Welcome to Trashland

by Steve Cole

  I know where it is.

  The treasure may be stolen, but that was ages ago. No one will be looking for it except criminals.

  If I find it, I can sell it fast. Get money.

  I would do good things with that money. I could even give some to Gifty, so she will still teach me.

  But the treasure is out of reach. I hate that feeling. It’s like an itch I can never scratch.

  *

  There’s a line of kids outside Mr Ghazi’s cabin, waiting to be paid for the bits of metal they’ve found. Twenty blank faces waiting for the coins that will fill their slack jaws with food tonight so they have the strength to do it all again tomorrow.

  It’s only cos I’m at the back of the line that I see where Mr Ghazi is. He’s like fifty metres away, talking to some guy on the other side of his cabin. And there’s a tall scrawny kid standing between the two of them.

  It’s Emanuel.

  I watch with my breath held as Emanuel hands something to the guy. It’s money. I just know it has to be Gifty’s cash.

  What is happening?

  The guy counts the money and nods. He shakes hands with Mr Ghazi. Then the guy turns around and leaves with Emanuel. Mr Ghazi goes back to his cabin. In a second, Emanuel and the guy have disappeared behind a row of filthy tents and fresh gusts of smoke.

  “Hey!” I yell. I leave the line without thinking and stumble after Emanuel. I’m gonna smack him, I tell myself. He ran out on me.

  Stole from Gifty. Made his own plans like I’m nothing.

  I’m not nothing.

  “Emanuel!” I’m yelling. “Come here, you son of a bitch!”

  I reach the row of tents half buried under ash like they’re hiding. Looking around, I don’t see Emanuel anyplace. I choke on the smoke blowing from across the dump. A fleck of ash gets in my eye. It stings and waters, and I can’t see. Where are they?

  Wiping my eyes, I stagger forward and almost crash into a group of goats being led by a little kid. I push my way past them and set off across the maze of rusting cars and shipping containers and shacks and shelters.

  There’s the boom and clash of metal on plastic, telling me this part of Trashland is busy with pounders – the men and women who break apart electricals to get at the stuff inside. They look as worn out as their tools and equipment.

  I ask about Emanuel and the guy, but no one has seen anyone come past. I pick a new path and I’m almost crushed by a large truck reversing over the uneven land. Its dented rear door flaps sadly like a broken wing. I scramble up a scrap pile and sit on the side of a half-buried fridge.

  No good. I’ve lost Emanuel and the man with the money.

  But Mr Ghazi must know what they’re up to!

  I race back to Mr Ghazi’s office. My thoughts are racing too. Does Mr Ghazi know about the treasure? He gave us the shovels without question … Was he handing over Emanuel to a gang member cos nothing was dug up? Or was Emanuel paying the guy to get himself safely out of town …?

  The line outside Mr Ghazi’s cabin is still long. I take my place at the back of it. The seconds pass slowly to the broken rhythm of the pounders as they work. I’m sweating. Only my mouth is dry. I want answers badly, but maybe I shouldn’t say anything to upset Mr Ghazi. He could stop me working here. Then where would I go?

  Maybe I should just stay quiet. It’s not like I’ve lost anything real. Not like Gifty. Maybe the treasure isn’t my only chance to get out of here?

  Or maybe it is.

  I wait in line and wonder what I’ll do. I feel like one of the chickens in the coop. There’s only dirt to eat, but if you don’t eat it, you die.

  CHAPTER 7

  Confrontation

  Mr Ghazi looks happy when I finally get inside. He is whistling under his breath.

  “Ah, Theo. Last customer of the day. My hardworking hero!” he says, beaming. “Where are my shovels? Not much in your sack. You are losing your touch, perhaps?”

  I’m not losing anything else, I tell myself.

  So I sling my sack on his desk and the words spit from my mouth: “I saw you with Emanuel, Mr Ghazi.”

  His smile slips. “You’re mistaken, Theo.”

  “No. I saw.” My breathing’s so fast it’s making me dizzy. I try to slow it down. “Emanuel gave that guy money and when you left, so did they. What’s going on?”

