The Bitter Side of Sweet

by Tara Sullivan

  “Well,” says her mother, spreading her hands, “they don’t know she’s here and they’ve left me alone while she’s been gone. The only people who have seen you are Fabrice, Sandrine, and the doctor, all of whom I trust, so there’s no reason to think that they’ll come here again.”

  A horrible, prickling feeling creeps up my spine and digs its claws into the back of my neck. I suddenly realize why I’m upset that phones can take pictures. I reach out and grab Khadija’s hand.

  “But Khadija,” I say, squeezing her arm, “I think they do know that you’re here.”

  Mrs. Kablan’s head whips around to me.

  “What?” she asks.

  “We caught a ride on a truck,” I explain, “and it dropped us here.” I shuffle through the pictures until I find a shadowy one of the dock. “When we got out, one of the guards followed us, but when he found us, I think he took a picture of us with his phone.” Khadija is looking at me like I just announced that I wanted to be a cacao boss when I grow up. My stomach churns. “I didn’t want to make you more scared last night, so I didn’t tell you then, but don’t you see?” I shake her arm again. “The man who followed us last night works at the docks that are run by the chocolate people! Once he had your picture, he went away again. The only way that makes sense is if he knew where to find you later.”

  For a moment Khadija and her mother both stare in silence. Then Mrs. Kablan bolts out of her chair, pulling Khadija with her.

  “We have to get out of here!” she says, dragging her to the bedrooms. “Now! Go, get your shoes on. I’ll get the passports and some money. Meet me at the front door!”

  “No!” Khadija and I both say at the same time.

  “This is not a joke!” her mother snaps at us. “Move! Now!”

  “What about Amadou and Seydou?” Khadija asks.

  Her mother’s eyes are glazed with fear, but she focuses on me again for a moment.

  “Go get your brother,” she says, “and hurry! You’ll have to come with us. We’ll figure out where we’re all going once we’re out of this house.”

  I pound into the front room, not waiting for her to change her mind and leave us here in San Pédro. I run to where Seydou is still asleep on the floor and grab him into my arms, blankets and all. He thrashes awake.

  “Let go of me!” he screeches.

  “Shh! Seydou, it’s me!” I shove the blankets away and grab his right hand. “Come on, we need to run. Be quiet!”

  Instantly awake, Seydou follows me without another sound. When I get to Khadija’s mother’s bedroom, I see her shoving papers from a desk drawer into a satchel.

  “Where’s the medicine Sandrine bought for Seydou?” I ask.

  “On the table by the front door,” she says over her shoulder. Her movements are jerky, panicked. I run.

  Sure enough, on the little table by the front door I see a small brown paper bag. When I pick it up, it rattles. I take a moment to look inside and check: it’s medicine. I shove the bag in my pocket. I can still hear Khadija and her mother shouting at each other about what to take or not take and I’m considering what food I should grab from the kitchen when the lights go off.

  Though Seydou is next to me and I know that Khadija and her mother are only steps away, the sudden darkness makes me feel like I’m completely alone. Fear does that. I grab Seydou tight against me. I can hear Mrs. Kablan whispering Khadija’s name and the shuffling footsteps of the two of them in the dark.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” I whisper to Seydou, trying to make myself believe it. Just as the words leave my mouth, I hear a click from behind me, and the front door swings open.

  23

  Whirling from the opening door, I push Seydou ahead of me into the kitchen and shove us both under the table. I tuck my head so that my eyes won’t shine in the darkness and give us away. So much for having a guard, I think. I listen with every fiber in my body, my mind racing for what I can do to help, my heart leaping around in my chest like maize thrown into a pan of frying oil.

  I have to get out of here.

  I hear men’s footsteps start across the front room, heading for the bedrooms.

  I can’t leave without Khadija.

  They’re not trying to be quiet about it.

  I won’t let Seydou be hurt again.

