by Aubrey Flegg
‘But in Nopani the streets are clean, why?’
‘They are clean because a certain Chief Abonda is not corrupt and sees that the money is spent on brushes and brooms.’
‘Abonda? Father? Father has no Mercedes. He has no car. We have electricity only in the main house. He can’t be such a great man!’
‘Yola, child, you are as bad as the rest of them. Your father is a greater man than half the government here in Simbada put together.’
Yola thought about this. Father had always just been the chief and did the things chiefs do. He had an office in Nopani and he walked the two miles to it every day, otherwise people came to him. It had never occurred to her to think that he was special. She looked at the rubbish outside the window and suddenly changed her mind. Yes, Father was special. Quite vividly she remembered the time he had entered into her mind at her trial; that was special. She turned to tell Hans, but stopped. Some instinct told her that Hans might not understand. There were things about Africa that she knew but that he did not. She smiled to herself; she must look after Hans.
The rebels had never captured Simbada, so the wide colonial streets of the city centre with their gardened mansions still stood in shabby glory; in Nopani, the houses were like eyeless corpses. Here they were intact and the walls were not pockmarked with bullet holes and shrapnel. She gazed in wonder at the blaze of flowers on the bushes that divided the traffic on the road. They passed some government buildings with their flags flying, and smart, clean soldiers on guard. There seemed to be soldiers everywhere – some slouching in alleyways, some sitting, bored, in the backs of trucks. The Landcruiser turned off the main road and pulled up outside a low building. A tree with purple flowers wept tresses over the gate. Yola recognised the sign and logo: Northern People’s Aid. They had arrived.
7
Isabella
The heat, which had been kept at bay while the car was moving, hit them like a wall when the car doors were opened. Hans was preoccupied, putting his papers into his briefcase. Yola suddenly felt alone, abandoned. He jumped down and seemed to be about to dash off, when he remembered her and turned to help her down; her crutches were passed out over the men’s heads.
‘I must find Isabella for you,’ he said. Yola remembered that Isabella was ‘the girl from the office’. ‘The meeting has started, so I must be quick. You will like Isabella, she is from Angola. She was born Senhora Isabella Alvares, how about that for a name? She will take you to the shops and the market, she knows what you will need. We all speak English here by the way, even if our accents are a little strange!’
As they walked down the cool corridors, Yola could hear a voice talking on the radio – the other end of the conversations she had heard in the car. On her right a door stood half-open. She had a momentary glimpse of a shiny table, an orderly scatter of papers on it, and of faces – white and black – turned towards an unseen speaker. One chair was empty, that must be Hans’s. He opened a door at the end of the corridor leading to an office. Hans blundered about looking for a chair for her to sit on. A door at the opposite end of the room opened and a woman hurried in carrying a sheaf of papers.
‘Sorry I’m late, Hans,’ she began, then she saw Yola and smiled saying, ‘Yola? That’s right, isn’t it?’
Yola stared at her open-mouthed. She had expected a European, but this woman was African, vibrant and sophisticated at the same time. She was dressed very simply in tight blue jeans and a black halter-neck top. She was the most beautiful woman Yola had ever seen! Yola was captivated. Without thinking she breathed out, ‘You are beautiful!’ and then immediately wished she hadn’t. But the woman just threw her head back and laughed.
‘Hans!’ she exclaimed, waving him away, ‘you better go out while Yola and I admire each other!’
He closed the door as he left. The woman came over, kissed Yola quickly on the cheek and said, ‘I’m sorry I am late, but I forgot that the Embassy would be closed over lunch. Anyhow, we’ve got all your papers sorted out, we just have to get them all in order, then the next thing will be to do some shopping. Coffee?’
It was when Isabella said ‘coffee’ that Yola realised her voice had the added charm of an accent. Hans had said that she came from Angola. Of course, she would speak Portuguese.
