Bitter Chocolate

by Sally Grindley

  ‘Don’t do that!’ Kojo protested. ‘You’ll have Le Cochon after us again.’

  Pascal shrugged his shoulders. ‘Right now, he’ll have his face in a trough and then he’ll be snoring in his hammock.’

  Tiene rushed around, snorting like a pig. When he dropped on all fours and snuffled about amongst the trampled beans, Kojo joined in, giggling uncontrollably, and tried to barge Tiene over. He wasn’t strong enough. Tiene knocked him over instead and stuffed a handful of beans down the front of his shorts.

  ‘Ha!’ Pascal laughed. ‘More muscles for you.’

  Kojo struggled to his feet, the beans dropping out through the bottom of his shorts.

  ‘Yuck!’ screeched Tiene. ‘Look what he did, look what he did!’

  Kojo was about to throw his own handful of beans when one of the other boys warned that someone was coming. In unison, they each picked up a pod, raised their machetes and buried them into the shells once, then again.

  As Pascal emptied the contents of a pod, he looked round to see a small boy approaching, his back bent double under the weight of the sack he was carrying, his face taut from the effort of staying upright. Pascal ran over to him and grabbed the sack from his back.

  ‘You shouldn’t be doing that,’ he said angrily. He dropped the sack on to the pile of untouched pods.

  The boy stood in front of him, eyes red from exhaustion and wide with fear.

  ‘You’re frightening him,’ said Kojo. ‘It’s not his fault.’

  ‘I know it’s not his fault,’ snapped Pascal. ‘Do I look stupid all of a sudden? How old are you, boy, and what’s your name?’

  The boy looked anxious to get away, but Pascal took his arm gently and asked him again.

  ‘Name: Didier. Age: nine. I go now.’

  ‘Didier!’ squealed Kojo. ‘His name’s Didier!’

  Pascal gave him a withering look.

  ‘Drogba! Drogba! Drogba!’ Tiene chanted. ‘He’s gonna wipe the smile off the faces of all those other countries. Vive Didier Drogba! Vives Les Éléphants! We’re gonna crush those other teams.’ He placed a cocoa pod in front of his feet, took four long steps backwards, then ran towards it. He made to kick it with all his might, but right at the last moment lifted his foot over the top. ‘Goal!’ he cried. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and skipped around, punching the air with his fists. When he stopped and pulled his T-shirt down, he saw that Pascal was glaring at him, while Kojo had resumed his work. He sniffed loudly and turned his back on Pascal. ‘Just cos you’re not from here,’ he muttered.

  ‘I don’t want to be from here,’ Pascal retorted. ‘You can keep your stinking country and your stinking football team.’ He turned back to the boy, who was trying to get away. ‘Where have you come from, Didier?’ he asked. ‘We won’t hurt you, don’t be scared.’

  ‘Far, very far,’ muttered Didier. ‘Go now or big trouble.’ He started to run.

  Pascal let him go, but hurled his machete across the ground in anger. ‘What are they doing bringing kids that young in here?’ he growled.

  Kojo and Tiene didn’t answer.

  ‘It’ll kill him,’ Pascal continued. ‘He only looks about six.’

  ‘You had it worse,’ Kojo said quietly.

  ‘What would you know?’ said Pascal. ‘Anyway, I’m tough. I’ve always been tough. That kid won’t be able to hack it.’

  ‘What do you care all of a sudden?’ Kojo asked. ‘It’s the same for all of us.’

  ‘Someone has to.’

  ‘You never did before.’

  It was true, Pascal had to admit to himself. But there was something about the young boy’s face that reminded him of himself when he was that age. He hadn’t always been tough, whatever he might have said to Kojo.

  ‘Maybe I’ve had enough,’ Pascal sighed. He picked up the sack of pods and tipped them on to the pile, just as another boy arrived with a sack.

  ‘Better not let Le Cochon see you slacking,’ the boy said. ‘He’s already on the warpath.’

  ‘Ha! He’s always on the warpath,’ said Tiene. ‘What’s Mr Piggy upset about this time, Youssouf?’

  ‘Herve dropped a cocoa pod on his trotter and he thinks Herve did it on purpose.’

  ‘Did he?’ Kojo asked.

  ‘Would you?’ Youssouf sniggered.

