How Beautiful We Were

by Imbolo Mbue

  The soldiers look around at the square—at the dusty front yards and slanted thatch roofs of the huts that surround it; at the paths diverging from it; at the powdered earth rising as Yaya and other grandmothers and grandfathers approach with hands gripping canes, walking at the pace of toddlers, none of them in any rush for life or death.

  * * *

  —

  I’d imagined there would be at least half a dozen soldiers, but there are only two, both dressed in uniforms of green with patches of red and black. One of the soldiers has hair sprouting out of his chin like a he-goat; the other one has cheeks that jiggle like the belly of a well-loved pig. They look neither angry nor happy, simply like men who’ve stopped by to pick up something of little significance on their way to somewhere important.

  I see Bongo walking up to the soldiers as the village settles around them.

  Bongo offers a hand in greeting. He says something to the soldiers, too faint for anyone else to hear. The soldiers nod. Bongo points toward Woja Beki’s house. The soldiers nod again and smile. I can’t conceive what Bongo could be saying to make the soldiers smile, or how he could will himself to say something smile-worthy to them after what the government has done to Papa. It also makes no sense to me why the rest of the fathers and uncles and grandfathers and older brothers are smiling. I look at my friends, and they all appear as baffled as I am, though, gradually, the looks on our faces change to smiles—nothing seems wiser for us to do in the moment than to join in the smiling. A smile that does not originate from my heart hurts my mouth, but I know I must join in and do my part. We had been taught to do this in school, to follow the leader, and being that Bongo is our leader in that moment, the sides of our lips rise as if pulled up by strings from the sky. Everyone in the square is likely thinking along the same lines, because soon all of Kosawa is smiling alongside the inaudible conversation. Perhaps a few of the smiles are real, but I doubt it—all around me teeth are exposed but eyes are wide open.

  Consumed by upholding our grins, we don’t wonder what the next step in the game might be until we look to our right and see Woja Beki walking toward the square, two of the young men who had dragged him to Lusaka’s hut on the night of the village meeting on either side of him. Woja Beki is smiling, the young men are smiling as their steps lock with his, Bongo’s smile broadens, the soldiers smile on, everyone acting cheerful for reasons no one knows except those who started this lethal game.

  * * *

  —

  “Our dear soldiers,” Woja Beki calls out as he hurries toward the front. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”

  The soldier with the piglike cheeks shrugs and keeps on smiling.

  “How can I waste the time of important men whose jobs don’t allow them even two minutes to spare?” Woja Beki continues. “I’m truly sorry, my dear soldiers. I was visiting a friend, and before I knew it I fell asleep in his house. Fortunately, these fine young men woke me up. They tell me that you’ve come looking for the Pexton men? Is it true what I’m hearing, that they haven’t been seen since they left our village?”

  Both of the soldiers nod.

  “I’m shocked to hear this. How can it be possible, when they left three days ago? This is absolutely unbelievable. I can’t…I’m just…I have no words. None of this makes any sense. Please, let’s go to my house so we can talk about it,” he says, as he gestures in the direction of his house. “I’m glad my people have been keeping you company, but it’ll be better if we can speak in private, don’t you think?”

  The soldiers nod again and turn around to follow Woja Beki.

  “If you don’t mind, my dear soldiers, I’m going to bring along these three young men to serve as witnesses to everything I say,” Woja Beki says, as he gestures at Bongo and the two men who just escorted him to the square. “You must understand, a man in my position needs witnesses before he opens his mouth, lest his words be distorted.”

  The soldiers look at each other and shrug again, which makes me wonder if they’ve been sent to do nothing but nod and shrug. Looking at them and their air of nonchalance, I realize the men of Kosawa were not unwise to leave their weapons at home—there’ll be no need for spears and machetes in today’s proceedings. The soldiers have guns, holstered on their right hips, but they look nothing like men who possess any knowledge of, or interest in, pulling out the guns, never mind using them on us.

