The Bitter Side of Sweet

by Tara Sullivan

  Mostly.

  “We were tired of walking, so we hitched a ride on one of the trucks. But then we fell asleep while we were in it. We woke up to the sound of the gate closing. We got out of the truck but didn’t know how to get through the gate, so we decided to run out the next time a truck came in.”

  “And why did you run into me instead of around me?” Frog Face demands.

  “We were afraid of getting caught. And you were blocking the gate. I ran into you so my brother and, um, my sister would be able to get out.”

  For a moment they just stare at me, taking in my story and my rough hands.

  “Where were you coming from?” asks the uncle.

  “A little farm outside of Man,” I lie, giving the name of the district where the cacao farm was located. I hope that these men will accept that my lack of French comes from being a backwater kid instead of from being Malian. No one here loves a foreigner.

  “And why did you want to come to San Pédro?”

  “To see my . . . aunt?” But my tone goes up at the end, betraying the lie for what it is. I close my mouth. Let the nephew think I’m a spy if he will, but I’m not going to tell them that I’m a runaway from one of the farms that supply them with their job.

  “What? Why? What are you not telling us?” The nephew is in my face again, shouting.

  My pleasant look melts without my permission and I find myself scowling. The uncle’s voice cuts into our fight.

  “You have a lot of scars,” he says quietly. “Were you a plantation boy?”

  My stomach feels like it’s dropped out of me.

  “Ayi!” I say, louder than I mean to. But the uncle is looking at me with old eyes and I know I can’t leave it at that. I flick my gaze along my own arms. Yes, you can see the lines left there by the bosses. I just don’t think about them very much. On my legs too, I guess, but hopefully it’s too dark to see them. “Um . . . my . . . uncle made us work for him on his farm near Man,” I say. “He . . . um . . . was not a patient man, so . . . um . . . that’s why we’re running here to live with our aunt.”

  For a moment the big man and I look at each other, and I know he knows I’m lying. But then he lets go of my arm. It feels cold where he was gripping it and for a moment we all stand there, frozen by the surprise of what he did.

  “I had an ‘uncle’ like that once,” he says softly, and rolls up his shirtsleeve. Old machete cuts trace a light web on his dark arms, and chemical burns dot his hands. Those hands worked cacao at some point too. After a moment, he walks to the metal gate, unclips the padlock, and holds it open a shoulder’s width. “Be on your way. But I warn you, you and your family better not come back in here. We’ll turn you over to the police next time.”

  I’m out the crack in that gate like a fish through fingers before I pause. A thin slice of light spills from the inside. The nephew looks angry. I can tell he wants to argue with his uncle, and there’s a calculating look on his face that makes me feel deeply uncomfortable. I know I should get a move on before they change their minds, but I make myself wrestle the rarely used thanks off my tongue.

  “I ni cé,” I say to the uncle behind the closing gate.

  “Be safe,” comes the soft reply a second before the gate clangs shut and the street is plunged into darkness.

  I stand there for a second more, wondering at it all, but then I come to my senses and run away as fast as my legs will carry me.

  I’ve only made it a few meters when two forms hurtle out of the shadows to my left and barrel into me.

  “Amadou!” Seydou’s shouting, grabbing me. Both of Khadija’s arms are thrown around my neck.

  “Gak! Don’t choke me!” I manage to get out.

  She lets go immediately and steps away, grinning.

  “I’m just so glad to see you,” she says.

  “We thought . . . we thought,” Seydou gasps, still attached to my waist like a lichen, “that they were going to kill you, or give you to the police! And then we . . . we were standing here fighting and I said, We need to get in there and save Amadou, and she said, No, we need to go get help. And then I said, What if he makes it out and we’re gone? And then she said . . .”

  “Seydou! Okay, okay,” I say, pushing him off and laughing in spite of myself. “I made it out fine.” I look gratefully between my brother and the wildcat. “And I’m glad you waited for me.” I hug him against my side and smile at her. It feels good to be back with them. “Now that I’m here, though, we really should get off of these dark streets as quickly as possible before something else happens.”

