by Uwem Akpan
He pulled Yewa in between his legs and tugged at her cheeks playfully. The bedspring squeaked, sending a wall gecko scrambling from under the calendar. It went up the wall and rested on the wide space between the wall and the roof, its tail on the bicycle chain that held them together.
“Your godparents go happy say you dey enjoy school,” Fofo said suddenly. “Be grateful to dem o. E je˙ do˙ mi ni d’ope na yé.”
“Godparents?” I asked, sitting up on our bed.
He looked at me carefully and nodded. “Oh yes, you two dey lucky to have godparents, you know.”
“From Braffe?” Yewa asked. “When did they come?”
“Non, pas comme ça,” Fofo giggled. “Ah, no, you no know dese ones.”
“Does Big Guy know them?” she asked. “I want to dance with Big Guy. He can go with us to Braffe and teach Ezin, Esse, and Idossou to dance makossa. You promised to take us to Braffe.”
“We go go dere . . . for sure. But I want introduce you to your godparents first. Dat man and woman done give us many many tings. Nanfang. Sony. Drugs for your parents. Uncountable tings. Onú lo˙pa lo˙pa lé. Your parents like dem beaucoup. Your godparents want help our whole family, beginning wid your education. . . . We be deir adoptees. Comprenez de meaning of adoptee?”
“No,” we said.
“When stranger come take a child like him own . . . Mais, listen o, we must tell people de godparents be our real relatives o.”
“Our relatives?” I asked.
“You lie, Fofo,” Yewa said. “You go go hell. You lie.”
“Oh, young people, you no dey understand de Bible!” he exclaimed. “I know say dis one go hard to explain. Dat’s why I no boder to shower or na yi changer nú se lé before talking to you. If you tell a good good lie, you no go enter hell. Only de bad lies go put you for hell, mes enfants. As your Sunday-school teacher dey teach una, in Genesis twelve, ten to sixteen, Abraham, de fader of faith meme-lui, come tell de Egyptians good lie dat his wife Sarah be his sister to spare his life. Also, Jacob and Rebekah come deceive Isaac to claim Esau’s inheritance in Genesis twenty-seven, one to tirty-tree, remember?”
“Please, Fofo, tell us that story again,” Yewa pleaded as we drew closer to him. “Tell us about Abraham . . .”
“Quiet! No distract me o,” he snapped. “Just dey listen now because I dey preach.”
“Yes, Fofo,” she said.
“And dans la Nouvelle Testament,” he continued with renewed fervor, “make you no forget how de tree wise men come trick Herod to save de Baby Jesus in Matthew two, tree to sixteen. So like dese Bible people, we must protect our fortune. We must say dat your godparents be our relatives; oderwise, people go start to bring deir own children to dem or start being jealous. . . . Vous comprenez un peu, oui?”
“Yes, we understand,” we said.
“In any case, your godparents want it like dat. You two go understand well well when you grow up. My children, dis world est dangereux. Make you no trust anybody o. No tell anybody about our blessings, d’accord? Or you want make armed robbers come visit us from Lagos? You want make dem spoil am for us?”
“No, no, Fofo.”
We shook our heads.
“Very good, den, my children. . . . Because of dis family meeting, I quick come from work. I want tell una de whole trud about everyting, d’accord?”
“OK.”
“Your godparents are NGO people.”
“NGO?” I asked.
“Yes, NGO people,” he repeated. “Nongovermental organization . . . repeat after me . . .”
“Nongovernmental organization,” we said.
“Encore?”
“Nongovernmental organization.”
“Bon! Très bien! C’est une groupe of people who dey help poor children all over de world. NGO are good people and travel partout.”
He smiled at us and looked as relieved as one who has broken a piece of difficult news. He stood up and took off his clothes, beginning with his cowboy boots, then his blue suit. He put on his shorts.
He was the best-dressed Nanfang motorcyclist I had ever met. Since we had become richer, he went to work in okrika suits and shoes from Europe, which he bought in the open market that surrounded the no-man’s-land. There was an unkempt look to him because the clothes were rumpled, and we had no iron or electricity yet. We had new school uniforms, and when he rode us to school in the morning, we looked smart and well fed. And our classmates wanted to hear about our “abroad” parents.
