Say You’re One Of Them (16 page)

“Where are we going?” my sister said.

“Home,” I said.

“Braffe?” she said, giggling. She tried to see my face but couldn’t, because our sitting arrangement was tight.

We rode through a small town. Some shops were still open and solitary silhouettes of people darted here and there. There was a smell of burned flesh in the air. At the far end of the town, a bonfire blazed by the roadside, lacerating the moonlight’s beauty. On reaching it, I noticed that the flames were billowing from a pile of tires in front of an eatery. Three goats or sheep were being roasted over the flames, and two men, all muscles and sweat, clad only in underwear, stoked and turned the animals with long stakes.

“Pascal, did you bring my things?” Yewa shouted to be heard. “I want to show my books to our parents and grandparents. . . .”

“Your books
dey
here,” shouted Fofo, tapping on the bag. “I go buy you new dress for Braffe.”

“You will?”

“
Mówe,
yes.”

I looked back again. The two lights were closer, and from the way the beams jumped up and down, it became clear that those riders didn’t care about the bad road. Though Fofo tried to speed up, they kept gaining on us.

Now, they split up, one to either side. I became afraid and pressed closer to my sister. I looked back often, and each time my sight was gouged by the lights. My stomach swelled with the urge to pee. The thought of many Big Guys coming after us overwhelmed me.

Fofo didn’t stop or say anything. The bike on the right was now running neck and neck with us. Fofo sped up, but the other rider was more aggressive. He tried to overtake us and cut in front us, but Fofo dodged to the left. The bike on the other side almost hit our number plate and was forced to slow down. Each rider had one passenger.

One bike passed us and forced Fofo off the smooth track of the bad road, and now we were heaving into one pothole after another.

“Stop, quick quick . . .
arretez,
” the passenger said.

We slowed down.

“
D’accord,
I
dey
stop,” Fofo said, putting one foot on the ground and rolling to the edge of the road; he kept the engine idling. “
Abeg,
no harm us,” he pleaded.

“Shame on you!” the passenger yelled from across the road, getting off the bike, slowly and confidently, while the rider sat there with the engine running. “Why you
dey
run?” the passenger snarled, then pulled a cell phone from his pocket and started assuring the person at the other end that things were under control. Then he said to Fofo, “You no know say we
dey
watch you? You no know you done reach point of no return for dis deal?”

“I
dey
sorry,” Fofo said.

“Sorry? Turn off your lights, stupid man!” someone on the other bike commanded him, and Fofo obeyed. I turned quickly because I thought the voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t see his face.

This straight stretch of road was canyoned by tall lush bushes, an outcrop of jungle on the seacoast. The bushes on the left blocked the light of the moon and cast a gloomy shadow on the lower reaches of the road’s right side, while above all was bathed in moonlight.

Fofo whispered to us, “No come down, you hear?”

“Yes,” we whispered back.

“Hold de machine well well.”

It was as if the people on the other two bikes were so desperate to manhandle us that they forgot to ride up to where we were. Instead they jumped off their machines and bounded toward us. My eyes still smarted from the headlights as the giant silhouettes hurtled in our direction. Suddenly, Fofo kicked his Nanfang into gear, and we took off. I felt someone’s eager hand on my back and ducked before he could grab my shirt. Fofo hit his high beam and accelerated.

They were right behind us. The gap between us was as narrow as the space between our beds back home. I resented the fact that my back was their closest target and kept pressing into my sister and holding tighter to the machine. I stiffened my body; the gusts of wind lapping my clothes felt like hundreds of fingers trying to grab me. Yet my back was getting warm, as if their headlights would roast me.

We pulled away from them, Fofo crouching a bit, his head pushed forward like that of a dog in flight. And, since our bike was still new, whenever it hit a pothole, the impact was like the muffled sound of two cymbals clashing. My sister had her right cheek pressed firmly against Fofo’s back as if to listen to his heart. I leaned forward beyond Yewa and tied my hands around Fofo’s stomach so we wouldn’t fall off, even if the bike got into the deepest pothole or jumped the highest bump.