  Mr Ghazi gets up stiffly and crosses to the door, pulling it shut to dampen the din of the pounders outside. Then he turns and walks towards me. His face is hard, like it’s turned to stone. “All I’ve done for you, and this is how you speak to me?” Mr Ghazi’s voice is low and it sounds dangerous. “Who do you think you are, Theo?”

  It’s like Mr Ghazi’s got bigger with the door closed and the world shut out. He’s filling the space – if I tried to run now, I’d never get past him.

  He leans towards me and says, “I asked you, who the hell do you think you are?”

  I want to curl up really small, but something won’t bend in my body. I stand my ground and I grit my teeth so they don’t chatter. “You call me … a hero.”

  Mr Ghazi flinches, just a bit.

  “Emanuel is my friend, sir, and I’m scared for him,” I say. “Bad people want to get him.”

  “So I’m bad people now?” Mr Ghazi says. His voice is quieter, but his eyes are like dark spotlights burning into my own. “I try to help others, all my life. Day in, day out in this stinking hole, and this makes me bad?”

  “No, sir. Not you.” I get the feeling now that it’s not really me he’s angry with but something bigger. “I think Emanuel is in trouble.”

  “We are all in trouble, Theo,” Mr Ghazi says. Slowly, he straightens again. There’s a kind of smile cracking slowly across his stone face. “So, my little hero. You are worried for your friend, that’s all?”

  “He stole money from my teacher, Mr Ghazi,” I tell him.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” says Mr Ghazi. “This is Trashland. If I spent my days finding out who stole what from whoever …” He laughs gruffly. “The man I introduced to your friend works for Ghana’s Green Advocacy group.” He sees my face is blank, and so he explains: “This group have scientists who measure the levels of toxic chemicals in the soil here. They have to take samples in a wide area. This man said he can train Emanuel for a job.”

  I blinked. “He can?”

  “But it costs money,” Mr Ghazi went on. “Like school costs you money. Emanuel might earn a good wage someday, with the right training.”

  “Oh …” I say, and think back over what I saw. Emanuel would have to be an idiot to stick around Trashland. Gifty will get him, or the gangs will.

  Or maybe I can get to him first.

  Because I think I know what Emanuel is really up to.

  There’s a loud squeal from the metal door as Mr Ghazi pushes it open. The light outside is dull and grey. “You should hurry along, Theo,” Mr Ghazi says. He empties my sack of scrap onto the scales and sighs. Then he reaches into his pocket and drops some cedis into my hand. I gasp at how many there are.

  “That’s more than this scrap is worth,” Mr Ghazi says. “But tomorrow I want you working hard all day – so buy something to eat. You’re a good kid, Theo. You know I look out for you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I mumble. What’s happening? Is Mr Ghazi trying to say sorry – or trying to shut me up?

  “Rest tonight, OK?” he goes on, more like the normal Mr Ghazi, not the scary stone version. “No more dreaming. No more mixing up what’s real and what’s not.” He steers me towards the door. “Looks like it’s going to rain hard tonight, Theo. Go straight back to your shelter and stay there.”

  And it hits me: the way Mr Ghazi’s smile broke past his stony face before was like the rumble in the clouds that comes before a storm breaks.

  *

  Just a few minutes later, the sky is like a grey sponge squeezing its contents out over the world. The rain brings down all the toxins in the air. My head aches and my lungs sting
.

  Night-time gathers behind the storm clouds, and I sit in my tiny shack beside the chickens. I watch the outside through holes in the sheet. The chickens peck and pace like they’re nervous.

  I hardly sleep. There’s an iron taste in the back of my throat. The rain stops before it’s light, and that’s when I head out into the dump. My crappy trainers squelch in the slimy mud. A goat sees me from behind a pile of old car exhausts. God knows what it’s chewing on.

  We all have to survive here however we can.

  And like Emanuel, I know that the ground can hide surprises.

  The sun’s rising as I reach the place where X marks the spot. I see something solid in the shifting shadows.

  And then I know I guessed right.

  Emanuel is good at changing plans. He thought he could find his treasure in the dirt with a magnet. But he couldn’t, so he had to think of something else.