  I bite my lower lip so hard the rusty taste of blood floods my mouth. I force myself to stand and peek around the kitchen door frame, Seydou pressed to my back. I see the shadowy forms of three men, but I can’t do anything about that.

  I’ll get Seydou to safety, then I’ll come see what I can do here. With that thought, I turn and slink to the kitchen door, Seydou’s hand gripped in mine. I don’t really have a choice: I have to get out of the house. I crack the door and peer out into the dark yard. When I see shadowy figures hurrying through it, I nearly bolt back into the kitchen. But something stops me. I look at them again and realize I know those shapes. I have no idea how Khadija and her mother got out, but taking one more quick look around, I dash to join them.

  They freeze when they see us running at them, but then I catch up to them and grab Khadija’s hand. Mrs. Kablan takes her other one. Behind us, I hear the men shouting ugly things and a steady smashing sound. They’re trying to break down the bedroom doors. They don’t yet know that we’re out here, but we don’t have much longer. A tug on my hand tells me that Khadija’s mother has realized this too and is pulling us to the big gate. I see Fabrice’s slumped form in the shadows off to the side. I hope he’s all right.

  Mrs. Kablan goes over to him and feels at his neck, then rejoins us. Khadija dashes ahead and pulls the bolt open slowly so it doesn’t squeak. She pokes her head into the street, then turns to her mother.

  “What if they’re out there too?” she whispers.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Mrs. Kablan murmurs. “We have to get away from here. Run to the right, as fast as you can, and if we get split up, meet me at the newspaper headquarters. We’ll borrow one of their cars.”

  I have no idea where her newspaper headquarters is, so I clench my teeth and decide not to be left behind.

  “Ready to run?” I whisper to Seydou as Khadija’s mother slips out the gate.

  He nods, a well-controlled fear hiding behind the courage in his eyes. I give his hand a quick squeeze.

  And then we run.

  We dash from their house into the street and around the corner. I’m sure we’ve been seen, but right now no one is chasing us. As I dodge behind Khadija I wonder whether this will be my life—always needing to run, never feeling safe.

  Up ahead Khadija’s mother slows to a walk and takes her daughter’s hand. I copy her casual pose as we turn another corner and now we’re on a street lined with shops. Music pours out into the dark spaces between the lights, and people linger together. I try not to look too suspicious as I follow along, but I know that my breath is still fast from running and I can’t help my eyes darting from face to face, looking for danger. I feel wound tight inside with uncertainty as we walk, block after block, past people and cars. Some stare at us, some ignore us. All of them make the prickling fear climbing my neck stronger.

  Finally, just when I think I can’t take it anymore, we get to a high wall. Khadija’s mother knocks on the gate and the night guard lets us in. But even when the gate closes behind us and the guard hands her a set of keys, Khadija’s mother keeps walking quickly. We’re not safe yet.

  She takes us around to a low car shelter.

  “Get in,” she says, stopping by a white Jeep, and we all do. The cold plastic of the backseat crinkles under me as I slide in after Seydou. Khadija sits on his other side. As soon as we’re in, her mother drives the Jeep to the front gate. The night guard comes to her window. Mrs. Kablan speaks quickly and urgently. I hear Fabrice’s name and see the guard nod. After their quick conversation, he opens the gate.

&n
bsp; Khadija’s mother cranks the window closed again and says over her shoulder to us, “Stay down and don’t let anyone see you.”

  The three of us scoot onto the floor. It’s uncomfortable, but we stay still and silent as Khadija’s mother drives out of the newspaper compound and navigates through the traffic. I watch her neck as she drives. I can see the taut muscles pulling against the skin there. I tell myself that when I see her relax, I will too. Until then I stay on high alert.

  It feels like hours, though I’m sure it’s not nearly that long, when Khadija’s mother finally says, “Okay, you can get up now.”

  I hoist myself off the floor and feel the other two settle onto the seat beside me. Looking out, I see the taller buildings and brighter lights shrinking in the background. Ahead, I see darkness. We’re driving into the countryside. I feel darkness inside too.