The desk seemed to be covered with papers, all to do with Yola’s impending exile. She had had no idea that it would take this much work. There was a passport, a visa for Ireland and there were medical reports from the hospital about her amputation. She began to feel uneasy – how would she manage in Ireland on her own? Her stump began to hurt, throbbing and burning from the battering it had got in the car. She had a sudden guilty feeling when she found herself thinking, I don’t need a new leg, I’m getting on fine on crutches. I didn’t want anyone messing with me!
‘Why … why are you doing all this for me?’ she asked in a small voice. Isabella leant back and looked at her, head on one side, serious for a moment.
‘Yola, my friend, don’t ask. We do it because we want to, like your Sister Martha wants to, like your father wants to. You see, Hans has told me all about you. If you ask too much “why”, either you will get cocky – I think you can be cocky, yes?’ Yola smiled. ‘Or you will start to feel guilty. You will get a new leg, you will learn a little at school; that’s all we want. You can decide yourself then what you do with your life.’
‘But who … why?’ wondered Yola.
Isabella laughed. ‘Too many questions, Yola.’ She swept the papers together. ‘That’s enough philosophy. Come on, let’s go shopping.’
Yola was happy again.
Isabella took Yola into town in her battered little green car.
‘I’m afraid it is rather old,’ she said.
It looked so fragile and unthreatening after the Landcruiser that Yola laughed in delight. They left it under the guard of a Gabbin-like urchin with half a tip, the other half to be tendered when they got back.
Isabella seemed to have an instinct for what clothes Yola would need, and where to find them. Yola followed her in a happy daze. From time to time, Senior Mother’s envelope would appear and money would be extracted. They laughed till it hurt in the fitting-room of Simbada’s main department store as Yola tried on some of the more outrageous outfits.
Then Isabella took Yola down an alleyway and in through a bead curtain into a tiny passage of a shop, where an old Indian tradesman greeted Isabella like his daughter. Amid the spicy smells of Indian cooking they looked at skirts that would keep an Eskimo warm. Isabella bargained and the old Indian almost wept, but when the time came for them to leave, the old man almost wept again and gave them small spicy cakes. They went to the market to look for a suitcase. The market seemed to stretch to the horizon and even Isabella had to ask where the suitcase stalls were. The man who sold them the case was also from Angola.
‘Bom dia,’ he greeted Isabella, smiling, and Yola listened entranced while they spoke together in Portuguese.
Late in the day, they sat under a tree outside a café at the edge of the market and sipped ice coffee. Isabella explained that Yola would have a travel companion as far as Brussels. His name was Knutt, he had malaria and was being sent home to Norway to rest. Yola relaxed, she was exhausted but happy. There was a lull in their conversation. For a moment, the whole day was condensed in Yola’s mind. Behind it all was Hans – Hans who had started all this for her and opened up a life she thought closed forever, Hans who had encouraged her, and Hans who she had so enjoyed being close to on the road from Nopani. Without thinking she said, ‘I like Hans.’
Isabella looked at her, her head cocked to one side and one eyebrow raised, then she said, ‘So do I. But then, he’s my husband.’
8
Into Exile
Yola was really embarrassed that she had cried in front of Isabella the night before. She had been so tired. The more she had tried to explain her tears, the more embarrassing and ridiculous it had become. It must be so obvious that she had got too fond
of Hans. She had slept the night on a settee in their sitting-room and she thought she could hear them talking about her. In the morning, Hans seemed a little restrained, while Isabella was as nice as ever.
Both of them came to see her off at the airport. Knutt, who was accompanying Yola as far as Brussels, had already gone through the boarding gate. It was time to say goodbye. Yola had planned a kiss for Isabella and a handshake for Hans. As she turned to them she could see that they were embarrassed for her. All her gratitude flooded back, but she could not … no, must not get emotional again. A thought came to her; she turned to Hans with an impish smile and said, ‘Hans, I’m so glad you have such a beautiful wife!’
She had never seen Hans startled before. ‘Ya, ya. But why?’
‘Because otherwise I would have to marry you myself, and you are far too old!’