  ‘So Le Cochon’s footballing days are over,’ Tiene said, laughing.

  ‘Before they’ve even begun,’ Kojo sniffed.

  ‘Perhaps we could arrange to drop one on the other trotter as well,’ Pascal joined in. ‘Or on his head.’

  Tiene pretended to thump his head with a pod. ‘Ow, ow, ow!’ he shrieked. ‘My head feels like it’s gonna burst.’ He dropped to the ground, waggled his legs in the air, then fell still.

  ‘Whoops! The Pig has snuffed it.’ Youssouf grinned. ‘Better bury him.’ He began to heap discarded pods on top of Tiene, but a warning shout made him empty his sack and run off through the bushes.

  Pascal saw Mr Kouassi marching towards them, his stained shirt stretched tight over his enormous belly. He was wielding a bicycle chain in his right hand and a stick in his left.

  ‘Stay where you are and do as I say,’ Pascal hissed at Tiene. He knelt on the floor beside him and cupped Tiene’s head in his hands. ‘Close your eyes and pretend you’ve fainted.’

  ‘What the hell’s goin’ on?’ the overseer yelled.

  ‘It’s Tiene,’ said Pascal. ‘He needs water. The sun’s got to him.’

  ‘I’ll get to him if he don’t go back to work. If he can’t do the job, he can get out and we’ll find somebody else to do it. On your feet, slacker.’

  ‘Really, Mr Kouassi, he’s not at all well. He could die if he doesn’t have some water soon.’

  Pascal could sense the overseer hesitating. He wouldn’t want a death on his hands. Tiene groaned theatrically – too theatrically, Pascal thought, and when he felt Le Cochon breathing heavily right behind him, his shoulders tensed. He waited for the stick to land on his back.

  ‘He don’t look that bad to me,’ Le Cochon said finally. Then he demanded of Kojo, ‘You, fetch some water and be quick about it. You others, get on with your work or you’ll soon know what it feels like to be ill.’ He hauled Pascal up by the back of his T-shirt. ‘You too,’ he ordered. ‘He don’t need you fussin’ over him like some big soft mama.’

  Pascal turned on him, fists clenched, and stared him in the eyes.

  ‘Go on,’ Le Cochon goaded him. ‘I dare you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t waste my energy,’ Pascal growled.

  The overseer pulled away, then lashed the ground with the bicycle chain right by Pascal’s feet. ‘You’re livin’ on borrowed time,’ he spat. ‘You don’t seem to understand who’s in charge ’ere and what that means.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Pascal.

  ‘Then get your butt over to the plantation before I redesign your legs with this.’ He stretched the bicycle chain out in front of Pascal’s face. ‘Don’t push me, son, d’you hear? Just don’t push me.’

  Chapter 10

  Pascal’s father was told that he had to return to work.

  ‘It doesn’t matter how much I argue that I need to be here to protect my family, they still insist that I go back,’ he raged. ‘And if I don’t, I won’t have a job to go back to.’

  Pascal, his mother and Angeline were sitting at the table, discussing Mr Camara’s news over their supper. Pascal was astonished that his father’s job was in danger. He had always believed that it was his father who made the decisions about who did what at the mines. He had never really thought that he could be answerable to somebody else. It had certainly never occurred to him that somebody could take his father’s job away from him just like that.

  ‘Don’t they understand that the situation here is worrying?’ his mother asked.

  ‘The situation is contained, as far as they’re aware. From what they read and hear, there’s little chance of the fighting escalating beyond the border areas. They hav
e work that needs to be done,’ Mr Camara replied, ‘and I am the one to do it. If I’m not there it doesn’t get done, with the result that they’ll have to find someone else.’

  ‘They’re putting the greed for diamonds in front of the safety of our family,’ said Angeline.

  ‘And we’ve never even seen a diamond,’ added Pascal.

  Their mother sighed deeply. ‘If your father has to go back, he has to go back, and that’s all there is to it. I’m sure we’ll be fine, and we can’t afford for him to lose his job.’

  There was little else to add. They spent the rest of the meal in silence, each pondering what Mr Camara’s absence would mean for them. Pascal watched his father light up a cigarette and go outside. He wished he could think of something interesting to say to him, something that would make him realise that his son was worthy of his respect, something he would remember when he was far away from his family with only his work colleagues for company.

