The Other Side of Truth

by Beverley Naidoo

  Slow down! Think! Remember the children who entered the forest all on their own? When they met the small drum and heard it thumping, they should have stopped. Instead they jumped over it and traveled in deeper. The medium-sized drum tried to warn them too but they just raced around it and got even more lost. So it was too late by the time they stumbled into the largest drum…the swallowing drum! It gulped them down. And that would have been that except, luckily for them, their mother came to rescue them.

  But your mother can’t.

  Right now, Papa couldn’t rescue them either and they had no idea how long it would take him to arrive. So what should they say when the questions started again? Mama always said, Truth keeps the hand cleaner than soap.

  Yet look what trouble had come through Papa writing the truth in his newspaper.

  Every now and again, Sade heard walking or running footsteps outside the window. It sounded as if the bedroom was next to the passageway. She buried her head in the pillow. Who would come to question them? Miss Police Business or Cool Gaze? She winced at the thought. Or the Emergency man with the ginger hair-tail, what was his name…Robert?

  But it was someone else who sat on Mrs. Graham’s sofa later that morning studying them. Mrs. Graham had insisted that they borrow her son’s tracksuits so they wouldn’t catch colds. Kevin had already left for school and they were not looking forward to his return. It was bad enough having to wear a stranger’s clothes without that person giving you nasty looks.

  The lady on the sofa smiled at the children. Her eyebrows arched like a bird in flight and Sade was immediately reminded of her own Iyawo. Here was the same steady gaze as from the figure on her desk! If Iyawo came alive and her ebony plaits could hang down instead of rising into a crown this was surely how she would look with her wood transformed into soft rich brown skin. However, when the lady spoke, it was not with a Nigerian accent. She sounded more like a newsreader from the little radio on the sideboard, on Papa’s beloved BBC World Service.

  Iyawo’s twin introduced herself as Jenny from the Children’s Team. She was a social worker with Robert who had already told her how the children had been found. She and Robert wanted to help, she said, but could only do so if they knew more about them. She would like to start by knowing their names.

  Sade’s heart pounded. This Iyawo-Jenny sounded friendly, yet how could they be sure? It was the police who had handed them over to Robert Hair-tail, so anything they said to this lady might go back to the police. What if the police in England sent the information to the police in Nigeria? Then they would know that Folarin Solaja’s children had escaped to England and the Brass Button officers at the airport would be on alert for Papa himself.

  Iyawo-Jenny tried again.

  “You do speak English, don’t you?”

  She asked the question so gently that it seemed terribly rude not to reply. Sade gave a very slight nod.

  “Good. Robert said he thought you understood him. There’s no need to be frightened because we only want to help you,” Iyawo-Jenny reassured. “Have you run away from home?”

  Both children kept their heads lowered.

  “Look, if you’ve run away, and think your parents will be angry, then we shall try to help you sort things out.”

  The more the social worker spoke, the more Sade’s mind spun. Femi’s feet nervously tapped the carpet. They couldn’t keep silent forever, thought Sade. They needed help to find Uncle Dele. But what could they say that was safe?

  “Would you rather write your names for me?” asked Iyawo-Jenny, offering her pad and a pencil. Reluctantly Sade placed the pad on her lap. She hesitated, looking to Femi for a response. But Femi had kept his eyes averted from her and everyone else all morning. He seemed to be sunk into the oversize tracksuit and himself. Surely they could not avoid giving their names? Sooner or later they would be forced to say them and Iyawo-Jenny certainly seemed less frightening than Miss Police Business or Cool Gaze. Aware of the social worker’s eyes on her, Sade carefully printed SADE and FEMI.

  Iyawo-Jenny stretched over to read.

  “What lovely names,” she said. “Can you write your surname too?”

  Head still down and the blood rushing to her cheeks, Sade printed ADEWALE. Femi’s feet stopped jiggling. It was their mother’s family name.

  “Where do you live?” asked Iyawo-Jenny softly.

  Slowly Sade printed IBADAN. The city close to their home village. She prayed that Femi wouldn’t say anything. It wasn’t a complete lie. They often spent time with Grandma there in the holidays. But it wasn’t really the truth.

