by Ishmael Beah
Elimane was reading when she arrived home. Kpindi and Ndevui were kicking around a green-looking orange in the clearing, and Namsa emerged from the plane, yawning, at the sound of her return.
Khoudi tapped Elimane on the shoulder, and he looked up, his face sad but calm. She set her raffia bag on the table and began to unwrap the food. They gathered and helped themselves to bread and fish. For once there was more than enough, and they feasted.
9
Khoudi knew that prolonged goodbyes only brought up difficult emotions for them all, so when the weekend finally arrived, she simply announced to the others that she would be gone for a few days. Then she left, before any of them could say or ask too much. And even though she had never been away from them for so long, they simply waved her off, if a little hesitantly, and whistled their farewells.
At 96 Degrees, the sun was strong enough that she didn’t need to rush to change out of her boyish outfit. For the first time Khoudiemata stood naked and unafraid, and enjoyed her shadow on the sand. She tried on the bathing suit Mahawa had gotten her, remembering how Mahawa had praised her physique, and imagined walking around on a beach with other people and not feeling awkward. Then she took off the suit and went into the water, lowering herself in until only her head remained above. The water was warm, and her hand felt warmer still as it caressed her cheeks, lips, and neck, then gently traveled along her dark beautiful body, past her belly and down, where a tingling pleasure made her bite her lips. Afterward, she lingered on the sand, treasuring this haven of hers, this transitional place, feeling an unfamiliar sense of calm. She hoped no one else happened upon it while she was away. Or if someone did, she hoped it would be another young woman like her, who was discovering herself and needed a private place to do it.
She dwelled on these thoughts as she retrieved her suitcase and began to get ready for her night at Mahawa’s house, and the weekend beyond. She dressed with a new confidence about how to prepare for a life that was fast becoming normal for her. And yet she recognized that entering this new world also meant shedding the sense of invincibility that carried her through the life she had been leading as she sailed the streets, invisible to most, seeing opportunities that others missed, creating new ways to survive each day—like taking possession of those tax receipts and figuring out what could be done with them. Kpindi had laughed when she’d recounted her adventure. “So it was you!” he cried. Ndevui had let out a whistle—not a signal, just a low whistle of appreciation—and Namsa had looked at her with little-sisterly awe. Even Elimane had been impressed. “Nice work,” he’d congratulated her. “I always wanted to corrupt something from the government.” And then he’d added, “Take care. The number-one thieves do not take kindly to competition.”
But the thrill of remembering the courage and ingenuity with which she’d acted lost its vibrancy as her mind replayed her encounters with Mahawa and her friends, the ease with which they sat and talked and ate and drank, fearlessly inviting the gaze of whoever passed by. She closed her eyes tightly and experienced again that profound calm within, almost like a deep, short sleep. Holding on to that feeling, she concentrated on the image of her little family, the way they looked when they returned home, as though from another dimension, their faces sharp and hard. Well, they could keep the receipts. Elimane would help them figure out how to sell them gradually, so as not to raise suspicion. And the money and necessities that selling the receipts would bring them would keep them going for a while, even if their work for William Handkerchief disappeared, as at some point it must.
* * *
—
At the entrance to her haven, Khoudi noticed beer bottles littering the ground. No, it would not be long before others discovered her secret spot. She removed her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and called Manga Sewa.
His voice sounded distant, but as always, he was there in a shorter time than seemed possible. She waited as he put her suitcase in the trunk and held the back door open for her.
“How come you are always nearby when I call you? Are you just waiting around here for me all the time?” Khoudiemata said playfully, as he got into the driver’s seat.
“I have the power of anticipation,” he said. “I am where I know my best customers need me even before they think about it.” He looked at her in the mirror. “So where to this time? You are going on a trip?”
“Perhaps you can anticipate where I am going,” Khoudi said, her eyes and her smile wide.
“I am afraid my powers are running low this evening.” He laughed, and she gave him Mahawa’s address.
“Nice part of town,” he remarked.
“Some new friends I have made.” She checked her phone to see if she had missed any texts.
“Do you want me to turn on the AC?” he asked.
Khoudi thought a minute. “No. Let’s roll down the windows a bit so that we can invite the air in.”
“I was hoping you would say that,” he said.
The air outside was almost as hot as the air within, and dusty, but the breeze was welcome, and they rode along in companionable silence for a while as evening fell. She thought how, if you were not from this land, such air would make you cough and you would hate it. But if you had lived here until the land began to embrace you, and then you left, the very dust and heat might be among the things you would miss.
She met Manga Sewa’s eyes in the mirror.
“Last time I saw you, you asked me whether I had ever found something I thought I had lost. Is that something that happened to you?” It was unlike her to ask such questions, as she did not want to be questioned in return. But she was no longer who she had been, she was beginning to realize.
“Yes, so to speak.” Manga Sewa’s face was painted with a curious mix of melancholy and pleasure. “Or at least, I found a way to hold on to what I had lost.”
