Say You’re One Of Them (11 page)

Yet I calmed myself down when Mama hugged me and said she would miss us, and Papa advised us to be studious and said that this evening was the beginning of good things to come. As Big Guy drove them away, I thought about the good work our parents were doing all over Africa.

I began to feel guilty for being greedy and wanting to keep all the food, when they needed to feed other children. I was ready to cooperate with Papa and Mama, to be as cheerful about our prospects as Antoinette was. I didn’t like the trouble Paul was giving our benefactors and hoped that he wouldn’t vomit at their next stop. I didn’t understand that it was natural for someone from the desert to react that way to the sea, and I was upset that he had embarrassed our parents. I thought even Yewa, the youngest of us children, comported herself better than he did.

That night, it wasn’t too strange when Fofo Kpee started calling us Pascal and Mary. The next day, he came to our school and changed our names in the school register to Pascal and Mary Ahouagnivo. And, remembering how much Mama loved the names, we became impatient with our schoolmates who kept using our old ones. Yewa bit the ear of one girl who taunted her with her old name, and, though the teacher thrashed my sister with
koboko,
the point had been made.

THE
NEXT
DAY
,
AFTER
Big Guy came with a photographer to take our pictures for our passports, Fofo brought in people to change our wooden doors and windows to metal. He said because of our changing lifestyle and his Nanfang, it was important that our home be as secure as possible.

The workers painted the metal doors and windows tar black, and they stood out in our gray cement-plastered walls like the eyes of black pea beans. He bought huge padlocks and dog chains and added the padlock keys to his Nanfang key bunch. But the new keys were too long and threatened to tear holes in his trouser pockets, so he threaded them on a chain that he wore around his neck like a metallic talisman.

One Saturday, he stayed home instead of carrying people across the border, and dug a pit behind our house and extracted clayey sand. With water and a bit of cement, he and I mixed it, put it on a tray, then began to seal the space between our roof and the walls of the parlor. He stood on a chair inside, and I passed up the tray of the mix to him again and again while Yewa played outside, molding mini clay people. Our activity startled the lizards, geckos, and rats, and they kept scrambling out of their resting places and fleeing outside until I was no longer surprised. Fofo whistled and hummed songs most of the time. After each round of filling, we went outside, and Fofo got on a chair and worked on the outer wall, kneading the mud with his knuckles and smoothing it with wet palms.

“Fofo, why are you leaving those openings?” I asked when I saw that he had left an opening on each wall.

“Because I no want kill anybody wid heat,” he said. “
E hun miawo hugan
.”

“Heat? What about the windows?”

“No need to open window wid de holes. You
dey
ask
beaucoup de questions,
son . . . even de holes too big.
Abeg,
give me mix.”

I passed him the mix, and he reduced each opening to the size of a man’s foot. Standing on the floor inside, we couldn’t see the outside through the holes, not just because they were too high but because they were close to the roof. It was impossible for sunlight to come into the room through them.

“But, Fofo, when are we going to use the roofing sheets? Are you going to change the roof soon?”

Yewa came into the parlor and stood silently behind us, but we didn’t pay her any attention. My uncle’s fast and furious pace dictated the work, and our conversation seemed to only whet his appetite for speed.

“Don’t worry, de sheets are for our
ohò yóyó,
” Fofo Kpee said.

“New house?” I asked.

“Papa and Mama want build new house for us . . . cement house. Real
ohò dagbe.
”

“When are we going to see Papa and Mama?” Yewa cut in.

We stopped talking and turned to her for a while. She had come to show us her creations, which had fallen and broken. She carried the mess close to her heart, in open palms, like shattered pieces of a jewel. She said it was supposed to be a rider and a passenger on a Nanfang.

“In a few days we
dey
go Braffe . . . ,” Fofo Kpee said.

“No, I mean Papa and Mama of Gabon,” Yewa insisted. “I wanted to give this toy to Mama when she comes.”

“No worry, Mary,” said Fofo Kpee. “
Yi bayi dogó,
and no let dem break again. . . . Mama and Papa of Gabon
reviennent
soon.”

WHEN
WE
FINISHED
,
FOFO
swept the parlor and gathered the wet mix that had fallen near the walls. I swept everything outside. Then Fofo sent me to buy huge quantities of
amala
and
ewedu
from the market. But when I came back and we sat down and began eating, Yewa refused to join us.