She picked up her hand luggage and fled. No kisses. She turned just before passing into the departure area. Hans and Isabella had their arms around each other and were laughing and waving.
The airhostess had wanted to put Yola in the aisle seat, where it would be easier for her to get in and out. But Yola had looked so disappointed that she had relented and let her shuffle her way in to the window seat, where she sat, waiting for her heart to stop racing. How did the other passengers manage to look so calm? It wasn’t just the sights that were new to her, it was everything; she found her nose twitching like a rabbit’s at new scents and smells. A white woman had sat beside her in the departure lounge, wafting a soft but invisible cloud of perfume about her. Yola was intrigued, but strangely disturbed. Masked by the fragrance of the perfume she recognised something animal, the scent of the civet cat perhaps, but infinitely refined. Was there a feline animal underneath the woman’s flowery fragrance? She shuddered slightly; the fear of the cat is an ancient one. (Once, when she and Shimima were walking home in the dark, they had seen green eyes in the beam of their torch and had heard the panting grunt of a leopard. But strong, sensible Shimima wouldn’t let Yola run and they got home safely.)
Knutt, his skin yellow from the quinine he was taking for his malaria, was sitting beside her. He searched in the pocket on the back of the seat in front and pulled out a glossy flight magazine.
‘There’ll be one in your pouch, too,’ he said.
Yola nodded. Any other time she would have pounced on a magazine, but just now there was too much to see. She heard a thump, peered out of the window and saw the steps that they had just climbed up being drawn away. This was the moment. There was no turning back now.
The aircraft stood at the end of the runway shuddering, the roar of the engines mounted. Yola dug her nails deep into her palms as their thunder grew and grew. The pilot released the brakes and the unexpected surge of acceleration pressed her back into her seat. She struggled against it, fighting against the surge and – if she had known it – fighting against her exile. The nose of the aircraft lifted and the plane began to climb. Yola turned to look out of the window, pressing her forehead against it and straining to look down. The plane banked and she was looking into a compound, very like her own at home; she could see that people had stopped what they were doing to look up at the plane above them. She closed her eyes, wanting to preserve this little piece of Africa and take it with her. When she came back those people would come to life again: the woman would pick up the water jar she had put down to watch the plane; the boy would scuttle off to stop his goats from eating the thatch on the huts. She held on to the picture, but the golden thread that was holding her to home was stretching … stretching; fearful that it might break, she let go.
They climbed on and on through grey haze. Then, just as Yola was thinking of sitting back, the haze sank below them and the world appeared. She gasped – there was the curving horizon, while above it the sky arched up, blue as a bird’s wing, darkening almost to black directly overhead. She gazed at the horizon again and the great globe of the earth seemed to spin beneath her. Africa would wait for her; she was on her great adventure, and everything was new.
When her neck was tired from craning out, she sank back into her seat and stole a glance at Knutt. His eyes were closed and his skin was lightly beaded with sweat. He needed a spell in Norway to recover. He was one of the dog-trainers who taught dogs to locate landmines buried in the ground. In Brussels, he would see her on to her flight to Dublin. She wanted to ask him about his work, but he seemed to be asleep already. She decided that he was dreaming of fjords and withdrew into her own thoughts.
Yola nearly had a fight with Knutt in Brussels airport.
‘I won’t take a wheelchair! I’m not a cripple. It’s just I only have one leg!’
‘But please Yola, we have been flying all night, you might fall asleep. Once you are in the wheelchair, I will know that they will look after you and see that you get your flight.’
An announcer said something in an incomprehensible language and Knutt broke off, head on one side, listening.
‘Look, Yola, they are calling my flight. Please?’ he begged. Poor Knutt, he looked so sick and yellow.
‘All right, but promise me that when I come home you will teach me how to look for mines with a dog.’ Knutt, who would have promised Yola anything at this stage, relaxed.
‘Ya ya, sure Yola, sure.’