  “That’s in Nigeria, isn’t it?” said Iyawo-Jenny. “Is that where you’ve come from?”

  Sade gave a tiny nod.

  “Ahh! That’s interesting. When did you arrive?” asked Iyawo-Jenny quietly.

  Sade did not reply. Iyawo-Jenny changed the question.

  “Did you arrive yesterday?”

  Another small nod.

  “Did you come by yourselves?”

  Sade shook her head.

  “Did you come with your parents—and somehow get lost?”

  Femi stiffened beside her, pushing his feet against the carpet. Before Sade was able to wipe it away, a large tear dropped on to the pad on her lap.

  CHAPTER 16

  REFUGEES?

  IYAWO-JENNY PUT HER ARM gently around Sade’s shoulder, trying to comfort her. Femi shifted out of reach, farther along the sofa. Iyawo-Jenny tried a few more yes/no questions, which Sade answered in small nods and shakes. But the social worker did not learn much more. Only that the children had come without their parents and that something unexpected had happened in Nigeria. Something dangerous enough for the children to be sent to London. But she learned nothing about what had actually happened to Mama and Papa. And also nothing about Mrs. Bankole or Uncle Dele.

  “It sounds as if we shall have to apply for asylum for you,” Iyawo-Jenny said finally. “That means asking if you can stay here for reasons of safety. You know, to be treated as refugees. Nigeria has been in the news a lot because of what happened to Ken Saro-Wiwa.”

  The surprise must have shown in Sade’s face. Mr. Saro-Wiwa had been at university with Uncle Tunde in Ibadan. Papa had been writing about him and the other Ogoni leaders locked up in jail. Papa’s newspaper had been protesting for months that the Brass Buttons weren’t going to give them a fair trial.

  “Aahh, that poor man! Terrible what they did to him, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Graham had come in from the kitchen. “So are these two from that same country, all the way from Africa then? And there’s me thinking you’d just had a little spot of bother at home down the road!”

  Iyawo-Jenny’s midnight-calm eyes were solemn as she turned to the children. “Try not to worry too much. Whatever it was, you have obviously had a frightening experience. You can tell us more when you’re feeling a little better.”

  She explained that Mrs. Graham would take them to buy some winter clothes and that they would stay with her for a few days until other arrangements could be made. If possible, Iyawo-Jenny said she wanted to find a Nigerian family to take care of them.

  Sade returned to the bedroom. She curled up on the camp bed under the quilt to think about what Iyawo-Jenny had said. Refugees? They were those winding lines of starving people, with stick-thin children. People who carried their few possessions in dusty cotton bundles, struggling across deserts and mountains. Refugees were people trying to escape famine and war. You saw them on television. Were she and Femi really refugees? She wondered if she had done the right thing, not giving their true surname. It was so difficult to know what was right and wrong anymore. And doing the right thing could lead to awful things happening. Mama knew that. She had tried to warn Papa. They had heard the shocking news about Mr. Saro-Wiwa on Papa’s World Service, sitting together at the dining table.

  “It has been confirmed that this morning the Nigerian authorities executed the political activist and writer Ken Saro-Wiwa and eight other Ogonis…”
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  Papa’s head is bowed in his hands. Mama prays. Sade and Femi join her. Even Papa joins in the “Amen.” Afterward Mama implores in her tender way.

  “Please, Folarin, please take care. If they can do this to Ken, they will do anything. These people don’t care even what the whole world thinks.”

  “I shall be careful, don’t worry.” Papa’s face is somber. “But I have to be able to face myself in the mirror. And our children need to know that bad men succeed when the rest of us look the other away.”

  Papa had spent the whole weekend working furiously on an article about the executions. That’s why he had been eager to get to the office early that morning. On the day the gunmen came…

  Mrs. Graham put her head around the door. Her next-door neighbor had a daughter Sade’s age and might be able to lend Sade a few warm clothes. Did Sade want to come with her? When Sade shook her head, Mrs. Graham didn’t try to force her.

  “Will you be all right on your own? I’m only next door. Expect you just want to get used to things, don’t you? Jenny says she’ll sort out the money and we’ll go and buy some new clothes tomorrow, yeah?”