“I want Gabon food!” she announced, and stood up from the bed, her face twisted in defiance. Before anyone could respond, she walked to the threshold and slumped in annoyance. She started sobbing because she had hit her head on the new metal door frame. She sat there, in the open doorway, back to us, facing the ocean.

“Gabon food?” Fofo said, looking at me, scratching his head with his pinky because the rest of the fingers were soaked with
ewedu.
“
Wetin
be Gabon food, Mary?”

“Mama brought Gabon food,” Yewa cried. “I want Mama, I want Coke, I want macaroni. I am tired of
ewedu
and
amala.
”

“But de woman also bring pepper soup and
akasa
and crab soup,” Fofo argued. “Dem be Gabon food too?”

“She brought those ones for you and Big Guy,” Yewa said.

“Not true . . . Antoinette ate them too,” I said. “I ate them too.”

“
Kai,
we now get rich people problem,” Fofo said. “
Auparavant,
before now you
dey
eat everyting I give you, like a good goat. Now you want select?”

“Fofo Kpee, she’s not hungry,” I said, cupping
amala
into my fingers.

“I want Gabon food,” Yewa said, and shuffled her legs on the ground.

I continued to eat, paying no attention to her. But when I looked up at Fofo, I could see he was listening to her. “No way!” I said, wriggling deeper into the bed. “I’m not going anywhere!” I said this because I knew that if Fofo agreed with her, I would have to run back to the market to get the food for her. “You spoiled girl, get up from there,” I shouted. “Look at your head like Gabon food!”

“You’re stupid!” Yewa told me.

“Who’s stupid? Me?” I snarled.

Yewa spun around and bared her teeth, ready to bite me, which was what she did each time I hit her for being naughty. Even against the brighter background outside, I could see her smirk. I rushed toward her, but Fofo hooked the seat of my shorts with his fingers and yanked me back. I stumbled and kicked in his grasp. Yewa stood her ground and kept calling me names until Fofo told her to stop or she wouldn’t go to Gabon.

Yewa refused to come in or go out. Her eyes were swollen with unshed tears, which soon came flushing down her cheeks. The combination of her desire for what she called Gabon food and the threat that she might not go to Gabon upset her. She cried like she did when she had malaria and the quack doctor came to give her an injection in her bottom. Fofo started begging me not to beat her up, and when he saw that I had calmed down he released my shorts. He picked up Yewa, brought her into the parlor, and carried and nursed her as Mama had done that night.

“I don’t want to go back to the market,” I said quietly. “Why didn’t this monkey say this when I was going to the market?”

“Who want send you back to market
sef?
” Fofo said. “Make you no scold your sister again. You know de gal
dey
too light. We must fatten her for de trip. Oderwise, she go embarrass Mama and Papa. And, Pascal, you suppose be glad de gal done begin like Gabon food before you reach de place.”

“She has to be more considerate, Fofo Kpee,” I said, and went outside to sit on the mound and sulk.

“Anyway, no
wahala,
” Fofo said. “I
dey
go market myself, den.”

He carried Yewa on his back, went into the inner room, and wheeled out the Nanfang. He set it outside, smiled at it. In those difficult months, it seemed the machine was a source of stability for him, something he could always be proud of, something he would still have when we left for Gabon. He looked at himself many times in the side mirrors, smiling and mumbling to the machine, as if it could hear and answer him. Now, he swung Yewa from his back onto the gas tank, sat on the bike, and rode out to the market. He didn’t come back as soon as he should have, because, as he said later on, he wanted to give Yewa a longer ride. When he came back, he put the Nanfang back as majestically as he had brought it out. We were going to eat and drink inside as usual, but Yewa complained that the smell of the wet mix was nauseating. We went outside and ate under the mango tree, like we were having a picnic.

Later that afternoon, we went back to work, this time trying to seal off the inner room. It was more difficult to work in there because it was crowded with things. Fofo wasn’t in the business of letting the Nanfang stand in the sun or even in the parlor. So now he took his time and moved the Nanfang to the center of the room and covered it with our bedspread and tarp. It was as if he were dressing up a big pet. I wanted to take the other things out of the room or push them out of the way.