  What would Kamil say? he wondered. Then he decided that he didn’t care, because he wasn’t Kamil, he never would be Kamil, so it was pointless to try and think like Kamil.

  He wandered to the door. His father had his back to him, a plume of smoke rising above his head.

  Pascal hesitated before saying, ‘Will you be back for my birthday, Papa?’

  His father turned towards him. ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I’ll be eleven in two weeks’ time. Will you be able to come home again?’

  ‘I’m sorry, son, but I don’t think I’ll be able to have more time away.’ Mr Camara took a deep drag of his cigarette and watched for Pascal’s reaction.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Pascal replied, hiding his disappointment. ‘I understand. You must be important for them to want you there so badly. I’m glad my papa is important.’

  His father nodded. ‘We’ll celebrate your birthday when I come back,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll look after Maman and my sisters while you’re away.’

  Mr Camara grinned. ‘Why so grown up all of a sudden?’

  ‘Because I need to be,’ replied Pascal. ‘Because the situation here is worrying.’

  His father grinned again. ‘Your mother’s a little over-anxious,’ he said. ‘Don’t believe everything you hear. The government is in control.’

  ‘What time are you leaving?’ Pascal asked.

  ‘Midday tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m glad it’s not a schoolday, so I can say goodbye properly.’ Pascal watched for his father’s reaction.

  ‘What’s so different this time?’ Mr Camara said casually. ‘I’ll be back soon enough.’

  ‘I miss you, that’s all,’ said Pascal.

  ‘You’ll be all right.’ His father stubbed out his cigarette, touched Pascal briefly on the shoulder and went back inside.

  Chapter 11

  It was a grey and humid morning. Pascal remembered it well later on, that ominous backdrop. It was as if the sky were pressing down, refusing to allow any fresh air or light to pass through, in an attempt to suffocate all living things. Mr Camara was tetchy. He was always tetchy when it was time for him to return to work. Pascal wasn’t sure whether it was because he wanted to stay, or because he was anxious to be on his way.

  Bijou had developed a nasty rash that had become infected, so Mrs Camara left early to take her to the fortnightly clinic in the village, promising to be back before it was time for her husband to catch his bus.

  ‘What if there’s a long queue at the clinic?’ he protested.

  ‘Then I’ll ask if I can move forward,’ replied Mrs Camara. ‘I’m sure people will understand.’

  ‘Well, I can’t wait if you’re not back,’ he said. ‘The bus won’t wait for me.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Mrs Camara. ‘And I will be back to say goodbye.’

  Pascal wondered if his father thought Bijou shouldn’t go to the clinic, he was making such a fuss about it. Angeline attempted to calm him down by putting a large bowl of freshly sliced fruit in front of him. He picked at it half-heartedly, then pushed it away and went outside to have a cigarette. While he was there, he walked by the fence, checking that nothing had shifted since he had repaired it. Pascal watched him from the doorway, until Angeline asked him to fetch some more water so that she could wash the dishes. He grabbed the bucket and ran off down the path. Even if his father wasn’t being very friendly, he didn’t want to miss these last few moments with him. It might be some time before he came home again.

  Pascal spotted Kamil and Olivier ahead of him, walking towards the pump. At first, he wanted to turn back and wait until they had gone. Then he thought about overtaking them, but decided he’d better not. Instead, he caught up with them and walked alongside.

  ‘You all right?’ Kamil asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Your papa goes back today, doesn’t he?’

  Pascal nodded.

  ‘Do you wanna play football with us this afternoon?’ said Olivier.

  Pascal nodded again, though he wasn’t sure. He didn’t really feel like doing anything.

  ‘Mr Bon says he’ll have the television in his shop later, so we can watch the big match,’ said Olivier. ‘Vive Le Syli Nationale!’

  Pascal had forgotten all about it. The Guinean team was due to play a friendly against Nigeria. All the village men and boys gathered at the bicycle repair shop whenever there was a match to be watched. If only his father didn’t have to go back. It had been a long time since they had watched a football game together.

  ‘Vive Le Syli Nationale,’ he echoed, trying to sound enthusiastic.