  He thought he could dig up the treasure with a shovel. But he couldn’t, so he had to think of something else.

  So now, here in the shadow-light, is a huge mechanical digger, parked up and ready to swallow down Trashland’s bedrock. It looks as if it could tear out the Earth’s core.

  That’s why Emanuel paid Mr Ghazi’s friend who works for the Green Advocacy group. They can go anywhere to get samples of Trashland’s soil. I’ve seen these big diggers in action. They dig deep to see how far the pollution has spread. They roll in on anyone’s turf. They’re allowed to. No one stops them.

  But I know that this digger isn’t here to collect soil samples.

  Today, at last, Morgan’s treasure is coming out of the ground.

  CHAPTER 8

  Lost and Found

  I sit on a rock and watch as Trashland slowly comes to life with the new day. People appear from sagging tents and between gaps in plywood. Someone pokes a fire into red flickers. Coils of wet cable are forced into flames that spit and hiss, belching out black smoke.

  Then I hear a voice in the distance: “Come on. It has to be early. We don’t want too many people seeing.” The voice breaks off into fierce coughs.

  It’s Emanuel. I guess he’s talking to the man I saw yesterday – the man he’s paying for the digger with Gifty’s money.

  I hide behind an old oven that’s sinking into the ground like a shipwreck. Emanuel comes into sight with Digger Guy. Digger Guy looks rough. He probably spent Gifty’s money on a good time last night. Emanuel is pretty much pushing Digger Guy along.

  Scowling, I wish I was big like Mr Ghazi so I could loom over Emanuel. How dare you? I would say to him. How dare you take my help and then leave me out of this?

  I watch from behind the rusting oven as Digger Guy climbs into the digger and it chugs into life. In a minute it’s munching at the ground like a kid eating chocolate pudding. The digger’s engine growls, throwing out smoke. The wisps of black are soon lost in the deeper clouds from the burning wires. Emanuel’s coughing as the fumes blow over him – he’s not used to things here. He still looks clean. Hopeful.

  Seeing the hope on his face makes me so mad.

  I realise now that Mr Ghazi must have heard the whispers about the treasure too. Mr Ghazi recognised Emanuel cos he looks like Morgan. I wonder how much his share will be?

  Mr Ghazi is a businessman, so he will have got himself a good deal. He’s taking no risks – he didn’t even pay for the digger; Gifty did. So if the gangs come after Mr Ghazi, wanting their stuff, he can deny he knows anything. I can almost hear him telling Sammy: The Green Advocates said they were testing the soil. I don’t know what they found. Take it up with them!

  I watch as the digger pushes some scrap out of the way. It’s carving a trench into the ground. Not too deep, but wide. Emanuel is standing close by – just ten metres from me – watching the ground as it crumbles and shifts. He’s tensed and focused. He’s ready to stop Digger Guy the second he spots something gleaming.

  Some burners come up to Digger Guy, complaining he’s on their turf and stopping them from working. Digger Guy pulls a piece of crumpled paper from his pocket and waves it at them. “I have to be here,” he says. “Take it up with those do-gooder Green groups, not me!”

  The hours pass by, smothered in smoke. I ache all over, crouched here out of sight. I know I should be working, but I have to see this through. I feel my stomach growl and wonder if I’ll get any food today.

  It gets close to noon. I can see that Emanuel is bored, fidgeting. He’s also looking kind of worried, staring about behind him. I guess he thought he’d be rich by now.

  The digger moves backwards and forwards. It’s making a hell of a mess. You could play five-a-side soccer in the area it’s chewed up. And all these dead appliances are being pushed aside, piling up like a wave that’s set to crash down on the burners as they go about their business. The digger keeps biting into the toxic soil, hungrier than I am. More and more earth is scooped up and emptied out.

  And then Emanuel jumps to his feet and yells at Digger Man to stop.

  He’s seen something.

  It looks like a thick flap of dirty skin. It’s a plastic sheet, wrapped around something in the ground to protect it. While Digger Guy backs up, Emanuel jumps into the shallow pit in the soil and starts to pull at the plastic.

  “Need a hand?” I call.

  Emanuel jumps like he’s been hit by lightning. He stares round wildly, sees it’s me and looks so busted.

