by Ishmael Beah
A fellow around Elimane’s age opened the door for her and bid her welcome in a respectful tone. Intricate carvings, paintings, and photographs by contemporary African artists lined the short hallway, which opened onto a lounge area strewn with colorful throw pillows and a bar on either side. Walkways near both bars led to a veranda lined with stools and benches. Beyond, to the left, was the dining room, with elegant tables and chairs of polished brown wood. Every touch of the place was a feast for the eyes—and there were many eyes, people of all ages who sat about in their best outfits, drinking, chatting, laughing, looking at the vast early-evening sky. They seemed content, as if they were in on a beautiful, eternal secret. It wasn’t crowded at this hour, and the space, though big, felt intimate. A few people milled about, not yet absorbed into the calm of the place. Perhaps those were the newest arrivals. There was soft music, a tune Khoudi remembered from childhood. She found herself humming along with it as she made her way across the room to the veranda, this small familiarity calming her nerves.
From the veranda, the view was stupendous: the mountains and in the distance the ocean, where the sun was setting, its glow painting the sky with spectacular colors. Up here the air was cooler, she noted. She found a place to sit behind a pillar, where she wouldn’t be easily noticed by whoever entered the dining area, but where she could easily see them.
Watching the entrance, she noticed something funny and strange. Young men and women would come in, pose at one of the tables or by the bar, or out on the veranda looking at the view, take photos of themselves, and then depart. The entire exercise seemed designed to give the impression that they had spent a glorious time at Noire Point rather than for them to actually have one. A few couples even posed for a series of such photos; the woman would go to the bathroom and change into another outfit and return to take another set of photos at the same locations, pretending to be doing different things, smiling wildly the whole time. This process would repeat itself through several outfit changes before the couples left, and was abetted by the purchase of a small bottle of water so that they would have something to pretend to drink in the photos. There were even people taking selfies of selfie-takers. Khoudi found the self-obsession hilarious, but there was something off-putting about it as well.
“Will you be dining with us this evening?” A polite young fellow presented Khoudi with a menu. She glanced down at the long list of food and drinks, which reminded her that she was a long way from Mama Fofanah’s place.
“Yes, I will be dining here tonight with some friends,” she said, with as much self-possession as she could muster. “I am early, though, so I will get a Star beer and some cacahuète if you have some.” She had memorized that order from listening to people at restaurants by the beach.
“Yes, of course.” The waiter took a pen and pad from the side pocket of his green-and-yellow cotton shirt, the same uniform all the staff wore. Khoudi was mystified that he needed to write down such a simple order. Was he worried he would forget it before he got back to the kitchen? He reached to retrieve the menu.
“I will keep it to look at for later,” Khoudi said. Her confidence was growing, she noticed with pleasure.
Almost as soon as he had left, he returned. Another difference—in the places she knew, you had to shout at the server to bring you your drink before you grew old and no longer needed the joy you had wanted from it. Another difference—the server didn’t ask Khoudi to pay when he set down her drink and snack. She tried to eat the cacahuète, which were nicely roasted, the little nuts whole and well browned, as delicately as possible, and took small sips of the beer instead of gulping it. Then she thought to herself that a real mark of confidence was to do as she wanted, as she had always done. She took a handful of the nuts and a hefty swig of the beer, confident that this time she had enough money to pay for her own drinks, even if they were more expensive here.
She finished the beer and ordered another, then studied the menu for a while, slouching in her chair. What should she eat for the dinner with the beautiful people? She didn’t recognize any of the dishes on the menu. She flagged down the waiter again.
“Are there any dishes on this menu that you and I grew up eating?” she asked the waiter. “You know, from here?” She flipped the menu around so that it faced him.
“Ah, those dishes are on the native menu,” he said. “You have to ask for it.”
Khoudi persisted. “I certainly will later. But why wouldn’t they be included here?”
The waiter looked confused by her question, not, as Khoudi was, by the fact that a place called Noire Point had no food that corresponded to its name. Finally, he resorted to the stock phrase by which people accept what they believe will not change and move on. “That is just how it is here, miss.”
She wondered what the beautiful people thought of the absence of local foods on the menu, or whether they thought of it at all. Would such a question suffice for chitchat? It was certainly a conversation starter, even a debate starter. She continued reading the menu, just to pass the time, having a good laugh to herself at Succulent simmering cage-free chicken with a hint of black man’s pepper, for example. She really had to meet the house poet! Big of him to grant the black man some pepper of his own to go with that cage-free chicken . . . If you talked this way about food where she came from, people would come just to listen and laugh, thinking it was a comedy show. Food was either good or wasn’t, simple as that.
Thoughts of her little family sprang into her mind, unbidden, as she tried to hold back the laughter building within her. Elimane would have loved entering into this banter about the menu, the public one versus the hidden one. Ndevui and Kpindi would have made jokes about everything in the place, and quite possibly Ndevui would have jumped into the selfies uninvited. Namsa would have gone about the place vocally admiring the setup and asking questions about it of Khoudiemata and Elimane.