“Is that why you said during the party our parents sent you Nanfang?” I asked.
“Yes, my boy . . . ça c’est très correcte!”
“Now I understand.”
“You dey trop intelligent for ton âge. A no˙ flin nú ganji. You remember well. Ah non, you cannot just tell everybody about your plans, you know. De book of Jeremiah, chapter nine, verse four, say, No trust your friend o . . . every friend na slanderer. So make una no tell your schoolmates or your friends for church about dis, d’accord?”
“OK.”
I nodded alone.
“Yewa?” he asked.
“I know how to keep quiet,” she said.
He came and sat down, reached under his bed for his payó bottle, and poured himself a drink. He tossed the full content of the shot into his mouth, as if he were pouring it into a bucket. He had two more shots, cleared his throat, and stretched out on his bed. “Come, you know what to call your godparents?”
“No,” my sister said.
“Godpapa? Godmama?” I said, guessing.
“No,” he said. “Godmama, Godpapa, dey sound too okrika! Make you try again.”
“Mom . . . Dad?” I said.
“No, juste Papa and Mama . . . efó!”
“Papa? Mama? No!” Yewa protested.
“Hén,” Fofo said, dragging out the word yes.
“My papa and mama are in Braffe,” Yewa said.
“We know dat,” he said.
“Let’s call them Mom and Dad, then, to avoid confusion,” I suggested.
“No, it’s better to address dem exactly as you dey address your parents. Ils sont your godparents. Godparents. Godparents, you know?”
I shrugged and gave up and looked at Yewa, who was staring down stubbornly.
“Does Big Guy know our godparents?” I asked.
“Absolutement,” Fofo said.
“But you said we should not tell our friends,” I said. “Did you tell Big Guy?”
Yewa looked up sharply, sensing the contradiction. Fofo didn’t reply immediately. Instead, his face split into a long mischievous smile as he nodded and sipped his payó.
“Kotchikpa,” he said finally, “you be bright, bright garçon.”
“Thank you, Fofo,” I said.
“But we must make sure your intelligence no dey lead you in de wrong direction o. Remember, na only de fly witout direction dat go follow de corpse enter grave. You understand?”
“No, Fofo,” I said.
“Use your head well. . . . Big Guy done become my trusted friend—de only person I invite sit wid us for our Tanksgiving, remember?”
Now he laughed a short laugh and winked at us, as if to say, “I have defeated you finally.” I laughed with him because he was funny and because I thought I should have figured this out myself. Then Yewa laughed too.
When we stopped laughing, he tickled us. We laughed even more, but he laughed the hardest, as if some invisible hands were tickling him. Yewa started throwing her pillow at me, and we got into a pillow fight. Fofo, who normally wouldn’t let us fight, didn’t stop us. It seemed to amuse him. He sat there cheering us on, moving his hands, ducking each time one of us hit the other with a pillow. He coached Yewa to climb on the bed to get an advantage over me. Yewa was excited, the springs of the bed squeaking with each blow she landed. I wanted to climb on the bed too, but Fofo said no. He even asked me to allow my kid sister to win the pillow fight. Suddenly, like a crazy man, he stood up and started playing with the lantern wick. T
he flame fluttered. We became very excited, giggling hard, trying to figure out what he wanted to do.
He lowered the wick, and we fought in darkness. When one of us fell, he increased the flame to be sure nobody was hurt. When one of us screamed in the darkness, he laughed before giving us light. We were having fun and played until we scattered everything. The two mattresses were on the floor; most of Fofo’s clothes fell from his wardrobe. The bed frame stood at awkward angles. Our cartons of clothes were out from under the beds, their contents all over the place. What finally exhausted us wasn’t the energy we used playing but the toll of endless laughter on our ribs.
“ANYWAY, YOUR PAPA AND Mama—your godparents—go visit you soon,” Fofo Kpee said later that night, after we had tidied up everything. “Dem go bring oder children dem dey help so dat una go all meet. Maybe dem go carry all of una go abroad for studies. Across de sea.”
My heart leaped, and I sat up.
