de place, huh. . . . Even de windows dey open.”
“Na my place. N’gan bayi onú de jlo mi. Or you want make I suffocate my children for my house?”
“Ecoute, if I be you,” Big Guy said, winking at us and pulling Fofo so close that they almost fell over, “I go just dey follow de plan and dey teach dese children. No dash deir hope for notting o.” The bedsprings squeaked, and they regained their balance. Fofo smiled a sad smile but didn’t answer him. “You just dey fear fear, Kpee.” Big Guy stood up. “Make we go talk outside.”
“Talk?”
“I get small matter I want tell you. Make we go.”
“Impossible,” Fofo said calmly, his elbows on his thighs, his fists together supporting his chin. “I go pay you back. I dey make some money wid Nanfang. Just gimme time, na mi tán.”
“Dis ting no be about money but helping our children. We can even give you plus argent. Come outside. Remember, na you be our point man for dis area?”
“Take de Nanfang, abeg.”
“No way,” he said, and shrugged a big shrug. “Keep de machine. Dat na wicked ting. We no go take your daily bread. You go destroy yourself if you negotiate like dis.”
Since he wouldn’t leave Fofo in peace, our uncle followed him outside.
“No come out o, mes amis,” Big Guy said to us in a voice that betrayed a grain of anxiety. “Remain inside.” We nodded. He opened the door for Fofo and closed it behind him as if our house were his.
Once their footsteps waned, we rushed to the window and watched them through the worn blinds. They walked until they reached the road and stopped. Fofo was facing us. We couldn’t hear them. The plantations and sea loomed behind the road, and sometimes it looked as if the plantations were on the sea or as if the people on the road were walking on water, like Jesus.
The two men argued loudly, raising their hands. Sometimes people who knew them startled them with greetings, and you could see them stop momentarily, flash empty smiles, then go back to business as if to make up for lost time. Fofo kept shaking his head, as if he were saying a big no to whatever his friend was saying. And each time I saw the no shape in his mouth, I felt like clapping for him. It became very predictable, and naturally I started shaking my head too, and my mouth formed many silent nos. I held tight to the window frame. I was praying for Fofo to stand firm.
Then Big Guy seized Fofo by the shoulders and shook him until Fofo spun and broke free, staggered and regained his balance. He didn’t move away from Big Guy but stood his ground.
“He’s going to beat up Fofo Kpee,” Yewa whispered. “Big Guy is mean. Is he a bully?”
“I don’t know.”
“Big Guy is a bad man.” Her voice began to crack with emotion. “I won’t dance with him anymore. And he won’t follow us to Gabon! I’ll report him to Mama and Papa.”
“Shhh, don’t cry now, OK? Fofo is strong.”
Suddenly, four police officers showed up and surrounded Fofo; they came in twos from either direction, as if they had expected Fofo to try to escape. They wielded koboko whips, and their waists bulged with pistols and batons. All of them were screaming at Fofo, with Big Guy getting more and more manic. Fofo Kpee’s mouth was shut, and he stood very still, like a man in the presence of unfriendly dogs. After watching the scene for a while, I knew that Big Guy was determined to get Fofo to agree with him. But Fofo folded his hands in front of him and shook his head periodically, very slowly. Whenever they looked in our direction, I ducked and dunked Yewa’s head under the window too.
It was quite a scene, because in all of Fofo’s years of being a tout, the police had never visited our place or harassed him for duping people. Yewa held my hand tightly. We didn’t know whether to lock ourselves inside or to run out toward the pool of bystanders that had gathered around and blocked our view.
The police tried to disperse the bystanders, but the people simply gave them a wide berth and kept watching. At the end Big Guy stormed away as abruptly as he had arrived, and the police went in different directions, their sudden departure startling the onlookers. Fofo stood there smiling at everybody as if the whole thing were a joke. We couldn’t hear what he was telling them, but from the way he was gesticulating and their periodic laughter, it was clear that his humor had returned. It was a relief; he was once again the fofo we knew. In a little while, the crowd lost interest and disappeared into the evening, leaving him there by the road, looking out at the sea and waving to people who waved to him.
Yewa broke free from my grasp, opened the door, and ran toward him, stumbling and shouting, “Fofo, Fofo!” He turned suddenly on hearing her and opened his mouth, but before he could speak Yewa came to a complete stop. With one sharp hand gesture, he sent her back to the house. She walked in sobbing while Fofo Kpee continued to look at the sea and the road.