  “What are you doing here?” he stammers. “How’d you know?”

  I shrug. “I saw you pay this guy. I guessed what you were buying and where you’d dig.”

  “I was going to tell you,” says Emanuel.

  “No you weren’t,” I say, and walk past him, staring at the thick plastic wrap. Whatever’s inside, I guess Morgan buried it just beneath the surface. But as time passed and rain kept falling, the soil and sand got mixed about and the treasure has sunk deeper and deeper.

  “What have we got?” I say, falling to my knees to get a closer look.

  “What have I got,” Emanuel argues, pushing in beside me. “It’s my treasure.”

  “We had a deal,” I remind him.

  Emanuel shrugs. “I paid this guy to dig it out.”

  “With money you stole from Gifty,” I say. “Gifty’s mad at you. She thinks you’ve left Accra. But if I tell her you’re still here, she will set her cousin on you in a moment.”

  Emanuel glares at me. “I’m gonna pay her back.”

  “You better,” I tell him. “But not out of my share!” I start tugging at the thick plastic. It’s heavy. Emanuel tries to push me away, but I shove him back. My magnet is in my hand and I press it to whatever’s under the plastic. I want to say, See? My magnet found treasure just like you wanted it to. You were right to want my help!

  But the magnet doesn’t stick. If it’s metal it should stick, right?

  Emanuel grabs my wrist and twists. I drop the magnet as he tries to pull me away.

  “Hey! Hey!” Digger Man shouts. He’s suddenly beside us, pushing us apart. “Let me see what this is.” He has a knife and slashes at the plastic. It hits something hard beneath. Something real.

  Me and Emanuel look at each other. We stop fighting and yank at the cover.

  A handlebar points at us like an accusing finger.

  We heave and pull at the plastic. I realise my magnet has fallen into the split and now it’s clinging to a chrome headlight. I snatch it back as Digger Guy strips away more of the plastic to reveal chipped paintwork on a red front axle. A mudguard. A dead metal body.

  “What the hell?” Digger Guy swears as he looks at Emanuel. “This is your big treasure? It’s a motorbike, kid. Just an old motorbike!”

  CHAPTER 9

  Lockup and Breakout

  By nightfall the bike is standing in Digger Man’s lockup, where he keeps all his tools and stuff. A dim bulb shines over the bike like a cheap spotlight.

  We kept on looking for the real treasure all afternoon. A crowd of burners ended up watching u
s work, asking us stupid questions: “What are you after?” “Don’t you have enough dirt yet?” We ignored them and kept on searching.

  But we found nothing more. If there was real treasure here, it must’ve been dug up and taken by someone long ago.

  It was almost night-time when Digger Man announced he was giving up. Emanuel had paid him for a day and that day was done. So we packed up the bike and heaved it onto the digger and drove away, leaving one hell of a crater in the ground behind us. We rumbled past so many tired workers stumbling on their way to grab some rest.

  I guess word will spread that we dug something out of the ground.

  And that something is a battered old Yamaha YBR125.

  We’ve unwrapped it, cleaned it off a bit. It’s an ordinary motorbike. Not even a cool high-speed model.

  I’m so gutted. I can’t believe what I’m looking at. In my mind we were digging up a treasure chest crammed full of precious metals. Not an old bike. Some parts of it look newly painted, but others are scratched and bare. It’s like this bike was a project Morgan started, but it got buried before he could finish it.

  Emanuel is staring at the bike like it will change into something new if he wishes hard enough.

  “Key’s in the ignition,” Digger Man says, tapping in front of the handlebars. “It has a single-cylinder engine, air-cooled. Not much to go wrong, even when it’s been buried in the ground for years.”

  Digger Man mounts the motorbike and twists the key. He checks the fuel tap is on and presses on the kick-starter a couple of times to get compression. He gives the throttle a twist and with a firm kick tries to start the engine.

  Nothing happens for two more kicks. Finally, the engine starts, and its throaty roar bounces around the lockup’s rusting metal walls. Smoke from the exhaust stinks up the enclosed space as Digger Man adjusts the rear-view mirrors on their long metal stems.