“Where you want put dese tings?” he asked me.

“Outside,” I said.

“No . . . you no get head, boy? You want expose my riches to everybody?”

“What about the parlor?” I asked, bending down to close the pots of soup in the corner and drape old newspapers over them.

“And if person
dey
come,
wetin
we go do? You see me invite anybody to help me in dis work? No move anyting
o,
” he said, pushing the mortar away from the wall to make room for the chair on which he would stand to do the job.

WE
WORKED
HARD
AND
fast. Fofo wasn’t talking or whistling or humming, as he had when we worked in the parlor. He left no holes in the walls here. He seemed so focused on the job that in some ways it felt as if he was uncomfortable with what he was doing now. He had no time for finesse anymore. Even though the cement fell on all the signs of the better life we had come into, he didn’t care. And when I wanted to stop to wipe off the mix, he glared at me.

“Fofo, you are leaving no holes in this room?” I asked, offering him the cement mix.

“So what?” he said.

“We need air in here.”

“
Dis moi,
you sleep in dis room before?”

“No.”

“Your sister
nko?
”

“No.”

“You
dey
cry for de Nanfang,
abi?
Just
dey
work and stop interrogating me.”

As we filled in the space at the top of the walls, the room became darker and darker because he wouldn’t even open a window. I could only see his profile. Down where I stood, since we didn’t move anything out of the room, it wasn’t only dark but crowded. It was afternoon outside but night in our home. I wanted to light the lantern, but Fofo warned me that if his Nanfang caught fire, we would lose everything. We started sweating, and Yewa refused to come inside, saying it was getting too hot. With the lack of air, the smell of the cement mix hung heavily in the room.

“I no need dis,
un ma jlo ehe!
” Fofo Kpee cursed suddenly, and slapped the wall. “Dis no go work.”

“Are you talking to me?” I asked.

“You? Why I go talk to you? Can’t a man just talk about dis stupid riches? Must you answer everyting, huh? I say
ma so˙
question
mi ba!
”

It was the first time I saw him show frustration or doubt about our new life. Seeing how tense he was and hearing his continual sighs, I kept quiet. He was so distraught by whatever was worrying him that we abandoned the outside walls. After a while he got so angry that in one final rush of work, he closed up everything. And darkness descended on the room.

I prayed that his outburst had nothing to do with our going to Gabon. Since he wasn’t comfortable with opening the door of the inner room, I couldn’t clean the place very well. I made do with wiping the surfaces in the dark. The Nanfang was the only possession that was spared the dirt from our work.

That evening he drove away, still muttering to himself, to meet with Big Guy. He came back more agitated than before, with three silver-colored padlocks and black latches. While the Nanfang stood outside, he asked me to bring the lantern into the inner room so he could see what he was doing. With hammer and nails, he attached the latches to the windows and back door. He padlocked the two windows and the door from inside and added the keys to his bunch. He was left with spare keys. “I buy triplicate, but I done give one set to Big Guy,” he mumbled, his eyes scanning for a hiding place for them.

“Is he coming to live with us?” Yewa asked.

“Not really,” he said. “De man
na
my best friend.”

“He’s our friend too!” my sister continued, delighted. “We’ll play with him every day.”

When Fofo Kpee couldn’t find a good place, he took the keys to the parlor and put them in the breast pocket of the olive green corduroy coat in his wardrobe. He only wore it on important occasions.

THAT
NIGHT
,
OUR
HOME
began to feel like an oven. We couldn’t sleep, even though we took off all our clothes.

Once we locked up, a massive heat swallowed the rooms, and the walls became warm. Yewa, who always slept between me and the wall, cried, and Fofo asked me to switch places with her. We sweat until our bed felt like one of us had wet it. Though we could hear the wind coming in from the ocean, sweeping through the banana and plantain trees, we couldn’t feel it. It was like standing by a stream but dying of thirst. It was stuffy, and the three of us tossed and turned. We got up and tried to sleep on the cement floor, but it felt like sandpaper, the sand and dust sticking to our wet bodies. It was useless. And when our fatigue finally plunged us into sleep, the mosquitoes, which must have survived from the previous nights, descended, and we woke up one another as we swatted them. Fofo Kpee kept cursing and blaming potential thieves for forcing us to close the rafter spaces.