  We remain standing in the square as Woja Beki and the five men walk away. Woja Beki’s voice is vibrant as he unleashes words he hasn’t had a chance to use in days, speaking so fast his sentences have no pause between them. “My shock is so great dear soldiers but we’ll sit down and my wives will make us a good meal and we’ll put our heads together and try to figure out where the men could be because there’s no way men can vanish going from one place to another and I can tell you that in all my years I’ve heard no such story and believe me when I tell you that I’ve heard every sort of story there is to hear and my people standing over there will swear that the men got into their car with their driver and left after the meeting and the men said they were going home and I woke up the next morning and pictured them eating the breakfast their wives had prepared for them before going to their offices but you’ve come here to tell me that no one has seen them since that day and I can never understand how it’s even possible….”

  After the group disappears behind a hut to take the path that leads to Woja Beki’s house, my friends and I turn to each other, befuddled. What is Woja Beki doing here? Why is he speaking on our behalf? Is he no longer our enemy?

  I look at our men. They wear no confusion, only satisfaction, because, clearly, what they wanted to happen is happening, and even if their children do not understand it, their plan is working, and as long as the Spirit remains benevolent, victory will be theirs.

  * * *

  —

  We don’t know how long we’ll be waiting for Bongo and the others to return from Woja Beki’s house, so my friends and I decide to make ourselves comfortable in case our wait stretches for hours. Waiting has become us—we’ve been waiting for one thing or another since the day we were born; what is one more wait of a few hours compared with a lifetime of waiting? Grandmothers and grandfathers, leaning on their canes, ask us to run back home and fetch their stools. Mothers ask daughters to bring back mats for them to place under the mango tree so they can sit and stretch their legs; also balls for toddlers to play with, to keep their boredom at bay. Older sisters and younger aunts who had hurried to the square with babies balanced on their hips, some of the babies naked except for the napkins tied around their buttocks, ask their little sisters and nieces to bring an outfit for the baby, and a banana, too, in case the baby gets hungry, and also the straw baby-carrier.

  The children of Kosawa run off in every direction. I return with a stool for Yaya and a cup of water for Juba, but most of my friends return with baskets containing assorted items, for they share a hut with parents and multiple siblings and aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents, huts to which their families add rooms with every new marriage so newlyweds can have space to share with their future children, and grandparents can keep their bedrooms, and unmarried aunts and older sisters and female cousins can have a room of their own while waiting to be plucked by a man, and unmarried uncles and older brothers and any other male relatives can be in the back rooms with separate entrances, no one ever needing to leave home unless they choose to.

  Mama and the other mothers, having made themselves comfortable on the mats beneath the mango tree, whisper among themselves. Our oldest grandparents lean close to speak into each other’s ears. Some of my friends’ older sisters, girls who recently exited childhood and now walk around with the glow of new womanhood, exchange coy glances with boys who’ve decided they’re no longer boys and are thus ready to prove they can do to a woman everything a man can. Eyeing the giggling girls, the soon-to-be men lick an
d pucker the lips on which stand countable strands of hair until a parent notices them looking at each other in a way people aren’t allowed to look at each other unless they’re ready to have babies, at which point the shameless adolescents turn their eyes away from each other and pretend that the only thing on their minds is the fate of Kosawa.

  Fathers and uncles and grandfathers move farther away from the women and children to confer, nodding to whatever Lusaka is saying. My friends talk about Konga. They imagine he’s in the forest, strolling without cares as animals roam nearby and birds tweet above him, listening to the voices of leaves when the wind forces them to speak.

  At the far left corner of the square, Jakani and Sakani stand watching us. They’re in the same spot from which they’ve observed every meeting, including the last one, which they witnessed in entirety, though they did and said nothing even after Konga arrived.

  Sitting on the ground not far from our mothers, my friends switch from discussing Konga to wondering when our stand against Pexton will end, how it’ll end. One of our classmates is getting sicker; he wasn’t in school today. Another friend’s baby brother fell ill; she had to stay home to take care of him so her mother could go to the farm. Whatever hope we had only days ago is fading; Kosawa can’t shake off its desolation.