  After she heard the front door close, Sade slipped back to Femi in front of the television. Single-handed, Superman was knocking out a bunch of mean-looking guards. The people who had been rescued were gasping, then smiling with relief. There was a lot of shaking hands and congratulations before Superman flew up and away into the sky. The program that followed was much less exciting. Four people sitting behind a long table, talking.

  “Too boring!” said Femi, turning off the button.

  Sade wanted to talk.

  “Femi, was it all right, giving Mama’s name—to the lady this morning?” Sade was anxious to know what he thought. Ignoring the question, Femi wandered over to the sideboard. Sade followed.

  A telephone and a thick directory lay beside a silver-framed photograph of a little boy with a maroon bow tie, dark twinkling eyes and a head full of black curls. It looked like Kevin when he was younger. Another photograph showed him in the same outfit laughing as he sat on Mrs. Graham’s lap. There was no picture of Mr. Graham. Femi began flicking through the pages of the book.

  “See if Uncle Dele is there!” Sade felt a wave of hope. Of course, why hadn’t they thought of looking in a directory yesterday? The excitement didn’t last long. There was not a single Solaja.

  Femi went on browsing.

  “Look! Nigeria!” Femi had found a list of codes for different countries with names of towns and cities. Abeokuta…Ibadan…Kano…Lagos.

  Femi picked up the handset of the telephone.

  “Let’s try to ring, Sade—I want to talk to Papa!” he pleaded.

  “It costs a lot. We must ask first.”

  “I just want to hear what the ringing sounds like from here. I’ll put it down straight away, I promise!”

  As Femi dialed, Sade’s eyes switched nervously back and forth to the front door. What if Mrs. Graham came back right away and found them? Femi tapped the final digit. There was silence, then some clicks and silence again. Femi sucked in his breath. He was not going to give up. Checking the code, he dialed again. Once more there was silence then clicks. But this time they were followed by a high-pitched hum. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a telephone ringing.

  In the evening, when Kevin was sprawled out on the sofa and the twins already in bed, Sade went to Mrs. Graham in the kitchen. She had been answering Mrs. Graham’s questions with nods and shakes of her head. Now she would have to talk.

  “Can you help us make a call to our uncle in Nigeria please?” The question came out as a whisper. Mrs. Graham stopped wiping the table and asked Sade to repeat it. Femi hung by the doorway, watching. They had decided it was best not to mention Papa.

  “Ooh dear, that’s going to be a bit expensive! D’you know what I’m saying?” said Mrs. Graham when she had understood. “Perhaps the social workers can do it for you at their office? Yeah, why don’t we ask them tomorrow?”

  Sade was silent. They needed to speak to Papa now, not tomorrow. Her eyes misted over and Mrs. Graham put down her cloth.

  “All right, all right!” she reassured the children. “We don’t want tears. Let’s make the call and I’ll sort out the money with Jenny later.”

  “Yeah, that’s typical, Mum!” Kevin had come up behind Femi. “You don’t even let me chat with my mates, going on about your phone bill.”

  “Don’t be cheeky, young man! You see your friends every day at school. So don’t go comparing yourself with Sade and Femi.” Mrs. Graham looked at him sharply.

  “Oh yeah, yeah, yeah!” Kevin crooned, ambling back to the sofa.

  Sade jotted down their home number on the telephone pad while Mrs. Graham got lost in the directory searching for the code to Nigeria. The children had to bite their lips not to tell her where to find it. Sade explained that their uncle lived in Lagos. She was sure that Mrs. Graham would pass on the information to Iyawo-Jenny. When Mrs. Graham finally dialed, Sade willed the clicks to end, to switch to the ringing tone. Would Papa still be at home, she wondered? Or had Uncle Tunde persuaded him to go somewhere safer? If Papa wasn’t there, Joseph would be. They never left the house completely empty. Joseph always looked after it for them. She could already imagine the surprise and delight in his voice at hearing them speak all the way from London. Whoever answered, she would talk in Yoruba, so Mrs. Graham would not understand.

