Little Family

by Ishmael Beah

  A group of young men were leaning against the side of a four-story red brick building emblazoned with faded posters of photography equipment. All of them wore the same black shoes, black jeans, and white T-shirts that read

  GENTLEMEN OF PURPOSE CLUB (GOP)

  PERFECTION EQUALS PROSPERITY

  They were indeed outwardly perfect, with neat haircuts, shirts tucked in, coordinated even in the way they leaned against the wall. When Kadiatou and her friends came in view, the young men did not whistle, as men usually did, but blew kisses at them and called to them. “God, you are the best craftsman!” cried one. Khoudi was so impressed that she forgot to be self-conscious, until she felt the warmth of their eyes on her and looked up to see them regarding her with a kind of astonishment in their eyes. Was there something wrong with her outfit, she wondered, or with her body?

  Then one of the men called out, “Where have you been hiding, O beauty of heaven and earth that has come to bless us?” The speaker had broad shoulders and a face that willingly bent to his smile, a face that hadn’t yet been bruised by the world. He rushed in front of Khoudi, and she reflexively folded her fist, ready to punch him in the neck, when she heard Kadiatou and her friends laughing. She looked down and saw that her assailant was offering her a single red rose.

  “I apologize for the intrusion,” he said. “Please take this as a token of gratitude for allowing us to enjoy your beauty.” He indicated his friends, and they all performed a half bow toward Khoudiemata. Then he stepped out of her way, holding the rose before her. Khoudi unclenched her fist and took the rose with a snap of her wrist. The group clapped as she walked away.

  She caught up to Kadiatou and her friends, no longer wanting even a little distance between them.

  “Give me the flower,” said Kadiatou, extending her hand, and Khoudi gladly handed it over, not really having any use for it. Kadiatou broke off most of the stem and planted the rose in Khoudiemata’s hair, just above her ear. “You do not know yet what you have, but you will. Now come, we are almost there.” She took Khoudi’s hand and gave it a squeeze, and something about it reminded Khoudi of how she was with Namsa.

  They had arrived at an unfamiliar stretch of the beach, where they were greeted by loud music and shrieks of enjoyment. It was so noisy that in order to speak, they had to shout in one another’s ears. The women entered the open veranda of one of the cabanas and sat on plastic chairs at a table facing the ocean, their legs crossed. Khoudiemata sat with her chair turned around so that her chest rested on the back. A waiter brought beer. Khoudi was about to say she had no money when Kadiatou’s face told her not to worry. While the hairdressers belted down their drinks, Khoudi sipped at hers, looking around at the other young women. She wanted to learn how to be like them: the way they laughed and swung their bodies here and there, how they stared at boys and men and captivated them. Observing others was a survival skill, and it was such a relief not to have to turn it toward survival for once. She relished the snatches of conversation she was catching, about dresses and parties. No one was talking about how and where to get food for the day.

  “So, miss, who owes me work for unmasking the beauty of her hair—what is your name? And finish that beer before it gets warm! It is only fun to drink warm beer when you are completely drunk. And you are not there yet.” Kadiatou slid another beer across the table, and Khoudi gulped down the bottle she had been sipping.

  “Khoudiemata,” she said, wiping her lips.

  “Khoudiemata. Beautiful name, like you.” Kadiatou held her gaze until Khoudi smiled. “There it is, that is the expression of the beautiful person dancing inside.” She pointed at Khoudiemata’s heart. Khoudiemata smiled again, and she could feel her face practicing to accept this expression. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had said she was beautiful. She had nearly lost the capacity to believe that she was.

  Khoudi went in search of a restroom. She walked along the sand for a bit, through bodies shaking to whatever song came on next, then onto the main tar road and across to a yellow building with a veranda that faced the street. She tried to walk with an easy confidence, the way she had watched other young women walking, but she couldn’t get used to how strange it felt to be wearing a dress, especially among these chattering people. Apparently they all came here to show that life was good to them. Whether that was actually true, she suspected, didn’t matter as much as the ability to pose for their phones, their faces alight with the appearance of joy.