  “I agree,” Khadija says. “Come on. Let’s see if we can find the house where I was staying.”

  We wander the streets for almost an hour.

  Khadija’s excitement seems to override her nervousness about nighttime kidnappers and pushes her forward, but once we’ve put a few blocks between ourselves and the big metal gate, Seydou’s terror no longer drives him. He’s stumbling along miserably, tripping over his feet and holding his arm. Through it all, he keeps his lips firmly pressed together, not complaining. I’ve learned over the past few days that Seydou can do more on less strength than I ever thought. Even so, there comes a point where I can’t take seeing him struggle.

  “Khadija, we need to stop.”

  “What?” She looks at me, anger creasing her face. “We made it all the way to San Pédro and you want to stop?”

  “Awó.” Seydou’s weight slumps against me. “We need to.”

  She glances at Seydou and her eyebrows crumple together.

  “Okay,” she sighs.

  I point with my chin to a vacant lot a little ways farther on.

  “How about there?” I ask.

  “Ugh, no,” says Khadija. “There could be snakes, or broken glass, or drug dealers in there.”

  “Drug dealers? Like the antibiotics?”

  Khadija looks at me as if my stupidity were a hideous rash she can’t quite bear the sight of.

  “No, Amadou. Drug dealers. People who are selling illegal drugs and would kill you for interrupting a deal.”

  I look at the wild grass and scraggly bushes. Snakes only come out in the sunlight, and though Seydou and I have no shoes, our bare feet are so callused we probably wouldn’t even notice if there were broken glass. As to drug dealers, well.

  “Where would you rather be unsafe?” I ask. “In the street, in this lot, or at the docks? Because unless you have a better idea of where we can go and be perfectly happy and comfortable, then I think we should get some sleep while we can.”

  Khadija hesitates.

  “What’s wrong, city girl?” I say in an ugly voice. “Aren’t you glad to be home?”

  That’s all it takes. One unpleasant word and the scared girl is gone. A wildcat glares at me instead.

  “Argh! You have no idea what you’re getting into. Fine! We’ll sleep here for the night. But we’re going to take turns keeping watch with your machete, and if anyone comes by, we run.”

  “Fine,” I say, pulling my machete out of my belt and using it to part the long grass. I wave her into the vacant lot. “Your snake-infested, broken-glass-lined, drug-dealer paradise is waiting for you.”

  Khadija practically snarls as she stomps past me. I wink at Seydou, who’s looking at me curiously.

  “Well,” I whisper, “she went in, didn’t she?”

  Seydou shakes his head.

  “You’re bad, Amadou,” he says with a laugh. Holding the long grass aside with his one hand, my brother stumbles in after her, not seeming concerned about snakes, broken glass, or drug dealers when it means he can finally get some sleep.

  “I guess I am,” I say, and follow the two of them into the vacant lot, smoothing the grass behind me.

  We don’t sleep well that night. Though there are no snakes or drug dealers, there is some broken glass
as well as cans, wrappers, and other trash that I have to clear away before any of us can lie down. And there are ants. The biting kind. After a few attempts to brush them off, we give up and walk on, hiding in the shadows of the buildings, staying off the main streets, and collapsing in empty doorways for a few stolen minutes of sleep when we can.

  One of us always stands guard with the machete when we stop because, even though I’d made fun of Khadija, I can’t shake the feeling that someone might be following us.

  It’s the tiny hours of the morning and it’s my turn to stay awake when I find that I’m right. Khadija and Seydou are slumped against the wall in a small alley and I’m sitting in front of them, machete across my knees, trying to stay awake when I get the feeling again. It’s like ants are crawling up my neck, but this time they’re inside my skin. I don’t know who’s watching us, but I can feel the eyes on me. I squint up and down the dark street.