Khoudiemata didn’t want to be thinking about them right now. She called the waiter over, wanting to engage him in discussing the beverage options, but he didn’t stay long enough this time to allow her to distract herself. Instead she turned her attention back to observing what ridiculousness passed as sophistication in this new way of life she was tasting. She was just watching someone take a selfie at the entrance to the bathroom when she sensed someone blocking the remaining rays of the sun on her skin. She looked up to meet the eyes of a forcefully smiling man full of self-importance.
“Come. Join me at the bar,” he said, extending his hand. He was the sort who was used to getting what he wanted—it was written on his face and in his every gesture, especially toward those he thought were beneath him.
Khoudiemata pushed his hand back, gently but with emphasis, so he knew not to try again.
“Let me buy you a drink,” he insisted.
“Okay,” she said. “Please have it sent over here. Thank you. You seem to be a gentleman.” She forced a smile that said, Leave me alone now.
“Your drink will taste better if you sit with me.” He reached for her hand again, and this time she escaped his grasp by removing her hand from the surface of the table. Broken as her life was, she had never been able to tolerate the company of such men, not even for as long as it took to down a free drink.
“Thank you again, but I chose to sit here for a reason,” she said, this time without any kindness in her voice. But he seemed not to hear her. He pulled up a chair and sat next to her, forcing her to sit up to attend to him.
“Would you like to be my special friend?” he said, smiling in anticipation of the response he was used to getting.
“No. I am not in need of a special friend.” Khoudiemata turned her body away, but not before catching the man’s look of surprise and displeasure at her audacity.
“Then what are you doing, sitting here by yourself and enticing men like me?” He raised his voice for all the room to hear. He walked away but turned back to look at her, a
s if expecting her to change her attitude.
A girl couldn’t sit by herself? Khoudiemata was honestly a bit confused and dismayed by this world she was entering. Evidently, the attitude of most men toward women didn’t change simply because they were richer or educated. She watched as the man began chatting up another girl at the bar.
* * *
—
By the clock over the bar, it was a few minutes past eight when the beautiful people started to arrive. Khoudi heard a group of three young women she hadn’t met before say that they were there for Mahawa’s dinner reservation. They were done to the nines, wearing cocktail dresses, heels, and lots of makeup that made them look unnaturally pale. The waiter showed them to a huge table set with glasses and glasses and silverware and silverware. Khoudi couldn’t imagine what they could possibly do with so many implements. As soon as the girls sat down, some new selfie-takers came and joined them, taking photos of themselves sitting at the table, with open arms or even holding empty glasses until the waiters came by and told them it was a reserved table.
Ophelia arrived next. To Khoudi’s relief, she was dressed much as Khoudi was, casually and smartly, and not overly made up. She nodded hello to the other women, with a smile that to Khoudi’s eyes seemed forced, then took a seat at the end of the long table, far enough that the others would have to strain their voices to talk to her. She immediately began fiddling with her phone, making it unmistakably clear that she didn’t want to engage with them at all. Was this how the beautiful people were going to treat her? Khoudi wondered. Was it only Mahawa who welcomed her? And was even her interest genuine?
Khoudi’s excitement diluted these concerns as she watched more and more of the party arrive: Bendu, James, Andrew, and Frederick Cardew-Boston, and then Mahawa herself. Each time a new person came to the table, everyone stood up and kissed them on the cheeks. I will have to do that too, Khoudiemata thought. She preferred handshakes, which allowed you to look in a person’s face. The eyes, in her experience, usually gave away a lot more than any other part of the body.
She decided to wait for a few more minutes, watching. They had ordered bottles of wine, red and white, and were holding the glasses in ways Khoudi had seen in movies. She called the waiter over and paid for her beers, then made her way to Mahawa’s table, with an air of having only just arrived at Noire Point.
“Khoudiemata, welcome! You know most of us.” Mahawa stood up to hug Khoudi and kiss her on this cheek and that. Khoudi couldn’t tell whether her enthusiasm was genuine. The rest of them didn’t show much excitement, it seemed to her. She dismissed her worries, telling herself that she had simply grown too suspicious. Her hostess was enthused, she reminded herself, and that should be sufficient for tonight.
“Beautiful outfit,” said Mahawa. “Some eyes aren’t going to stay off you, my dear. You should show that body more often. Someone has already been asking about you since our time at the beach.” She winked in the direction of the young men. Khoudiemata had a sudden rush of fear that Mahawa or one of the others would recognize her bag, or her clothes. It was a small circle of young people to whom life was so good, after all, and their families tended to know one another. It seemed unlikely, but she always tried to stay a step ahead of what might be possible.
She went around the table to kiss everyone, starting with the pale-faced girls who scrupulously avoided letting their cheeks touch skin but made unnecessarily loud smacking sounds with their lips. She let her smile open up as she approached Ophelia, Bendu, James, Andrew, and Frederick Cardew-Boston, who kissed Khoudi’s cheeks longer than the others but avoided looking her directly in the eyes when they pulled away. It reminded Khoudi of how Elimane had begun to avoid her gaze lately. What was the matter with these young men?