“Us? Abroad?” I said.
“Of course, de children who dey study abroad no get two head.”
“What about me?” my sister asked. “You don’t like me?”
“My very own, what? You want abandon your fofo, bébé?”
“Yes, Fofo is a big man. If Kotchikpa goes, I must go . . .”
“Kai, you na real bargainer . . . lawyer! You go voyager togeder, d’accord? Oder lucky children go even travel wid you—God bless your godparents.”
After our night prayer, during which Fofo thanked God profusely for sending us our benefactors, then spoke in tongues like Pastor Adeyemi, I lay on my bed and thought about our godparents. What did they look like? Where did they live? Or did they simply travel from country to country to save children? I tried to imagine the faces of such goodness. I wanted to meet them as soon as possible. No matter how much I tried to picture them, it was the images of my parents that filled my mind.
I began to imagine my parents back in good health, my mother going to the farms in the morning, my father riding his bicycle to Korofo Market. I thought of how relieved my grandparents would feel now; out of our thirteen fofos and aunts, my parents were their favorites, so their sickness was a hard blow. They took care of our parents, and before we left home they fasted so much that they became almost as emaciated as the sick. I thanked God that my parents’ sickness was gone. I thanked God for sending our godparents to buy drugs for our parents. With all they had already done for us, calling them Mama and Papa wasn’t too much to ask. I was sure my parents back home wouldn’t mind this good man and woman being addressed like this. I began to miss my parents a lot that night and looked forward to visiting home and spending time with them. I also began to miss our godparents whom I hadn’t met, because I was already a beneficiary of their goodness; they were like a second pair of parents in a world where sickness had almost robbed me of the first. I even began to long to see the other children our godparents were helping. The bounds of my family extended and began to grow that night as I listened to the snoring of Fofo and the gentle breathing of Yewa beside me.
I begged God to give us the brains to do well in school so that we wouldn’t disappoint our godparents and Fofo and our parents. Having spoken French and Idaatcha all our lives, I thanked God for helping us pick up English very well and even come to understand a bit of Egun in the year and a half we had spent on the border. I hoped that wherever our godparents took us we would exhibit the same flair. Remembering my promise to our parents and grandparents, I promised God again tonight, as I did every night, to be always obedient to Fofo. I told God I would do everything to support him. I asked God to guide Yewa’s thinking so that she wouldn’t embarrass or be difficult with our godparents when they visited us.
THE FIRST VISIT FROM our godparents and our new siblings was low-key. The three of us had sat outside on the veranda mounds, facing the sea, before they arrived.
Now Fofo brought out the lantern and placed it on the floor beside us. It stood there, its lone flame fluttering in the wind. Yewa and I were chatting and thinking about what lay at the other side of the water. Both of us were wearing green T-shirts and black shorts. We had showered that evening, and our faces glowed with AZ petroleum jelly, and we kept sneezing because our uncle had rubbed too much camphor, which he called “poorman perfume,” on our clothes.
Fofo was nervous. He kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, folding and unfolding his arms across his chest.
“Yewa, wetin you go call your godparents?” he quizzed her suddenly.
“Papa and Mama,” she said.
“Good gal. Gbòjé poun, everyting go dey fine fine.”
“Fofo, I am relaxed,” Yewa said.
“And make you no forget to tank dem for school fees when you see dem. Even God dey like grateful creatures.”
“We won’t forget, Fofo,” I said.
“I’m hungry,” Yewa said. “Are we going to eat tonight?”
“Hungry?” He turned and glared at her. “I told you dem go bring food! Like picnic. Just be patient, ole. Look at your long mout. You want drink garri now? You and your broder, you no dey listen to me for dis place. Remember wetin your fader talk de day I bring you come here? Remember wetin your grandparents talk? One more wahala from any of you, I go cancel my plan wid your godparents. . . . I go even return you to Braffe!”
Yewa said, “I’m sorry, Fofo Kpee.”
“Shut up, you onu ylankan . . . ugly ting. I no know where your mama carry you bastards from come my broder’s house! One more word from you den . . .”
We sat in silence until dark. Fofo became more and more anxious, sucking his lips in and out. He sat erect, his back flat against the wall, his head against the closed window.