‘In that case,’ she said grandly, ‘I will sit in this chair thing and release you to go back to the fjord you were dreaming about.’ She stretched up and kissed him on the cheek.
As she was wheeled off she had to laugh. Knutt, who’d hardly said a word the whole trip, was rubbing his cheek where she had kissed him. But whether he was more surprised at the kiss or at her knowing that he’d been dreaming about fjords, she couldn’t say.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts. We are on our final approach to Dublin airport, where we will be landing in approximately five minutes.’
Yola, head turned to the window as usual, strained to look down. Below, little blue waves glistened in the sun, and the occasional white-top showed bright and then faded as the wave moved on. A ship trailed a creamy wake behind it. An island appeared, rising ruggedly out of the sea, and white specks – birds, perhaps – wheeled against its dark cliffs. There was a group of white-painted houses, a toy harbour and then the sea racing below, browning towards the approaching land.
‘It really is green!’ she murmured to herself.
She turned back from the window only when the passengers started to struggle to their feet and open the overhead lockers. A middle-aged woman sitting beside her smiled.
‘God bless you child, I thought you would put your head out through that window before we were landed. Are you coming to Ireland on holiday?’
‘It feels like a holiday,’ Yola explained, ‘but I’m really coming for a new leg. Then I’ll go to school for a whole year.’
Yola moved slightly and the woman looked down.
‘A new leg? God save us and I never noticed! Oh dear.’ She went on saying ‘Oh dear’ as she pulled down her handbag. Then, as if she’d forgotten something, she opened her bag and rummaged. She reached across and pressed something into Yola’s hand. ‘I’m sure he’s sorry he’s late, but he will help you on your travels, dear.’
Then she was gone, still fluttering anxiously. Yola opened her hand and there was a worn, but well polished, white metal medal of a saint, a child on his shoulder and waves about his feet.
Yola hoped she’d see the little woman again to thank her, but she didn’t. She was wheeled out by side passages and concrete tunnels to the baggage-reclaim area. When they emerged, her case was circulating on the carousel alone and her immediate anxiety now was whether or not there would be anyone to meet her.
9
Catherine
Anun, just like Sister Martha but much younger and dressed in a neat suit, had met her at the airport. She introduced herself as Sister Attracta. She had a funny sing-song accent. She said she was from Cork so proudly that Yola didn’t like to ask where Cork was
. Yola was amazed to find the car parked on the roof of the airport. Sister Attracta wanted to hear all about her flight and how she had managed in Brussels. Yola told her of her confrontation with Knutt and she laughed.
‘Poor boy, he probably felt pretty awful if he’d had malaria,’ she said. The traffic was getting thicker and she changed the subject. ‘We wanted to bring you to our house here in Dublin Yola, so you could rest, but it is getting close to the beginning of term and it would be nice to get you fixed up with your new leg before the autumn term starts. I hope that is all right; I’ll be taking you straight to the clinic. They are expecting you there.’
A huge articulated lorry crowded them against the pavement and Sister Attracta leaned on the horn. Yola noticed her lips moving as they ground to a halt at the curb.
‘Ought I confess what I nearly said?’ she said with a sheepish grin. But Yola didn’t smile, she was beginning to panic.
‘So many people, so many cars!’ she said as a flow of office girls and young men in suits and jackets surrounded them. She wanted to shrink. The journey and the new sights were beginning to tell. Her stump felt hot, which was often a prelude to it hurting. All these confident young people who knew where they were going intimidated her.
‘You must be dying to get rid of those old crutches,’ said Sister Attracta. For no reason that Yola could think of, tears started flooding into her eyes. She liked her crutches, they were part of her and of home. Uncle Banda had made them for her. She didn’t want anyone messing around with her leg; it was throbbing and sore. She wanted to see the sea again and then go home exactly as she was. They crossed a bridge; they must be near a harbour because there were ships. She turned to stare at them. Perhaps one of them was going to Africa. Homesickness flooded over her. Sister Attracta paid money at a kiosk while Yola managed a surreptitious wipe of her face.