  Every few minutes, my friends get quiet—death can be talked about for only so long. One of them suggests that we wait in silence. Another says that while we’re silent we should pray in our hearts. Everyone agrees; if we’ve ever needed to pray without ceasing, now is the moment. I bow my head and start praying for Kosawa. I pray for Papa’s return. I pray for Yaya and Mama and for all mothers to cry no more.

  My eyes are closed when a friend nudges me. Lusaka and the other men are walking to retake their places behind the grandparents. I quickly see why—Woja Beki and the soldiers and Bongo and the two other young men are turning around from the path that leads from Woja Beki’s house to the square. Mothers pick up babies and toddlers and stand up for a better view. Everyone stares at Woja Beki as he strides to the front of the square, exposing his spacious teeth, his eyes sparkling. The soldiers are on either side of him, Bongo and the young men a step behind.

  * * *

  —

  We do not need to wait long for Woja Beki to begin speaking. He is beyond eager to tell us that his meeting with the soldiers has been a wonderful meeting—Hasn’t it been? he says, looking at the soldiers, who both nod without interest, their demeanors unchanged.

  “My dear people,” Woja Beki says, “I put my head together with our fine soldiers here and our sons, and we agreed that we absolutely must find a good explanation for what is going on. We considered many different scenarios that could have happened, and then we said to ourselves, Maybe our dear friends from Pexton decided to make a detour to visit a relative on their way back home—which is possible, isn’t it, my dear people?”

  “It is,” our parents and grandparents respond in unison.

  “This is what I think, my dear people: I think that the wonderful men from Pexton went to visit someone who is a relative of one of them, and this relative, being a kind man, told his wife to prepare a bountiful feast for his dear relative and his friends, who have all accomplished something great by becoming workers for American people, and so the wife of the relative killed and stewed the fattest pigs and chickens and sliced and boiled the thickest yams, and the Pexton men and their driver ate well, so well that they decided that, because they were enjoying themselves beyond measure in the relative’s village, they would spend a few more days there; it wasn’t every day a man got a chance to reconnect with a relative and relax like that, and why shouldn’t they take a break for a few days? Their jobs would wait for them, their wives could surely use a break from cooking for them, and their children would have some space to be mischievous, so this delay would be good for everyone. It’s possible the men thought so. Is it not possible?”

  “Anything is possible,” our parents and grandparents reply.

  “Our good soldiers think that the Pexton men are responsible men,” Woja Beki continues. “Our dear soldiers think that our Pexton friends wouldn’t eat and laugh and soak up life so much that they’d forget their responsibilities, but when we asked our good soldiers to come up with another theory as to where the men might be, they couldn’t come up with any. The men have to be somewhere, but where? Their car did not have an accident on the way back to Bézam; otherwise, our good soldiers would have seen the battered car. The men didn’t vanish, because it’s not possible for grown men to just vanish, is it?”

  “It’s not.”

  “Weren’t we all here when their driver turned their car on and started moving it back toward Bézam?”

  “We were.”

  “Didn’t we all watch with our very own two eyes as the car left Kosawa?”

  “We did.”

  “So we have nothing more to tell our dear soldiers except the fact that the three Pexton men are somewhere out there, they didn’t vanish into nothing, they’re having themselves a good time, and someday soon, we’re certain, they’ll return to Bézam.”

  The Children

  How we laughed on our way to school the next morning. All the cracking up we’d done after the soldiers left still wasn’t enough. We needed to dissect every detail—the way they’d looked at Woja Beki after he was done talking; the manner in which they had shrugged and walked back to their car. Did you see the looks on their faces? Aren’t soldiers supposed to be intelligent? Many years from now, we said to one another, the children of Kosawa will compose a song about this first victory that ultimately led to our vanquishing our foes. They’ll skip around in circles, just as we do today when we sing of how our ancestors carved up men from other villages who arrived here lusting over our land.

