Say You’re One Of Them (19 page)

“No!” Yewa said.

“Calm down,” the man said. “I just de ask weder he disturb you.”

“Please, how is Fofo Kpee,” I said, looking down, hiding my pain.

“Well, he
dey
make progress for hospital. Dem go keep
am
for hospital for a while.”

“How long?” I asked.

“He go come home small time. . . . I visit him last night.”

Yewa stopped eating, looked up, and said, “You did?”

“He say make I greet
vous deux
. . . and, Pascal, he get message for you.”

“Message? What message?” I said.

“
Na
you be family head while he
dey
hospital. . . . Take care of dis small gal.”

He reached around me and patted my sister on the shoulder.

“Did you bring his clothes to him?” I said, hoping against hope that he hadn’t touched anything in the next room, especially that olive-green coat.

“
L’hospital
always get dress for de patients. No need to bring dem from house.”

I was happy that things were going my way. It was important that I keep my composure; it was important that I court the guard’s sympathy. With Fofo dead, I felt I needed to beat them at their own game. I felt I had the right to be an even worse human being than Big Guy.

“Thanks for the message from Fofo Kpee,” I said.

“
C’est rien,
” he answered. “Kpee be good man . . . only dat he come misbehave.”

“And thanks for the food, water, toilet . . . everything. God has brought you to us.”

“But what am I?” Yewa suddenly asked in a tiny whiny voice.

“
Wetin
you be?” the man asked, looking at me.

We both looked at Yewa, trying to understand her.

She said, “Did Fofo Kpee give you any message for me . . . ?”

“No!” said the man, imitating Yewa’s manner of saying no, then giggled.

I managed a fake laugh.

“I’m sure he did,” Yewa insisted, and took a gulp of salt water.

“Oh,
dis-nous,
what message he give you?” the guard teased.

“That I’m Pascal’s assistant . . . Pascal, right? I’m not a small girl.”

“Yes, you’re my assistant,” I said.

“Wow, Mary,
c’est vrai!
” the man said. “
Na
true
o.
Fofo say you must assist Pascal for everyting. Like assistant class prefect,
hén?
”

“Yes,
monsieur,
” she said, happy with herself.

While they chatted, I opened my food and began to nibble on the yam without any desire to swallow. I tried to smile when they laughed, but memories of the sound of earth falling on Fofo flooded me, bringing tears to my eyes. But when I imagined Big Guy’s short laugh, I fought the tears and scooped hot beans into my mouth, knowing Yewa and the guard would think that was what was making my eyes teary.

“Could we at least go into the other room . . . please, please?” I asked suddenly.

“No
wahala,
” he said, and shrugged. “Gimme time.”

I looked away, to hide my excitement. Even Yewa seemed to feel the extra friendliness that morning. She picked up the flashlight and aimed it around the room playfully, drawing and painting intricate designs with the beam, shining it into all the crannies. It was her toy, and she behaved in that brief time like one who had the power to bathe the world in light or darkness. Sometimes she tried to use her hands to cover the face of the flashlight. Her fingers got red, but light still poured into the room. She aimed the flashlight at her belly and pushed it into her skin until there was very little light, just an eclipse on her stomach.

“
Attention, attention,
Madame Assistant Family Head, we need light
o,
” the guard said, reaching out for the flashlight. He was uncomfortable. “
Na
you be prisoner, not me!”

“But we can still see,” Yewa laughed, and pushed it harder into her stomach, trying to smother the light altogether without success. The man leaped forward and took the flashlight from her.

“When are the other children coming again?” I asked.

“Tomorrow
nuit,
” the man said. “We go clear de room tomorrow morning.”

“Please, could we just go into the other room and sit for a while?” I said.

“Ah . . .”

“You don’t need to open the door or windows . . . just let us step out of here.”

“
Je comprend,
you want take a break from dis prison. We can have one lesson dere.”