  They reached the water pump. Kamil filled his two jugs, put one on the ground, then, without warning, swung the other towards Pascal. A stream of water flew from the jug and soaked the front of Pascal’s shorts. The water was so cold that Pascal froze with shock while Kamil hooted with laughter.

  ‘Too slow, too slow!’ he chanted. ‘He-he, you wet yourself, little bro.’

  A barrage of gunfire stripped the smile from his face.

  ‘Shit! That was really close!’ Olivier shrieked.

  A second barrage was followed by a devastating explosion.

  ‘Run!’ Pascal yelled.

  They hurtled down the path towards the village. Another explosion stopped them for an instant while they worked out where the sound had come from. There was shouting now from all around – and more gunfire.

  ‘Keep going!’ Olivier yelled.

  When their homesteads came into view, Pascal felt a surge of relief. Mr Camara was framed in the doorway.

  ‘Papa!’ he cried out. ‘What’s happen—’

  A burst of gunfire obliterated the rest of his words. His father shouted something that he didn’t hear. There was a blinding flash of light. An enormous explosion almost blew Pascal off his feet. Then all he could see was flames. Flames licking at the bamboo fence. Flames lapping at the brittle grass. Another explosion. His father’s face. Screams. Gunfire. Thudding feet. Shiny metal. A hand pulling at his arm.

  ‘Come on, Pascal. They’re going to kill us,’ shouted Olivier.

  ‘Papa!’ Pascal screamed.

  ‘It’s too late. Let’s get out of here.’

  Something bit hard into his shoulder. He touched the place with his fingers. It was wet. He pulled his fingers away and looked at them. They were red.

  He ran, then, faster than he had ever run in his life. He ran until his lungs threatened to rupture and his legs to collapse, and still he ran. He ploughed along the dusty trail thrown up by Olivier and Kamil before him, until they crashed through the barricade of trees that stood sentry for the length of the forest. Once inside, they swerved this way and that to avoid roots and low plants that hindered their progress as if on purpose. Deeper and deeper they went. Soon, all Pascal could hear were the sounds of his gasps for air and the tripping of his feet. Sweat poured down his face and stung his eyes. He lost sight momentarily of his cousins as the darkness of the inner forest enveloped them.

  And then he had to stop.
His body refused to obey any more exhortations to keep going and his legs crumpled underneath him. He lay on the ground, prepared just to lie there and accept whatever consequences came his way, before struggling to his feet again to search for Kamil and Olivier.

  He found them close by, sprawled over a pile of logs. Kamil was retching and crying. Olivier, like Pascal, was trying to catch his breath. They could hear sporadic gunfire in the distance, but at that moment the forest cradled them in its arms.

  None of them spoke. Kamil began to rock backwards and forwards, while his crying turned into a low moan. Olivier sat with his head buried in his hands. Pascal squatted on the forest floor, his back against a tree, unable to think beyond the notion that they were still in danger, unable to see beyond the bright white light that flashed over and over again in front of his eyes.

  Another explosion made him jump to his feet.

  ‘I’m going back,’ he said. ‘Papa and Angeline need me.’

  ‘You can’t go back!’ Olivier cried. ‘They’ll kill you.’

  ‘Papa needs me,’ Pascal insisted. ‘I’m going.’

  Olivier leapt to his feet and grabbed hold of him. ‘Your papa doesn’t need you,’ he said firmly. ‘You know he doesn’t. But we do. If we stick together we’ll be safer.’

  ‘And Maman? She went into the village with Bijou.’

  ‘The only way we can help our families is to stay alive until . . . until the trouble passes.’

  Olivier kept his hold on Pascal. Pascal tried to pull away, but gave in when the realisation finally dawned on him that there was nothing he could do.

  ‘Papa will be all right,’ he said. ‘Papa is strong.’

  Olivier looked at him quizzically, then nodded. ‘We have to be strong,’ he said. He gripped Pascal by the shoulder. Pascal yelped and pulled away. ‘You’re bleeding,’ said Olivier, staring at the blood on his hand.

  ‘Something hit me,’ whimpered Pascal. Only now had he become aware of the pain.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ asked Olivier.

  It hurt like mad, but nowhere near as much as the pain in his head. Pascal grimaced. He wanted to go home. He wanted to feel his mother’s arms around him, comforting him, telling him there was nothing to worry about.