  * * *

  —

  Our parents had talked about it late into the night, about Woja Beki’s switch to our side. They said he was wise to agree to the deal the men of the village had offered him: help us deceive the soldiers and you’ll get back your freedom. Of course he agreed. After days of sleeping on a bare floor and dreaming of his mattress and pillow, who wouldn’t? And he executed his end of the deal masterfully. But our fathers knew they still couldn’t trust him. They needed to keep him and his family confined to their house. Allowing them to move around the village freely would be a mistake; they would surely escape to Gardens and alert the supervisors. If that happened, it would be a matter of hours before Kosawa was covered in blood.

  * * *

  —

  That morning, we walked to school as we did on all school days, in twos and threes, some of us through relatives’ compounds, others in front of the twins’ hut, and yet others past Old Bata sitting in front of her hut, husbandless and childless, the nightmare of all the girls except our friend Thula, who, on the rare occasion when she had gotten involved in an argument, had made it clear that she found nothing pitiful about having no children.

  Those of us who walked in front of the twins’ hut hurried along, as our parents had always warned us to do—to never, absolutely never, look toward the hut, lest our eyes wander inside it and we see things our mouths wouldn’t be able to say. Our parents’ orders notwithstanding, we’d all been tempted to take a peek—the things our parents forbade us from doing were precisely the things we most wanted to do—but none of us had thus far looked inside it, no matter how much our curiosity egged us on, because our parents had told us stories of boys and girls who once looked inside the hut and ended up with round black stones where their eyes had been. Sometimes we dared each other to go near the hut and see if our parents’ tales had any truth to them, but, despite wanting to awe our friends with our bravery, none of us wanted to lose the eyes we so loved.

  Though we’d never seen anything inside the hut, some of us had heard noises coming from it—the growl of animals interwoven with the rumble of thun
der; babies singing a folk song; pots and pans banging over the sound of people laughing; a woman in labor begging the fetus never to come out; a man passing musical gas. When we told these things to our friends and cousins in other villages, they refused to believe us—their villages had mediums and medicine men but no version of the twins—but we believed each other, for we knew that the twins were capable of deeds many deem impossible.

  Even before our parents warned us never to look the twins in the eye, we knew they were to be revered, these men who were born on each side of the rooster’s crow, Jakani before, Sakani after. We couldn’t tell them apart from a distance—they wore the same long gray beard and the same black-and-brown snail shells around their necks—but we could differentiate them if we looked closely enough: Jakani was right-handed, and Sakani was left-handed; Jakani was born with his left eye shut, Sakani with his right eye shut. They were older than our parents, but younger than our grandparents, most of whom were there the day the twins were born. One of our grandfathers told us that the twins’ mother had been in labor for a week, moaning in pain so loudly for seven nights that no one in Kosawa had been able to sleep, not even the insects and birds and animals, all of whom began chirping and tweeting and bleating and barking and oinking collectively every night, their sounds growing wilder until the laboring woman’s screams crescendoed to a peak, at which point the twins came out, looking like average babies except for one closed eye apiece and large heads with a patch of gray hair on their foreheads, patches that would eventually migrate to their chins.

  Another of our grandfathers told us that, back when he was a little boy, he used to play hiding and seeking with the twins until Jakani began seeing playmates no one else could see and finding things no one had hidden, and Sakani started healing his playmates’ cuts and scrapes with leaves he dashed into the forest to find, chanting healing prayers. A grandmother who died a good death from old age the same day as Wambi once told a couple of our mothers on her veranda, while a few of us lingered around to eavesdrop, that the twins had never shown any interest in women, not even when they were young men with fullness in their trousers. In the best days of their youth, while their age-mates flirted and courted and traveled to other villages to bring back girls who they hoped would give them at least half a dozen children, Jakani and Sakani stayed in their parents’ hut to perfect their crafts, which, after they’d been mastered, brought in the money they used to build their own hut at the edge of the village, where they now lived together.