He led us into the parlor and cracked open a window. Though the room was dim, it was very bright for my eyes and felt colder because of the fresh air. My eyes went straight to the wardrobe, and I scanned the clothes until I saw the green coat. I was relieved that it was still there. I had no reason to think someone had tampered with it. My heart began to race, but I held on. I pretended to pay attention to Yewa, who was peering into the old soccer calendar and calling out the names of players. Without our bed, the room felt lopsided and wider.

I sat on the center table, which was closer to the wardrobe, while the guard and Yewa sat on Fofo’s bed. She was understandably uplifted by being in the parlor and hummed many a Christian chorus, something she had not done since we tried to escape. She smiled at us often and peered at everything as if she were seeing it for the first time.

The door to our room was ajar. I kept looking at the floor where they had put Fofo Kpee the night they ambushed us. It was the last place I had seen him.

“
HAVE
YOU
EVER
GONE
to Gabon,
monsieur
?” I asked him.

“No,” he said.

“Hey, we will be in Gabon before you!” my sister said.

“No
wahala,
I go come later,” he said.

“Do you think it’s a good idea?” I said, looking down.

“Yes, Pascal,” he said. “
Hén,
Assistant Family Head?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Make we just
dey
call you
AFH
, why not?” the man said. “
Yinko˙
dagbe!
”

Yewa nodded, pompously.

“I miss our Nanfang,” I said. “
AFH
always went with Fofo Kpee for a ride.”

“Good machine,” the guard said. “Right now, de ting
dey
mechanic shop for servicing.”

I nodded as if I didn’t know that Big Guy had probably handed over the machine to the grave diggers by now.

“Do you think Big Guy would allow Fofo Kpee to own the Nanfang again?” I said, and looked down suddenly.

“Of course,” he said, “de
zoke˙ke˙
na
him property. . . . Why you
dey
look down?”

I jumped in my seat, feigning surprise.

“You
dey
OK?
Wetin
be dat?”

“I saw something.”

I got up and moved away from the table, backing toward the wardrobe. Yewa quickly pulled her feet onto the bed in fright, which was good for my ruse. She wanted to cling to the man, but he got up and asked her not to leave the bed.

“Someting? Like what?” the guard said. “
Wetin
you see?”

“Rats,” I said, and kept backing toward the wardrobe.

“Dat’s why you
dey
look down? You people
dey
lucky for dat prison where everyting
dey
sealed and de windows
dey
close. I
dey
see rat here every day
o.
Don’t worry, I go kill dem.”

I was within arm’s reach of the coat, and my hands extended behind me, as if I were preparing to fall into the wardrobe. My fingers were restless. The guard had taken off one of his shoes to use as a weapon and was searching under the bed and around the room with the flashlight. He pulled out Fofo Kpee’s carton of shoes and emptied it but saw nothing. I kept inching back toward the wardrobe. “Look at the other corner!” I said, prodding him. “I hope the rat hasn’t entered our room.”

As soon as I reached the coat, I grabbed the keys from the breast pocket and slid them into the pocket of my shorts. He was turning around at that point, but I pretended to fall, pulling many clothes down with me.

“I’m sorry,
monsieur,
” I said.

“Well,
na
just rat,” he laughed, calling off the hunt. “You be woman? You too fear! If de rat worry you tonight in your room, just call me, you hear?”

“Yes,
monsieur,
” we said.

Now my insides were rising and falling with joy. I began to fantasize about our escape. Our best bet was to run in the middle of the night, while he was asleep. I hadn’t thought about where we would run, but it didn’t bother me. My joy now was that freedom was within our reach. I just needed to manage my excitement until then. Again, like on the day Fofo tried to run away with us, I thought it was important for me not to tell Yewa anything until we were ready to leave. I didn’t want to risk it.

The guard again reviewed our lessons about being lost at sea and told us why we needed to drink salt water. We were comfortable around him.

WHEN
WE
WERE
PUT
back in the room, I was excited and jumpy and kept smiling in the dark. Against my fingers, the keys felt cold and warm at the same time. Each was half the length of my forefinger and felt light. Though I had no holes in my pocket, I was afraid of losing the keys in the dark. I kept putting my hand into my pocket to caress them and got to know all of their contours. Yewa chatted nonstop about the guard and the parlor, as if we had just returned from a picnic.