Something in his manner made her hesitate about pressing him further, and they returned to silence. Before she knew it, night had come, and they had arrived at the gate of a compound ablaze with lights brighter than those of the night market. A guard opened the gate promptly, and Manga Sewa drove in more slowly than the smoothness of the driveway warranted, as if reluctant to bring the ride to an end. The rest of their conversation would have to wait for another ride.
She got out of the car, and he went to retrieve her suitcase, which he set down on the impossibly smooth pavement next to her. She was glad now that she had been able to afford only a used one. Well-worn luggage made it look like she was used to taking such excursions. “I will call you if I need rescue,” she said to Manga Sewa. “Otherwise, I will see you Monday sometime.”
She followed his taillights down the driveway, then turned to face the massive house, the mango trees lining the entryway as painstakingly groomed as her hair. But before she had a chance to take it all in properly, Mahawa came rushing out in shorts and a T-shirt. She hugged Khoudiemata tightly, pressing her entire body against her, whispering, “I might just have to make love to you!” Her breath made Khoudi’s ears tingle. Then she released her grip and laughed. Unsure how to respond—surely this was a joke?—Khoudi hesitated for a second. Then she laughed too, once again in awe of her friend’s free spirit. But she was glad Manga Sewa had left before he had gotten a look at her. She had a feeling he wouldn’t approve.
A young girl about Namsa’s age materialized and vanished with Khoudi’s bag before she could say she had just as soon carry it herself. Then Mahawa took her hand and pulled her into the house, which seemed to spread endlessly into the night, as ablaze inside as out.
“Do you want to go to your room first and freshen up, or shall we get straight to drinking before dinner? Your choice.” Mahawa was walking backward, holding both of Khoudi’s hands in hers, and she steered them into the dining room. Through its windows, Khoudi could look down the valley. In the distance, she could see the fainter, more familiar lights of kerosene lamps. S
ome of them, she knew, were still in motion, going back and forth with those who kept searching for something the day had not given them.
“May I have a drink first, and then go to my room to ‘freshen up,’ as you say?” She looked around discreetly, conscious of not letting her eyes give too much away. The room was perfectly cool, but there was no air conditioner visible. Instead, the coolness seemed to be coming from vents in the polished wooden floor. The bookcases lining the room made it feel both sophisticated and inviting. A phalanx of binoculars and a telescope sat on the wide windowsills, and giant potted plants stood in the corners, breathing their own coolness into the room. Khoudi attempted to mask her insatiable curiosity by holding up her phone and pretending to stare at the screen while her eyes stared beyond it, feasting on the elegance and scale of the house. Why would anyone who lived here ever want to leave?
“You needn’t be so formal!” Mahawa chided her. “Do what you like, okay? I am drinking beer, as it is so hot this evening, but help yourself to whatever you like. If we don’t have it, I can send someone to get it.” She went behind the bar that occupied one end of the room and opened a cabinet. It was lined with bottles full of all kinds of clear and amber-colored liquor.
Khoudi thought of Ndevui and Kpindi, who got drunk on whatever they could find, then pushed that thought out of her head. “Beer, please,” she said, though she intended to study and perhaps taste some of the liquors while she was here, in case she ever had to order them at a restaurant. Mahawa handed her a bottle of Star beer from a small refrigerator under the bar, and then led her down hallways and past what seemed like innumerable doors to the guest room, as Mahawa called it. It was the biggest room Khoudi had ever seen, with its own bathroom and veranda. The bed could sleep six people if they arranged themselves properly. She tried not to show how overwhelmed she felt. How many rooms were there in this house? Where were Mahawa’s parents? Why did they leave her alone with so much to drink?
“My room is right down the hall, so come by when you are ready, and we can go have dinner then. Feel at home, my friend.” Mahawa closed the door and left. Khoudiemata stood there drinking her beer, unable to think about what to do in the space. She looked around and sat on the bed, then headed to the bathroom, where she washed her face with warm water. She sat on the bed again for what seemed like a decent interval, then stepped into the hallway, taking her handbag with her. In the hallway, which seemed to stretch before her endlessly, she heard music. She followed it around a corner to a door with light spilling from underneath. That must be Mahawa’s. She knocked.
“Come in,” called Mahawa.
The room was even bigger than Khoudiemata’s, impossible as that seemed. Instead of two large windows, there were six, and between them hung large, colorful paintings with shapes that looked vaguely like women. There were built-in shelves here too, filled with books and knickknacks that Khoudi guessed came from Mahawa’s travels. It wasn’t so much a room as a suite, with an enormous canopied bed in an alcove and a sofa and chairs, like her very own living room, and to the side, a table and two chairs, even a little refrigerator. The door to the closet was ajar, and it looked like a clothing store, lined with pairs and pairs of shoes and racks and shelves of colorful, neatly pressed and folded clothing.
“We can eat in my room if you don’t want to deal with sitting at the table and all that formality my parents like. They tell me each time someone comes into our home for the first time, I should host them that way. I am making an exception for you because I know you won’t be impressed, Ms. Enigmatic.” When Khoudi didn’t answer, Mahawa picked up the phone and pressed a button. “Can you bring dinner for us in my room?” She listened. “No, just a bit of supper. Yes, that’s good.”