  Was that a twitch of movement in the doorway there? Did I hear the noise of a footfall? My tired eyes and ears are playing tricks on me. I find myself gripping my machete handle so tightly my knuckles ache.

  Then I see him: a young man in a guard’s uniform, slinking toward us. It’s too dark to be sure, but he looks an awful lot like the nephew from the docks.

  Why is he following us?

  I don’t know the answer and I don’t want to find out. I consider what to do. I don’t want to be caught, but I doubt Seydou has the energy left to run again. Even though we’re not blocked in, I feel trapped. I do the only thing I can.

  I step out into the open, machete held high, and face him. When the nephew sees me, he stops.

  There are barely a few meters between us and I can see the bulge at his hip where his gun is. I only have my machete, but I don’t back down.

  The nephew holds my eyes only for a moment, then glances to where Khadija and Seydou are sleeping behind me. He fumbles in his pocket and takes out a small piece of plastic. He holds it up, and presses a button. A little light flashes and there’s a clicking sound. He turns around and jogs away, leaving me standing in the empty moonlit alley, pointing my machete at nothing but shadows.

  Of all the things I was expecting, this was not one of them. I wait for him to come back. I wait for the sound of a shot and the feeling of blood pouring out of me. Finally, I can’t take the silence anymore. I jostle Khadija and Seydou awake.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  “What? Why?” Khadija mumbles sleepily.

  “I think someone’s following us.”

  That wakes her up. She gives me a look of pure terror.

  “Who?” she whispers.

  I glance at her face and decide this is not an extra fear she needs right now. I change what I was about to say.

  “Probably no one.” I help Seydou to his feet. “I just have a creepy feeling and I don’t want to stay in one place too long in this town at night.” I attempt a smile, but I don’t think it comes across. “Maybe it’s one of your drug dealers.”

  Khadija swallows hard, then gets to her feet. But all her muscles are tight, so I don’t think she buys my explanation. Her eyes cut from side to side, checking every street, window, and doorway for her kidnappers. Stumbling with exhaustion, we carry Seydou through a maze of streets until I’m sure the nephew can’t get to us again.

  Hours later, dawn finds us huddled together in the shadows underneath a parked truck. We’re invisible to anyone passing by, and it has allowed Seydou a few hours of unbroken sleep, but I keep jolting awake to nightmares of getting run over. Once it’s light enough to see, the three of us are off again, though this time Khadija is not nearly as excited as she was before. Even though she doesn’t know about Frog Face, she hasn’t been the same since I said someone might be following us.

  Now, with daylight beginning to filter between the buildings, we trace our tired way, looking for landmarks Khadija recognizes. Finally, we find them. Even so, it’s nearly noon when we’re standing in front of a tall metal door set into a stucco wall, considering it.

  I look up and down the street, expecting hordes of men, led by the nephew from the docks, to jump out at us, but it’s eerily silent. Khadija turns to me.

  “Should I knock?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Your house,” I say, as lightly as I can.

  “You’re right,” she says. “It’s only going to be Stéphane, or Sandrine. Or Mama. There’s nothing to be afraid of, right?”

  I give her a thin-lipped smile.

  She pounds her fist against the door, causing a hollow clanging that makes us all wince. Almost instantly a small section of the door screeches open to reveal a hard, pitted face with a crooked nose. It must be the Stéphane she mentioned.

  There is a second of silence. I look at Khadija. Only because I know her so well can I tell that she’s terrified.

  “Who are you?” she asks.

  21

  The man behind the door barks out a question in French. When he speaks, the pockmarks on his cheeks stretch, making him even uglier.

  Khadija stares at the man for a moment, then answers him, switching out of Bambara.

  He replies in clipped tones, and slides the little metal window shut in our faces.

  “Ayi!” Khadija pounds on the door. “You have to let us in!”

  The guard doesn’t answer. I take in her tattered clothes and dirty face, our overall ragged appearance. There is no way he’s ever going to let any one of us in, even if she can speak French. Khadija starts to cry.