  On the way back from the restroom, she was scanning the place when her eyes fell on the group of girls who had been at Kadiatou’s shop. She looked away, hoping they wouldn’t recognize her, but at the same time found herself half hoping they would.

  “Hey!”

  Khoudi didn’t turn around. Whatever she had heard, it was not for her. “Hello, behind you!” the voice insisted.

  Khoudiemata turned around to find Mahawa, the leader of the chatty bunch, waving at her.

  “Hey.” She waved back, unsure what else to say. Mahawa rushed over to her and gave her kisses on either cheek, then pulled back to get a look at her hair. “With no extensions, that is wonderful! Only at Kadiatou’s can they pull off something like this.” She looked back at the table on the veranda, where Khoudi could see not only the girls she recognized from Kadiatou’s shop but several young men as well. “We are sitting at that big table over there with a bunch of friends. Come join us.” Mahawa entwined her arms with Khoudiemata’s and led her across the street, forcing the cars to wait for them.

  “I came with some people over there,” Khoudi felt obliged to say. She was not even certain she wanted to go with Mahawa, but something in her craved just a taste of the company of these youngsters, if only to understand what they were all about.

  “I will come with you to ask if they don’t mind for you to come sit with us for a bit.” She linked her arm through Khoudi’s.

  The hairdressers greeted Mahawa politely enough, but Khoudi thought she picked up an undertone of disdain of which Mahawa seemed unaware.

  “Can I borrow this lovely creature to visit my table?” she asked, indicating Khoudi.

  Khoudi wanted to say that she was not a cup of salt to be borrowed, and that she could speak for herself, but she restrained herself.

  “I will take good care of her. We are going to become best friends, I know it!” Mahawa exclaimed. She had a showy way of talking, and it was clear that she liked to be in charge.

  “Go and be with those your age,” said Kadiatou. “You will have more fun! And in case I don’t see you later, Khoudi”—she emphasized the name—“come by the shop anytime.” She didn’t elaborate, and Khoudi was glad about that. She didn’t want Mahawa to know that she owed the hairdresser. She took her beer and her raffia bag and waved to the women, catching a look from Kadiatou that warned, Have your wits about you and don’t lose yourself to newness so easily. Or perhaps it was only her own thoughts that she was projecting. She caught Mahawa staring at her raffia bag in a way that telegraphed clearly that it didn’t go with her outfit, but she ignored the look and pulled the bag close to her body.

  Khoudiemata approached the table full of smartly dressed young people apprehensively. There was not an ounce of suffering in their milky eyes or on their relaxed faces. What might they ask her? Where do you live? What school do you attend? What are you studying? What do your parents do? These questions had come to replace instinctual intelligence as far as Khoudiemata was concerned. She worried that her mannerisms would betray that this was her first time doing the things they considered normal. She planned to observe every one of their actions before making a move, and to be prepared to counter a question with one of her own.

  “Beautiful people. Attention! This is Khoudi, our new friend.”

  “My name is actually Khoudiemata.” She looked at Mahawa, widening her eyes in a way that indicated “Khoudi” was reserved for intimates.

>   “Ah, forgive me! Khoudiemata, everyone. These are my two best friends, Ophelia and Bendu, whom you remember from the hairdresser,” she continued. “And these three pompous fellows”—she pointed to three young men nearby—“are Andrew, James, and Frederick Cardew-Boston. The rest you will get to know as we talk.” She pulled out a chair and Khoudiemata took it, her eyes traveling around the table to acknowledge them all and then falling to the ground, where the white sand glistened.

  “Khoudiemata. That’s a name from the provinces.” The one called Frederick Cardew-Boston pointed beyond the mountains, inspiring a few titters.

  “We’re all originally from the provinces.” Khoudiemata raised her head and mimicked Frederick Cardew-Boston’s self-important gesture, pointing around them at the colorful assortment of buildings along the hills and the beach. The rest of the group giggled, and the conversation shifted to school dances, and upcoming plans for dinners and beach outings.