When he finally turned and walked toward home, his strides were weak, his face down, his hands behind him as if in handcuffs. He walked slowly, as if he didn’t quite want to reach home. It must have been more difficult to come back to us that evening than it had been dealing with Big Guy and the police. He walked like a student who had committed a big offense and was afraid of being expelled.
That night he told us we should no longer go to school. It didn’t seem like a good time to ask questions, so we hushed.
FOFO KPEE NEVER MENTIONED Big Guy or Gabon in our presence again. And since Gabon had become the talk of our family and our impending departure the collective dream, its absence from our conversation created a vacuum in our lives. Fofo brooded and didn’t go to work. He didn’t say much to us. He seemed to be struggling even to get out of bed. He was no longer drinking. He read the Bible nonstop and prayed a lot—alone, never inviting us to join him as in the old days. His pride in his Nanfang dissipated, and he no longer washed it daily, nor tooted the horn nonstop nor rode it to church. Even his manner of dress became something else. He stopped wearing his jackets and beautiful shoes and went back to his flip-flops and rugged jeans, his pre-Nanfang clothes, whenever he left the house.
All our stuff in the inner room meant nothing to him now. In fact, it seemed he couldn’t bear going in there at all. He covered the bike completely, like we did the day we cemented the inner room. Even Yewa knew better than to talk about or play with the Nanfang. In those empty days, we expected Fofo to finish removing the mortar in the parlor to let in more air and to begin working in the other room. But he never did. And, though Fofo gazed at it nonstop when he lay on his bed, it was as if he lacked the willpower or interest to carry through with the project. Instead, he put all his energy into watching us and warning us not to follow or talk to anybody without his permission.
“Be careful,” he said to us the second day after Big Guy’s visit, “bad people dey mess wid oder people children!” It was the longest sentence we had heard from him since Big Guy roughed him up. I swallowed my reaction, because I didn’t want him to know what I was thinking.
He bought a machete and put it under his bed, where he could reach it in an instant. He carried a dagger in his pocket, even when we went to church. If we went outside to play, he came and sat on the mound, watching us without blinking, like a statue. Many times daily he walked around the compound, checking this and that, like a security man. If we went to the outhouse, we came out and saw him waiting, like the people who run commercial toilets in Ojota. If we wasted time, he came and knocked and asked whether we had fallen into the pit latrine. If he went out, he locked us up.
Seeing that he was ready to defend us by all means, I abandoned my plan to escape. I sensed he wasn’t going to let any harm come to us. When we walked to church, he held our han
ds, and when people asked him about the bike he said it was sick. We entered the church with the humility of our pre-Nanfang days. One Sunday, Fofo gave some money to Pastor Adeyemi to say a special prayer for him. When the man pressed him for details of his predicament, he said he had a little family problem.
THAT AFTERNOON, WHILE YEWA was asleep, Fofo Kpee stood staring out of the window. “We must escape, Kotchikpa,” he whispered.
“Yes, Fofo!” I said, leaving my bed, moving toward him. I knew he was serious because he used my native name. Shocked by my response, he turned sharply from the window and came and sat on the edge of the table, facing me. I was bursting with excitement.
He wrung his hands, searching for words like a penitent: “I know say you want go dis Gabon well well . . .”
“I don’t want to go, Fofo, I do not!”
“Sofly, sofly,” he calmed me, batting down the air with both hands and then holding my hands like a supplicant. A nervous smile crossed his sad face. “Ah, we no want wake her. . . . I no fit sell you and Yewa to anybody, like de slaves of de Badagry slave-trade tales. Iro o, I no fit allow dem ship you across dis ocean to Gabon. If you reach dat central African country, c’est fini. You no go smell dis West Africa soil again. . . . When Big Guy visit us last, I tell him say I no gree again. Riches no be everyting—I no want lose you. Mais, he dey very angry.”
“Just one question . . .”
“Yes?”
“Do our godparents know what Big Guy is doing to us?”
“Yes . . . complétement.”
He let go of my hands and looked away again, embarrassed. His answer managed to hit me hard, when it shouldn’t have. Since that night when I lost interest in Gabon, I had directed my anger toward Fofo and Big Guy only. And, though the pieces of the puzzle were coming together, I had refused to accept that the man and woman who were so nice to us and gave us an unforgettable buffet were bad people. But now, the shame in Fofo’s eyes squashed my doubts. I was angry with them.