“Hold tight!” Fofo shouted, his voice shredded by the wind, just before the Nanfang hit a big pothole. The machine went up, then landed hard and heaved, but we hung on. “You
dey
OK?” Fofo said.

“Yes,” I said, though my right foot had just lost its flip-flop.

I repositioned myself and my sister. My bare foot felt better on the rest; it had more grip. My fingers were sweaty, so I retied my hands around Fofo’s stomach and put my chin on Yewa’s head. It felt better to have the glare of the headlights a bit farther from my back. But when I tried to discard the other flip-flop, I lost my footing. My left leg dangled, and I fought to regain my balance but couldn’t. The effort pulled the bike to one side. Fofo threw his body the other way to compensate and held it there momentarily.

“We’re falling!” Yewa said, like in a dream.

My fingers slipped from Fofo’s, and I was now holding on to my sister and bleating like a ram. Once my knee touched the ground, the machine crashed.

When I came to, I had a headache and was lying facedown, my body on the road, my head in the grass. My knee was bleeding, but the cut wasn’t deep. Yewa stood in the shrubs screaming and fighting off a man who held her wrists in one hand. The other three descended on Fofo with sticks. The blows rained on him until he fell, his hands wrapped around his head, which was almost in between his legs. He writhed and took the beating without a sound, except for an occasional groan. Yewa and I did the crying.

I was the last to be rounded up; a man grabbed my hands and cuffed them behind me with huge rough hands. I didn’t resist, hoping that they wouldn’t kill Fofo.

“If you shout again, we go kill dis
magomago
man!” one of the men warned us.

“Please, don’t kill him,” I said, sobbing.

“You children thought you could skip school without telling anybody,” the familiar voice said behind me.

It was Monsieur Abraham, our games master. I turned and looked him straight in the face. In the moonlight, he was smiling, his white teeth gleaming. He wore a T-shirt and a track suit, as if he were coaching us in soccer.

Disappointment filled my heart. I remembered the glucose he used to give us those first days when we couldn’t sleep well at night and got to school tired. I felt stupid for being duped and falling into such a well-orchestrated plot.

“Please,
monsieur,
don’t kill him,” I begged Monsieur Abraham, as Yewa continued to wail. “We won’t run again.”

“Really?” he said.

“We shall go to Gabon, I promise.”

“Of course.”

“
Monsieur,
we’ll do anything you want in Gabon.”

“Maybe you begin by telling this princess to shut up.”

“Yewa, they won’t kill him,” I explained, and freed one hand to place on her mouth. But she wasn’t looking at me. Her sight was trained on Fofo. “He’s not dead,” I said. “He’ll be OK.”

As I spoke to my sister, Fofo Kpee tried to get up but fell. They didn’t allow us near him. His face was bloody and one eye was swollen. His clothes were torn, his pockets empty, cefa and naira notes scattered everywhere, like donations littering an important shrine. One man was fidgeting with his phone, and when he couldn’t make a call he cussed his network.

The men started preparing to leave, picking up the money and turning the bikes around, in the direction we had come from. Two men bundled Fofo atop one bike, and Yewa and I were sandwiched between two men on the other. We began the journey back to the house from which we thought we had escaped.

WHEN
WE
GOT
HOME
it was still dark. Monsieur Abraham collected the keys from Fofo’s neck and opened the door and shoved us inside. They threw Fofo on the floor.

“You’re never permitted to speak to the children again!” our games master said, as Fofo writhed and twisted, unable to get up. They didn’t let us touch him, so we sat on our bed like orphans at a parent’s wake while two men searched the inner room with flashlights and another searched around outside the house. We couldn’t see Fofo well, so we listened eagerly for his heavy breathing.

When they had finished the search and reorganized the inner room to their liking, they moved our bed and carton of clothes there.

“Get in there!” Monsieur Abraham said, not looking us in the eye. “You’ll stay there till further notice. One of us shall stay here to make sure no one tries to run away again.”

“Yes,
monsieur,
” I said. “We won’t disappoint you again.”

“Fofo Kpee, Fofo Kpee,” my sister cried, and pointed at the body on the floor as I dragged her into the room.