  These young people seemed to live from one event to the next. Her ears were everywhere, trying to capture as much information about their world as possible, while she guarded her own as closely as possible. Some of the group were couples, she gathered, but it seemed Mahawa and Frederick Cardew-Boston were unattached. His phone rang, and without getting up from the table, he answered. He listened. “Yes, yes,” he said, then ended the call. Moments later, he took another call. “Yes.” “No.” “Let’s go ahead with that.” He didn’t apologize for the interruptions. Evidently the others were used to it.

  Mahawa leaned in to Khoudiemata, her voice low. “I knew we were going to be good friends from the moment I spotted you at Kadiatou’s. I had hoped to run into you there at another time.”

  Mahawa’s phone chimed. “Hello,” she said. “No, I have not forgotten about our dinner. I am driving from the beach area in a few minutes. See you soon, mwah!” When Mahawa hung up, her eyes were glittering.

  “I have to go for my date, beautiful people! I will see you at dinner.” Mahawa stood up hurriedly and put her phone in her bag, then, almost as an afterthought, turned to Khoudiemata. “You should come. I would like to get to know you better. Noire Point, tomorrow at eight. Ciao-ciao.” She blew kisses at everyone, then got into a shiny black car waiting nearby and drove off, without waiting for an answer from Khoudiemata.

  The gathering had lost its glue, and the various members of the party made motions to leave by paying for what they had drunk. This was when Khoudiemata remembered that she still had her beer. It had lost its refreshing coldness, but no one was speaking to her any longer, so she put a foot up on Mahawa’s empty chair and lounged in hers as she finished the beer, then set the empty bottle on the table.

  “Wonderful to have met all of you.” She stood up and raised her voice slightly to get their attention. And before anyone could ask where she was going and offer her a lift, she made her exit. Once again, she felt eyes on her as she made her way through the crowd.

  Her plan was to go to the bathroom and change, certain that those who had mistaken her for having a life like theirs wouldn’t recognize her once she had returned to her own reality. Back in her sweatshirt and baggy jeans and tattered sneakers, Khoudi folded her new clothes and put them in her raffia bag. She looked at herself in the mirror and admired her shiny lips and sharp cheekbones. Then she put on her beanie, tucked in her hair, and stepped outside.

  The same eyes that had marveled at her were now oblivious of her presence. She was invisible again. Only the displeased looks of the waiters at the bar fell on her, shooing her away. She perched herself on a nearby rock to watch the departure of the beautiful people. Most left in cars that somehow had hardly any dust on them, and a few, Frederick Cardew-Boston among them, had drivers who had been waiting and opened the car door as they approached, as if they had no hands. Ophelia alone hailed a taxi and jumped in.

  Khoudi’s thoughts turned to the upcoming dinner. She’d need another dress and shoes and money for a taxi. The best place to get those things, she knew, was right where she was—at the beach, where life was laughing through most people and making them forgetful and vulnerable.

  A group of young people was carousing nearby. Two of the women seemed to have lots of cash in their handbags—they reached in to pay every time a waiter brought another round of drinks. Then the group went into the water, leaving their clothes—Khoudi counted two black dresses, a short yellow V-neck top with beautifully woven patterns, and new-looking black jeans, plus nice flats and sunglasses—on the sand under the intermittent watch of one of their party, a young fellow who was visibly distracted by every young woman who went by. Khoudiemata moved closer and waited for her moment. The clothes were piled in such a way that she thought she could sweep them up in a few gestures. It was tempting to do it right away, but she had a better idea.

  There was a service post close by, where workers, mostly young women around her age, went in and out to change the towels on the beach chairs. They wore apronlike uniforms, some of which were hanging on a post at the back of the service hut. Khoudiemata headed for it confidently, took off her beanie and put on one of the uniforms and grabbed a couple of towels. The young fellow noticed her coming toward him, but at the sight of her uniform he focused instead on the almost naked bodies of two young women giggling past him. Pretending to rearrange the group’s towels, Khoudiemata covered the dresses, shoes, sunglasses, and handbags with a damp towel and wrapped the bundle up quickly, so that it looked like nothing more than a load of dirty towels.