  But the clicks were followed by silence. Mrs. Graham tried twice more. It was the same every time.

  “Do you have trouble with your phones in Nigeria then?” she asked. Sade didn’t know what to say. “Well, well! This is turning into quite a palaver, d’you know what I mean? I’ll get the operator to check it for us.” Mrs. Graham sighed.

  The operator called back thirty minutes later. He had spoken to someone at the telephone exchange in Nigeria who had checked the number. The report was that the line had been cut off. It was completely dead.

  CHAPTER 17

  LIES THICKEN

  THE ELEGANT LADY AT THE DOOR reminded Sade so strongly of Mama Buki that she was taken aback. It was something in the lady’s assured, confident face. Her black and green gele was also wrapped above her broad forehead in Mama Buki’s favorite style, the corners of the headscarf perched up like the tails of two little birds. Iyawo-Jenny stood beside her, smiling.

  “Mrs. Appiah is from Ghana. She works for the Refugee Council here. She’s an adviser for refugee children and I’ve brought her to meet you and Femi.”

  “Thank y—,” Sade dropped her voice to a mumble. She suddenly realized that she didn’t know what to call Iyawo-Jenny. Yesterday the social worker had introduced herself simply as Jenny. Back at home, for children to call her by her first name would be rude.

  “May we come in?” asked Iyawo-Jenny.

  Sade pressed backward against the door, embarrassed.

  Mrs. Appiah talked with the children as if she had always known them but simply hadn’t seen them for a while. She asked about school, their teachers and friends and their favorite games. She spoke in a way that made it almost seem that everything was normal. Like Iyawo-Jenny, she began with questions that could be answered without speaking. She had a way of probing and smiling just like Mama Buki, too. In between her questions, she told them about her own days at school, stories about friends and rivals, fearsome teachers and getting into trouble. Slowly she coaxed Sade into single words, then into short sentences. Even Femi was drawn into listening and finally into whispering the number of goals he had scored for his school football team last term.

  Iyawo-Jenny slipped away, leaving the three of them alone on the sofa.

  “Tell me now—how are things there at home?” Mrs. Appiah asked gently.

  Sade winced and shut her eyes. It was as if another blanket had been thrown over her, smothering her voice and everything else. She felt Mrs. Appiah taking her hand. Sade wanted to pull it back but the strong warm grip held it firmly yet without squeezing
.

  “I can tell that something terrible has happened—it’s hard for you to speak about it—but it’s very important—so we can help you…and call me Auntie or Mama, like children back there, at your home.”

  Softly and surely, the words threaded through Sade’s darkness. An arm enclosed her.

  She is silently wrapped in Mama Buki’s arms. Mama Buki is reaching out to pull Femi in. Sade feels him soften as their aunt presses them close. They are enclosed in the heat of the day and the warmth of Mama Buki’s body. But the sound of weeping winds its way through the house, seeking her out, seeping into her.

  Great sobs stirred inside Sade like gusts of wind whipping up palm leaves before a storm.

  “We all need to cry sometimes,” Mama Appiah consoled quietly. “Cry and let it out.”

  Sade gave up trying to hold back her tears.

  She wasn’t sure for how long she cried, but slowly, as her crying began to subside, she became aware of how comforting Mama Appiah’s arm felt. She glanced at Femi. He was silent and dry-eyed but with a look of such sadness that Sade’s tears threatened to swell up again.

  “When you are ready, I want you both to help me understand your story,” said Mama Appiah. The birds’ tails swooped gently with her gele as she turned to each of them.

  “Take all the time you need.”

  For a while Sade sat tongue-tied. Conflicting thoughts raced through her brain. Part of her wanted to tell Mama Appiah the whole truth, including that she had given Iyawo-Jenny a false surname. But fear stopped her. When Papa was safely in England, then it would be different. They wouldn’t need to worry anymore about police and soldiers at home because Papa would be with them. Until then, it was better that they were Sade and Femi Adewale. Was it safe, at least, to tell Mama Appiah about Uncle Dele? If they didn’t find him, how would Papa ever know where to look for them when he got to London? Perhaps Mama Appiah could help them. It was a risk they would have to take.