  “Where are we going?” asks Khadija.

  “Right now, we’re just putting some distance between ourselves and San Pédro,” her mother replies, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “That was too close. Far, far too close.” Her voice is shaky but I can see that the tension has gone out of her neck.

  I collapse against the seat.

  “Try to sleep,” Khadija’s mother says. “Once we’ve gotten away a bit, we’ll stop and have a think about what we’re going to do next.”

  Khadija makes a small sound, which I take to be agreement. Or maybe it came from me, I don’t know anymore. It’s been too long since I’ve slept, too long since I’ve felt safe. Seydou tucks his feet up beside me and leans into Khadija. I rest my head against the window and close my eyes. With every slow jostle of the Jeep, my head smacks against the glass. I was hoping that it would be enough to keep me awake since I know that I need to be paying attention but, against my will, I find myself falling asleep.

  When I wake up later, there is no vibration of a motor and moonlit leaves are plastered against the glass beside my face. I glance around, disoriented. Out the window over Khadija’s head, I see a brighter patch that is the road. I realize Mrs. Kablan must have pulled off into the bush. Seydou and Khadija breathe evenly beside me, but I hear a soft muttering from the front of the Jeep that tells me Khadija’s mother isn’t sleeping.

  “Madame?” I whisper.

  The noises stop abruptly.

  “I’m sorry, Amadou. Did I wake you?”

  “No, I just woke up. I think because we stopped. Why have we stopped?”

  I see her wave a shadowy hand in the near darkness.

  “I was getting too tired to drive safely. I figured it would be better to pull over and get some sleep before going much farther.”

  I take a chance and state the obvious.

  “You’re not sleeping, madame.”

  Khadija’s mother gives a tight laugh.

  “You’re right. I was only able to turn the car off, not my brain.”

  I sink my head against the cold plastic and let my eyelids drift closed. I know exactly what she means. The exhaustion of the last few days washes over me. The worry about what’s going to happen next follows close on its heels. Though it feels like heavy weights are pushing on them, I force my eyelids open. There are things that need to be decided.

  “Madame, when we go again, where are we going?”

  I see her rub tiredly at her forehead. I wonder if she has a headache.

  “I’ve been trying to decide. What we really need to do is get as far from here as we possibly can. I won’t let Khadija get taken again. And San Pédro is no place for two Malian boys who don’t speak any French.”

  “So . . . ?”

  “So,” she says, rubbing away, “I think maybe the best thing to do would be to find some rural border crossing into Liberia. Somewhere out of the way, somewhere so small we can hope they don’t have a functioning radio . . . From there, the paper should be able to get us out to France, and no one in the Liberian government is likely to detain us on our way out.”

  Liberia. I’ve never heard of it.

  “Is Liberia near Mali?” I ask.

  There is a brief silence. Then, in a soft voice, “No, my dear. And that’s a problem I haven’t figured out yet. Liberia is on the coast. Mali is to the north. All of Guinea is in between. We’re nowhere near Mali. I’m so sorry. I know that Khadija promised you that I’d get you home, but she didn’t understand the situation.” Her voice breaks slightly as she crushes my hopes. “I’m going to have to leave you somewhere as safe as I can manage here, or in Liberia. I can’t take you to Mali.”

  It feels like my heart is a handful of packed mud thrown into water, dissolving away until there’s nothing left. To get Seydou home I now have to cross an entire country. I look over at his small form curled against Khadija and force myself to breathe again. I don’t know how, but I’m going to take care of him.

  Really, when I think about it, my main problem was assuming that she would be able to help me. I remind myself that I’ve learned no one really helps you.

  Not true, whispers a little voice, and I want to brush it off, want to stay angry. But the fact is, I can’t. Though she got us into a heap of trouble, Seydou and I would never have made it off the farm without Khadija. And, though her mother won’t help us get home, she did feed us, and give us new clothes, and get a doctor for Seydou, and take us with her when she was escaping the chocolate men. Unbidden, other images flash through my mind: Seydou, putting mangoes in the sack of pods, and the other boys, especially Yussuf, being kind when they could and when I would let them.