  She slipped her new possessions into the raffia bag, returned the uniform to the post, and retrieved her beanie. She left the towels behind as well. She’d considered taking them along, to sell at the secondhand market, but she worried that people would recognize the insignia on them and make the connection. Then she hurried back to 96 Degrees to hide her new acquisitions.

  She took out the cash and stuffed it into the inner pocket of her raffia bag. She tucked her hair properly under her beanie and, just as carefully, folded away the feelings of the day. She hesitated for a moment, reluctant to return to the reality of her life, wishing there was more strength left in the brightness of the day so that she could stay longer. Had Mahawa really meant what she said about getting to know her better? She’d sounded like she did.

  With each step out of 96 Degrees, the tension returned to her face. She no longer swayed and stepped delicately but walked with purpose. The only thing that at first glance distinguished her from the girl who had left that morning was the necklace the old woman had given her. That seemed a fitting token: a gift from hands aged with wisdom.

  She stopped by Beach Kiosk to check if Namsa was there, but saw no sign of her, or of Shadrach the Messiah, for that matter. And so she returned home, to the airplane.

  * * *

  —

  King’s property, king’s property, everything is correct. Khoudiemata whistled twice as she entered the clearing, to announce her arrival.

  Everything is correct, everything is correct, Kpindi responded, the whistle followed by his laugh. Ndevui was with him, and they were sitting right where Khoudi had left them that morning. From the laughter and their slurred speech, she knew they were drunk and high even before she came near—but not yet at the stage of intoxication where their inner demons began to dance.

  King’s property, king’s property, everything is correct. Another whistle came through the air, and Khoudi recognized it as Elimane’s. Again, Kpindi responded. And then Elimane came into the clearing, and behind him, Namsa, with a beaming face. Khoudiemata sighed with relief.

  “Big sister, big sister, we are reciting poems that we are making up on the spot,” said Kpindi. “The theme is Freedom. Of course”—he indicated Elimane—“it was his idea. But just when we got started, he had to answer a call from William Handkerchief.” Kpindi stood on top of the old refrigerator, waiting to perform. Perhaps they were drunker than she thought, Khoudi reflected, because only
in such a state would the boys have agreed to participate in such an exercise.

  Kpindi stamped his feet to get their attention.

  “O Freedom, O Freedom, free me from Freedom that I do not want.” He jumped down and rolled on the ground, laughing. Khoudi didn’t see what was so funny, but Elimane and Ndevui were clapping, laughing, and cheering. She removed her raffia bag and set it on the refrigerator, hoping to put an end to its use as a stage. She sat down.

  “Why don’t you join us with a poem of your own.” Kpindi looked at Khoudi. Elimane and Ndevui stopped laughing and horsing around and began to clap, egging her on. Khoudi looked toward Namsa before she spoke.

  “I agree with Shadrach the Messiah. Today is not a day to celebrate freedom of any sort. So no poems from me today.” She clasped her hands.

  “Oh, come on,” said Ndevui. “I am sure Shadrach the Messiah, that crazy old fool, would read something if he was here.” He stood up, his legs wobbling, and this time all of them laughed.

  “So you saw Shadrach the Messiah? Next time we should all go together to listen to him. He makes you think.” Elimane opened a bottle of beer and took a swig. He was wearing a necktie, presumably for whatever errand he had been performing for William Handkerchief, and he loosened it now.

  “I heard Shadrach the Messiah once tell a story about Bai Bureh. Bai Bureh was a warrior who refused to pay taxes to the British and instead demanded that they pay him for occupying his land. You should have seen how he acted out the story, jumping here and there and drawing images in the sand of a war the British liked to refer to as ‘a confrontation.’” Elimane shook his head, and a little silence filled the air. “I would have liked to listen to his stories today,” he said solemnly.

  “But your boss man summoned you,” said Khoudi. “What havoc did you two commit today?”

  “He took me to one of those restaurants where all the expats and shady government officials go. We were meeting with a foreign banker. He lent me a suit and had me pretend to be his son, studying at Oxford.” William Handkerchief had prepared him with layouts of the campus and names of professors. The banker was an Englishman who hadn’t gone to Oxford but was impressed by Elimane and wanted to hear about what he intended to study and how he was going to use his studies to improve his nation.