“Little one,” the teacher said, “if you behave well, he’ll be OK.”

“Please, tell Big Guy we are sorry,” I said. “Tell Monsieur and Madame Ahouagnivo we are sorry.”

“I think they’d be happy to know that,” he said. “It’s not nice to betray friends. Not nice.”

He locked us in the inner room. It was darker than we thought. We were restless and disoriented because they had moved things around. I felt like I was going to bump into something. With one hand I held on to Yewa’s dress to keep track of her; I used the other to shield my wounded knee. We stayed near the door, trying to hear Fofo. Now, the bikes outside revved up and departed, their noise momentarily drowning out Fofo’s breathing.

We heard the front door close and footsteps approach the door to our room. We backed away, stumbling over things, and I lost Yewa in the darkness. I reached the wall and squatted, then lay atop the pile of cement bags, hoping to blend in. There was a jangle of keys. When the door opened, our room brightened, and fresh air came in.

A man’s profile filled the doorway as if trying to deny us the little light we were getting now. A giant of a man, he didn’t attempt to enter the room. From the position of his hands, I could see he was carrying things. Uncertain what he might do to us, I peered around, trying to find my sister.

“Where you
dey?
” he called out, his voice full of menace. I said nothing. “No joke wid me
o.
I warn you.”

“I am h-here,” I stammered, getting up and standing with the bed between me and him.

“Come, take dis,” he said. “Where you
dey?
”

“I’m sorry, I’m here.”

“You must cooperate,
d’accord?
”

I inched around the bed, feeling my way toward him, craning to see Fofo, to no avail.

“
Mangez
. . . your food,” he said, and pushed something warm and heavy against me.

“Thanks,” I said, grabbing two plastic containers.

“You must finish everyting we give you. . . .”

“Yes,
monsieur.
We will.”

“
Bon garçon,
” he said, lightening up at my false enthusiasm. “If you behave well, I go
dey
nice to you. If not, you go see for yourself. I no be bad man. Also, me I be fader; I get my own children. I no want sell anoder man children. I just
dey
do my work
o.
”

The food inside the containers was warm, and the lids were so tight that I couldn’t smell what it was. I put them on the bed and then turned to the big man.

“What of Fofo?” I said.

“I done bring am food too.”

“We can feed him, please. He’s very sick.”

“Impossible, no, just forget
am
for now. . . . And dis
na
your toilet.” He pushed something else against me. “
Faites attention.
Some water
dey
inside.”

“God bless you,
monsieur!
” I said, and collected it from him. It was a big plastic pail filled quarter way with water. There was a stack of old newspapers on the lid.

“Use it well
o,
” he laughed. “And make you put the paper in de pail. I go come get dem tomorrow.”

“Yes,
monsieur.
”

“Everyting go
dey
fine. I like de way you
dey
behave, old boy. I no care wheder dem sell you or not. As I talk before, I just
dey
do my job.”

“Thank you,
monsieur.
”

“You no fear anyting. You get courage
pass
your
fofo.
If you behave well, I go treat you well, you know. . . . Where your sister?”

“Yewa,” I called out, and looked around the darkness. “Maybe she’s asleep,” I lied.

“Already? Yewa!” he called out, his voice filling the room like a trumpet. “Where you
dey?
”

Silence.

“I told you she’s asleep,” I said. “She’s tired.”

“Well, make sure she eat later,” he said lightheartedly. “I go see you dis evening. Trust me, your
fofo
go
dey
fine.”

He turned and walked out of the room, closing and locking the door from the parlor. A bit of my fear went away with him. I listened to his footsteps, then heard the bed creak as it received his body.

Though our situation had gone from bad to worse in the course of one night, I found some solace in the fact that I could make him believe I liked him. I would thank him for any little kindness toward us, I thought. I felt I had a bit of control over how things might turn out. Maybe if we behaved really well, the man would allow us into the parlor to see Fofo. Maybe he would even open the windows or at least leave the door open. My imagination began to run wild with the good things that might happen if we behaved well. I wasn’t thinking of going to Braffe anymore. My desire now was to please this man, and that Fofo would get well.