  I bang on the gate, ready to take on the rude guard. The metal square slides open again, but before the ugly man has a chance to say anything, he’s distracted by a high, light voice behind him.

  “Fabrice?”

  Fabrice pulls away from the peephole and I see a tall, slim woman in the yard behind him. Her face is long and thin, with high cheekbones, nothing like Khadija’s oval face, but I can see the same determination in her mouth, the same fire in her eyes.

  “Je—je suis désolé, madame,” Fabrice stammers. “J’étais juste . . .”

  He doesn’t get to finish. As soon as she hears the woman’s voice, Khadija leaps to her feet and grabs at the little opening.

  “Mama!” she screams.

  “Khadija!”

  Lurching forward, Khadija’s mother pushes Fabrice out of the way. She swings the door open with all her body weight and the two of them hurl themselves into each other’s arms.

  “You’re all right!” her mother keeps saying, holding her face, stroking her hair. I’m surprised to hear her speaking Bambara until I remember that Khadija said it was their secret language. “Oh, you’re home, thank God, you’re home. How did you get here? Thank God you’re all right.”

  I wrap an arm around Seydou. My fear of being seen by the nephew again overrides my manners and I steer Seydou through the open metal door, past the embarrassed guard, and into the garden. Once off the street, I stop.

  “Do you think our mama would have done that too?” asks Seydou in a whisper, craning his neck to watch the scene. An ache spreads through my chest as I remember that Seydou never knew our mother. He never knew our father either, since he had left even before that. Moke, Auntie, and I are the only family Seydou’s ever known. I think over what I remember of our mother. She was kind and took good care of us. I’d like to think that she would have run out to us like Khadija’s mother did.

  “Awó,” I whisper, giving him a squeeze. “She would definitely have come out running for us when we got home.”

  “I thought so,” Seydou mumbles, and he rubs his face into my ribs.

  We stand there, waiting to be invited into the house, until Khadija and her mother reach us, tightly wrapped around each other and murmuring softly through tearstained faces.

  “Mama, this is Amadou and that’s Seydou. They helped me escape and get home.” Khadija points to us, but
doesn’t let go of her mother. Her mother frowns slightly.

  “Khadija! Pourquoi tu ne parles pas français?”

  “Amadou and Seydou only speak Bambara, Mama.”

  “Oh,” she says, and switches over too. To us she says, “Why do you only speak Bambara?”

  “We’re just poor boys from Mali, madame,” I say, trying to be as polite as I can. “We never learned French.”

  “From Mali? Really?” Her eyebrows shoot up. She looks at us all again, this time really seeing us. I remember that she’s also from Mali originally. “Goodness gracious, you’re all filthy, and I bet you’re hungry too.”

  Seydou tucks his head behind me, suddenly shy. I see her staring at the stump where his arm should be. It reminds me why we came.

  “Seydou lost his arm a few days ago,” I say. “They cut it off because it was infected. Khadija said you could get a doctor to look at it for us?”

  For a moment, she blinks, taken aback. Then she snaps into action.

  “Of course, of course! Let’s get you some new clothes and a bath and some food and we’ll all feel better to talk then. Please, boys, come in. I’m Fatma Kablan, Khadija’s mom. You can call me madame or Mrs. Kablan. Now, come!” And with that, Mrs. Kablan ushers us into the house.

  Once inside, I tense again. Khadija’s mother’s blouse is a shimmery pink fabric that looks like it would rip if I touched it and the house around us is bigger and better-kept than any I’ve ever been in. You don’t belong here, the house whispers.

  Seydou is so overwhelmed with the grandness of the house that he walks in a slow circle, eyes wide, taking in the solid concrete walls, the sofa and table, the tiles on the floor, the decorative bars on all the windows to keep robbers out. And, sure enough, glass in the windows. I stay stock-still, afraid to touch anything. Seydou runs his fingers over everything in sight.