  Thinking of Yussuf makes my heart clench unexpectedly. I wonder where he is right now, what he’s doing. I realize that I will probably never see him again. I’ll probably never know whether he escaped or is back in the padlocked hut with a new crop of boys. I’ve spent more than two years telling myself I didn’t care about anyone but Seydou. I’m surprised to find that, all that time, I was lying.

  “Hakéto.”

  “Yes, Amadou?” Her voice is so tired, I almost regret speaking again, but I need to know.

  “And your article? What’s going to happen with the article you were writing about the boys who work in the chocolate fields?”

  There is a small pause, and when she speaks her voice is heavy with regret.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” That’s not what I was expecting. Not from a woman who was so dedicated to the story that she kept working even in the face of threats and silent phone calls. Khadija’s mother sighs.

  “There’s nothing to be done. I won’t stay in this country one minute longer than I have to, not with what happened to Khadija, but there is still so much that’s missing from what I was going to write. The newspapers and magazines will never publish a half-researched article.”

  “No!” I say, gripping the side of her seat. The strength of my feeling has pulled me forward. It’s lucky that Seydou wasn’t leaning against me, or he would have fallen. “Your story must go out there, madame! If you don’t write it, then we won’t have anyone to speak for us.”

  Her exhausted silence is its own answer. After what seems like a long time, she whispers, “I’m afraid I have no good answers for you tonight, Amadou. I’m sorry.”

  I uncurl my fingers from the upholstery and push my shoulders into the seat, but I can’t relax. After a few minutes, I hear her breathing even out, and I know that exhaustion has finally overtaken her and she’s fallen asleep. But I feel like someone has kicked a hive of wasps inside me. Feelings swarm around my belly and chest with no way out, stinging my heart and filling my thoughts with venom.

  Khadija is being taken away from her home. Seydou and I are being dumped in a country where we don’t know the language, with no one to help us. Mrs. Kablan’s article isn’t going to get published, and no one will ever know the fate of all the chocolate boys.

  Thousands, Mrs. Kablan had said when she was fir
st telling us of her article. There are thousands of kids like us, working across the country to make a sweet for rich kids in other places. Thousands. It’s a number that matters so much I can’t wrap my mind around it. Yussuf’s face stares at me, the boys huddled behind him the way they looked when I knocked the lock off the sleeping hut. I decide, in that moment, that Seydou was right all along.

  If we’re going to escape, we need to take everyone with us.

  I reach over and shake Khadija and Seydou. They startle awake silently, tensed to run.

  “We need to talk,” I say, pitching my voice low and soft so as not to wake Mrs. Kablan.

  “What is it?” asks Khadija.

  I take a deep breath.

  “I was talking to your mama before she fell asleep,” I say, “and she says that she’s not going to finish her article.”

  “So?” yawns Seydou.

  “I think,” Khadija says slowly, “that we have bigger problems to think about right now, don’t you?”

  I grind my teeth in frustration.

  “Of course we have bigger problems right now,” I say. “But don’t you see? If we only ever deal with our problems right now, then everything else never gets talked about. Your mama has to write her article so that people find out about this.”

  “What difference is that going to make?” Khadija asks.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe none. But I still feel we owe it to the kids who are stuck out there . . .” I struggle to find the words for what I mean. “Think of Yussuf,” I say to Seydou, “and all the others on the farm. And it’s not just them. Mrs. Kablan said there are thousands of kids on farms like ours all across Ivory Coast. And you”—I turn to Khadija—“you’ve only been gone for nine days, but even so, weren’t there times when you wished you could tell someone where you were? When you needed so badly for someone to know what was happening to you that it felt like trying to breathe with rocks on your chest every second of every day?”

  Seydou nods.

  “Awó,” Khadija whispers, so softly I can barely hear it.