The fishermen at sea spangled the water with their lanterns, like stars. Yet there was no sea, no sky, no land, only points of light dangling in a black chasm. The night had eaten the coconut vistas too, except when the canoe lanterns, moving, were periodically blotted out behind the trees. The sea blew a strong kiss of breeze, warm and unrelenting, through our neighborhood. In the distance, we could hear the hum from the no-man’s-land market fizzling out for the night. We could also hear the semitrailers and trucks coming and going from the border, backing up or parking. Sometimes, from where we sat, we saw the beams of their headlights sweeping the skies of neighboring villages, like searchlights. Fofo had told us the trucks carried assorted goods from one part of West Africa to another.
Suddenly, we heard the sound of a vehicle coming down our dirt road. As soon as it turned into our compound, the engine and the lights died out. The car swished silently toward our house, checked by our sandy pathway. A woman was the first to come down. She ran toward us on the veranda, squatted, and quietly swept us into a hug, as if the moment were too tender for words. “I’m Mama!” she said softly. Yewa seemed indifferent to her presence, her attention focused on the vehicle, but I wanted to hold her forever.
“Mama . . . welcome, M-mama,” I stammered.
“Thank you, good children,” she said, pulling us even closer. “How sweet of you!”
After a while, she brought the lantern nearer to see our faces. She was a tall, beautiful black woman, with deep gentle eyes and full lips and a smooth face. She was in a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes, her hair gathered in a sun hat of many colors, as if she were going on a picnic. She was gracious, and her perfume was sweet, like the smell of fresh frangipani flowers. When she held us, she made sure her long painted nails didn’t dig into our skin. She smiled as easily as she breathed.
“Big Guy!” Yewa shouted, the scream cutting into the gathering silence of the neighborhood. She tapped me on the shoulder, then struggled to break free from Mama, pointing to the profile of a man who had just stepped out of the driver’s seat. “Look . . . Big Guy.”
“Big Guy?” I mumbled. “No. Where? He’s not the one.”
“It’s him!” Yewa insisted, still trying to break free. “He’s the driver of the car . . .”
“Shh . . . shh . . . quiet, quie
t!” Mama said, holding on to us tightly.
When she had calmed us, Mama broke into a beautiful smile again that softened her hug. Then she let go of me and lifted up Yewa—whose eyes were still set on the vehicle and the man by it—and brought their cheeks together. She kissed her and rubbed her head.
“There’s no need to shout, honey,” she whispered. “Forget Big Guy for now. You’ll get a chance to greet him, OK?”
“Yes, Mama,” Yewa said, her attention slowly turning to the woman.
“My daughter, I have looked forward to seeing you. I have heard so many good things about you two. Big Guy told me you’re a great dancer. Do you want to dance with Big Guy later?”
“Yes, Mama,” Yewa said, her eyes lit up.
“And I want to see your beautiful baseball cap too.”
My sister nodded. I thought the fact that Mama knew Big Guy had taught us how to dance had a profound effect on Yewa. She began to pay the woman more attention and seemed to feel more comfortable with her.
“Good then, dear. We’ll arrange that. I dance well too.” She turned to Fofo Kpee, who had been watching us with fear. “Such lovely angels. . . . You go and bring the others into the house. Everything is OK.”
“Merci, madame,” he said, and bowed slightly. “Merci beaucoup.”
He walked over to the car. Big Guy opened the back door for Papa and two children while Mama herded the two of us into the house, carrying in the lantern as well. After closing the door, she sat on our bed, with Yewa on her lap, leaning against her breasts. It was as if she were our real mother. She had won Yewa over in no time. I began to feel relaxed, knowing that my sister wasn’t going to spoil the evening for everybody by being stubborn.
I was also touched by Mama’s gentleness. I began to think of how kind she must be to her own children, if she could be so motherly to us on our first meeting. Though she looked far richer than our mother, she acted every bit like her, and, though by now we knew her house must have been more beautiful, she appeared comfortable in our place. She looked around as if she knew what was in the next room. She was the first visitor to come into our house without my feeling embarrassed or out of place.