Mahawa seated Khoudiemata between herself and Frederick Cardew-Boston, and everyone settled in with shuffling of chairs and small talk and laughter. Andrew and James went to the bar and returned with additional drinks in hand and a newspaper. Some story caught their attention and they hunched over the paper, their faces gradually becoming veiled with disbelief. Mahawa, annoyed at having distractions from her party, demanded to know what they were reading, but they were too intent to answer, so she plucked the paper from them and scanned the page herself.
“What? No! I know his children,” she said. She left the table abruptly and went to the bar, then took out her phone and paced as she spoke agitatedly to someone.
“What is it?” Khoudiemata asked, turning to Andrew and James.
There were two stories of interest, they explained. The first was about a high-level prisoner the government refused to name, according to the article. The person had been imprisoned for “violations of national law and attempted treason,” an unnamed government spokesperson had said. Now the prisoner had escaped, which implied that people on the outside were involved, and investigations into that had started. It was suspected that the prisoner had been flown out of the country on an unauthorized aircraft.
The second story was about the former minister of finance and mayor of the city, who had been arrested upon his return from abroad. Unable to pin down enough evidence to charge him with anything else, he had been taken into custody for the crime of attempting suicide, since he had jumped out of a moving vehicle while being chased.
Khoudiemata tried to match their surprise about the first story and not to laugh regarding the second. “Interesting times” was all she was able to utter. It occurred to her that she was probably the only person in the restaurant who knew the real stories, but she couldn’t tell them to anyone—and no one would believe her if she did. It bothered her that her experience of those events, especially the first, was creeping into her evening and threatening to spoil it for her. She envied the beautiful people and their naive connections to these events, which went no deeper than knowing the families of the powerful. She excused herself to go to the bathroom. There she could fight with her memory in private, to make sure it didn’t write itself on her face in public.
By the time Khoudiemata got back to the table, Mahawa had returned as well. The worry on her face had receded, and the newspaper was nowhere in sight. Khoudiemata caught the end of a conversation in which Mahawa was giving an update that the finance minister had threatened to name others if he was brought to trial, and so had been released. Then she turned the conversation to other matters, and soon she was making everyone laugh.
She turned her body toward Khoudiemata. “Which do you prefer with dinner, Khoudi, red wine or white? Frederick Cardew-Boston here is making the case for white.”
“Yes,” he said, his deep voice filled with self-assurance. “It is hot, and something fresh and soft on the palate is required. Besides, I am having fish.”
Khoudiemata wondered how she could be simultaneously so annoyed by this boy and drawn to him. “Can I just call you Frederick?” she asked him. “To say your entire name all the time is just too much.” She pulled herself upright and tried to cross her legs the way the other girls did, but it was not comfortable for her.
Frederick Cardew-Boston laughed loudly, and it sounded genuine. “My grandmother used to say to my father, ‘Why did you give your child this burden that you call a name? People have to eat several cups of rice before they can pronounce it, and when they are done, they will be looking about for him, because his name has no resemblance to him or his spirit.’ She refused to use it and just introduced me to others as Grandson.”
“Well, I don’t think we will be calling you Grandson tonight,” Khoudi said, bringing laughter to the entire table. She did not think what she had said was that funny, but she recognized how getting a favorable reaction encouraged you to speak more.
Mahawa was holding a bottle each of white wine and red. “Okay, fancy girl, we are waiting for your answer.”
“I prefer red,” said Khoudi, “because I like to drink what I like, whenever I like, regardless of anyone’s rules for what
goes with what, or the type of weather we’re having. We only ever have hot weather here anyway.”
Frederick Cardew-Boston raised his hands in mock surrender, so more laughter.
Mahawa filled Khoudi’s glass with red. The truth was, Khoudi was not really sure of her preferences in wine, because she had never had it. She had watched as the others twirled it around in their glasses, looked at it, smelled it, and then sipped before taking a mouthful. Aware of all the eyes on her, she did the same, and Mahawa toasted her. The taste of the wine didn’t quite agree with Khoudi, but she gave it another try. Nothing. In time, she told herself.
“Actually,” she told the table, “that’s not my real reasoning. This place is called Noire Point, right? So if there were black wine, that is what I would have chosen. But since there isn’t, I choose red, because the blood that runs through my veins—through all our veins—is red. So I drink to celebrate life.” Khoudiemata was astonished at how such things popped out of her mouth in this company. Granted, she had said smarter things, and better, in conversation with Elimane any number of times, and she noticed that a couple of the girls at the other end of the table had rolled their eyes at her nonsense—or perhaps because they wished they had some of her audacious spirit. But Mahawa gave her a kiss on both cheeks and said, “I am falling in love with you, my dear Khoudiemata.” And Khoudi felt Frederick Cardew-Boston’s eyes on her in a different way. There was something familiar about the look, and with a pang she recognized who it reminded her of: Elimane.
By now, all the wineglasses were full, and the energy of the table dissipated into separate conversations. Khoudiemata turned to Frederick Cardew-Boston, but instead of meeting her gaze, he hid his face in the glass of his wine, smiling. This too reminded her of Elimane, and it irritated her. Why did they all evade you like that, these boys on the verge of a manhood that might never arrive?
“You are not going to ask me why I am smiling?” Frederick Cardew-Boston looked at his glass.