Finally, I wore myself out from excitement and I told Yewa I needed to sleep. I wanted to rest and prepare for the flight at night. First, I lay with the keys against the mattress. Then I turned so they faced up. Then I put my hand into the pocket and held on to the keys. Then I took them out of my pocket.

That night, when Yewa’s and the guard’s breathing had steadied in sleep, I got up and sneaked toward the back door. But when I remembered that the door always squeaked, I made for the window.

I climbed onto the bags of cement, and with shaky hands, I pulled one of the keys out of my pocket and grabbed the padlock. I trembled and fidgeted until I was able to find the keyhole. But it was the wrong key. I pulled it out and left it atop the cement bag. When the second key didn’t work either, I set it aside. I was shaking, afraid that the third might not work, so I paused and tried to calm myself. The guard sneezed and his bed squeaked. I leaned against the window frame and wrestled with a sinking feeling that we might not escape after all. I waited a few minutes, to give the guard a chance to fall back into a deep sleep.

Finally, I thrust in the third key and turned it. There was a snap as the lock was released. When I was sure nobody had heard me, I removed the padlock and put both it and the key in my pocket. I nudged the window slowly until it opened and freshness washed over my face.

It was a cold, beautiful night, and dull moonlight poured into the room. Everything was quiet and peaceful. I closed the window and crept back to the bed. I tapped Yewa on the shoulder, gently, until she sat up, scratching herself. “Kotchikpa,” she said dreamily.

“Yes,” I whispered. “No noise.”

“Are we going to the parlor again? Where’s the guard?”

“We’re running away . . . lower your voice!”

“Voice?”

I gave her a firm shake.

“We’re going to visit Fofo Kpee in the hospital,” I lied, leading her gently away from the bed.

“Now?”

I lifted her onto the cement bags, opened the window, and asked her to climb, hoping to go after her. I pushed her head through the open window. When the wind whipped her face, a scream escaped from her mouth. She was wide-awake now and got down from the bags and retreated to the bed. I dragged her toward the window, but she fought me.

“You
dey
fight for night?” the guard said, already struggling with the door.

“Yewa . . . use the window, jump!” I screamed. “He’s going to kill us!”

“Stop, stop!” the guard shouted, bursting into the room.

I pushed Yewa out of the way, toward the cutlery basket, and dove headlong through the window, breaking the fall with my hands. I ran toward Fofo Kpee’s grave, but my mind was so full of Yewa’s keening and its echo from the sea that I forgot to look at it.

I ran into the bush, blades of elephant grass slashing my body, thorns and rough earth piercing my feet. I took the key and padlock from my pocket and flung them into the bush. I ran and I ran, though I knew I would never outrun my sister’s wailing.

Best Friend said she liked your little eyes and lean face and walk and the way you spoke your English. Her name was Selam. You said you liked her dimples and long legs and handwriting. You both liked to eat Smiling Cow toffees. She was the last child in her family; you were an only child. The world was only big enough for the two of you, and your secret language was an endless giggle, which made the other kids jealous. Selam lived in a flat in a red two-story building in Bahminya. You lived in a brown two-story building across the street.

Some days, after school, you and Selam stood together on the balcony of one of the buildings and watched Selam’s two brothers and their friends on the hilly streets with their homemade kites, running and screaming until their heels kicked up puffs of Ethiopian dust. The boys ran into traders hawking CDs they carried in wide metal trays on their heads, or into horse-drawn buggies and donkeys burdened by goods, slowing down traffic. They avoided the next street, which had a mosque, because the imam would curse them if the kites entangled the minaret. He had already made it known to their parents that flying kites was foreign, blaming them for exposing their children to strange ways. But Best Friend’s parents told your parents that they had told the imam that he should not try to tell them how to raise their children in a free Ethiopia. So, many afternoons, you watched the kites rising against the distant coffee fields, then the beautiful hills, and then cupped your hands over your eyes as the kites climbed into the wide, low blue skies.