She hung up and turned to Khoudi, then burst out laughing. “Silly, why did you bring your bag with you? You could have left it in your room. No one is going to steal it!”
Khoudi hesitated to set it down, though she knew how ridiculous she looked. The bag held all the money she had in the world. She set it on the far side of the bed, where her eyes wouldn’t constantly strain to find it.
On the wall next to the bed were framed photos she took to be of Mahawa’s family. Three different babies, two boys and a girl. A family of five. The father, tall and dark, had his arms wrapped around an elegantly dressed woman. There were two older boys—those boy babies, presumably—and a little girl who was clearly Mahawa, despite the missing front teeth. She sported the same mischievous smile. “Where are your parents?” Khoudi asked, as casually as she could, while Mahawa opened the fridge and took out more beers. She didn’t want Mahawa to return to her comment about how enigmatic she was.
“They have gone to visit my older brothers, who are at university in the US and the UK.” She added information that Khoudiemata hadn’t asked, reigniting Khoudi’s worry about what questions Mahawa might ask her in return. She reminded herself how much Mahawa liked to be heard and in charge, to be the center of attention.
“So you are all alone here?”
“No, the cooks and housekeepers and guards are here.” There was a knock at the door—had Mahawa conjured it?—and a young woman stepped into the room, carrying a large bamboo basket. She set it down and took a few covered dishes from it, which she placed on the table. Then, one after the other, she took out porcelain plates, bowls, and cups, silver and napkins, and set the table.
“You have okra sauce and jollof rice with fish stew. If you leave it covered, it will stay warm.” The woman stepped back from the table. “Let me know if you need anything else, miss.” With a nod of acknowledgment from Mahawa, she left the room. Khoudiemata stared after her, aghast not at what she was saying but at the sickly pinkish hue to her skin. Only at the knuckles and elbows could you see that her natural tone was as dark as Khoudi’s.
Mahawa caught the look on Khoudi’s face. “My mother did everything she could, even confiscated her whitening creams and threw them away, but somehow she managed to get her hands on more.” She sighed. “Anyway, that is a vexing issue and will make drinking melancholic, so what do you say we drop it?” She raised her bottle. “To the weekend!”
Khoudi raised her bottle to meet Mahawa’s, and they drank. Then the two of them went to the table and sat and uncovered the food, releasing its delicious aromas.
It was an unforgettable night, first for the sheer luxury of savoring the food, one mouthful at a time, and drinking, a sip at a time, until everything was amusing. Mahawa told stories about her travels and her life, and Khoudi asked question after question to keep her going. There was the time Mahawa’s family had gone to Switzerland but had found it so unpleasantly cold that her father chartered a plane to take them home early. Another time, they went to London for what was supposed to be a long weekend. But turmoil broke out back home, so they ended up staying in London for six months, renting an entire floor in a hotel whose name Mahawa couldn’t recall, though she remembered it had the word “Lord.” Her parents hired tutors to give the children lessons, and when they got home they found they were ahead of their classmates in their studies. Khoudi nodded along with these stories as if such occurrences were normal, though inwardly she marveled yet again at how consistently good life could be to some people.
By two in the morning, they had migrated from the table to the wonderfully comfortable carpet. Khoudi was just beginning to doze off when Mahawa got to her feet and went into the bathroom, leaving the door open. Khoudiemata could see her in the mirror as she took off her clothes and changed into the bathing suit like the one she had given Khoudiemata. She came out of the bathroom like a model on a catwalk, stopping right in front of Khoudi and striking an exaggeratedly sexy pose.
“What do you think?” Abashed, Khoudi tried to avoid looking at her, but Mahawa lowered herself to the floor right next to her. “You are more shy about a woman’s naked body than most boys I know,” she teased. Then her face took on an air of seriousness.
Khoudiemata raised her eyes, and Mahawa met her gaze. She felt awake and alert and no longer drunk, and Mahawa seemed the same. They smiled, acknowledging that for the moment, no more needed to be said. Then Mahawa leaned in closer and kissed her. Khoudi hesitated for a moment, then kissed her back. They both sat back, easy with the energy that flowed between them.
Mahawa got to her feet and pulled Khoudi to hers. She put on some music, a song Khoudi recognized and thought was very sexy. I dey mad over you girl, say you are my woman, eh eh, my superwoman, they sang, dancing together until sleepiness began to overtake them.
“I think I need directions back to my room,” said Khoudi. “Your house is like a small town.”
“Stay here,” said Mahawa. “My bed is big enough for both of us.”
And without even answering, Khoudi fell across the enormous bed, and sleep possessed her.
* * *
—
She woke to brightness, disoriented until the delicious sequence of the night returned to her. Mahawa was not there, so Khoudi slipped out of the bed, put her clothes on, retrieved her handbag, and made her way down the hall with its seemingly endless rooms until she found her own.
