Say You're One of Them (Oprah's Book Club)

by Uwem Akpan

  She was my first contact with an NGO. Her presence confirmed for me what Fofo had said: they were a group of smiling, caring people going around the world helping children like us. I couldn’t stop thanking God in my heart for bringing such a woman to us. I watched her closely, the way she doted on my sister, the way she held her and spoke softly in her ears, the way she threw her head back when she paused in her speech, the way she gestured with her right hand, bejeweled with bracelets, when she spoke. I was so comfortable around her that I no longer smelled the camphor on my clothes; her perfume took over the room the way the scent of the Nanfang had when it arrived.

  “I heard you danced so well in church,” she said to Yewa in particular, which made me jealous.

  “Yes, Mama,” she said, nestling closer to her.

  “I dance too,” I said.

  “Nice,” Mama said, and returned to my sister. “You like church then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me too,” the woman said. “I like to sing and dance and pray with others. You know, I and my husband feel God has been good to us, and we should be good to others, especially children.”

  Mama simply held on to my sister and closed her eyes, as if in gratitude to God. I wanted her to hold me too, but I didn’t know what to say or do. I stopped watching them and kept my gaze on the floor.

  THE PEOPLE OUTSIDE FINALLY came to the veranda, but they didn’t come in. I couldn’t tell how many were there, but I knew the voices of Big Guy and Fofo Kpee. And I suspected that the third voice, a deep voice, belonged to Papa.

  “Nice kids, very nice kids . . . Kpee’s children,” Big Guy said, as if he were looking at chickens in Badagry open market. “Monsieur Ahouagnivo, you go see when you go inside.”

  “Beautiful,” Papa said.

  “We tank God,” our uncle said.

  “Unfortunately, Monsieur Ahouagnivo, as I come explain to you de oder day, Kpee no deliver completely,” Big Guy said. “Where de oders, Kpee?”

  “Village,” Fofo Kpee said curtly. “I go bring dem to you.”

  “When . . . quand?” Big Guy asked. “You dey make my job difficult o. De agreement na for five children. Give us de children.”

  “Soon, soon,” my uncle said. “I dey go Braffe soon. My oder nephews and niece dey village.”

  “Just bring dem and stop wasting our time . . .”

  “You’re distracting all of us in here!” Mama screamed to the men on the veranda.

  “Gentlemen, stop, stop!” Papa said. “This is neither the place nor time for this conversation! We’re here to celebrate, not to harass Kpee and these children. . . . Kpee’s other children will have their chance to come to Gabon and enjoy the good things of life there, OK? And, Big Guy, always remember, you work for us, not the other way round. Give Kpee time to organize things carefully. Things will work out.”

  “Monsieur, I dey sorry, monsieur,” Big Guy said, and they stopped arguing.

  The images of Ezin, Esse, and Idossou flashed through my mind. The idea that they would come with us to Gabon excited me to no end. I was sure they were preparing in Braffe to come over to the border, to go with us. It became clear to me why Big Guy was angry the day they brought home the Nanfang, and what “five” meant when he received us in front of the church that Thanksgiving Sunday. From what Fofo had said about our godparents, I knew their generosity had already extended to other members of my family, like my parents. And, though I felt that someday they might help my older siblings back home, I never knew the help would come in this form. If only Big Guy would be patient so that we could go home and get my siblings. I didn’t like the fact that he had almost turned our godparents against Fofo.

  I wanted to scream into Yewa’s ear what I had just pieced together about our siblings, but I checked myself. I was jealous that she had Mama’s full attention, so I resisted sharing anything with her.

  A rush of confused feelings went through my heart. Mama’s presence was everywhere, yet I couldn’t get enough of it. I was grateful to Big Guy for bringing our godparents to our house but upset with him for trying to make Fofo look bad in front of Papa.

  What did we do for the Lord that He brought the goodness of this NGO to us? We weren’t the poorest of children in that border village. Yet from all the children in our school and neighborhood, I felt that God had chosen us. I remembered the conversation Fofo had with Big Guy in front of Our Redeemer Pentecostal Church that happy Sunday, which Pastor Adeyemi later confirmed during his blessing. For them the issue was simple: you’re poor because your ways aren’t straight before the Lord; if you do good, then your Heavenly Father, who is rich, will make you rich.

  Yet that night, sitting there across from this wonderful woman, I didn’t see what good I had done. Worse still, Yewa had actually become more stubborn and mischievous than she had been a year and a half ago in Braffe. I began to think that maybe what we children did or didn’t do didn’t count before the Lord. So I put my faith in Fofo Kpee: he must have done something big, something marvelous, for the Lord to bring this good luck to us. Maybe Fofo was no longer smuggling at the border; maybe he no longer duped strangers for their money. Maybe he was climbing coconut trees free for people. In my heart I began to sing “The Lord Will Bless Someone Today” as I watched Mama cuddle Yewa.

  BEFORE LONG, YEWA FELL into a deep sleep on Mama. She hadn’t been able to do that since our mother fell very ill in the village. Even our grandparents knew Yewa was troublesome and allowed her to come with me only after Fofo had assured them he would do everything to take care of his niece.

  “Hey, Pascal, how was school today?” said Mama, looking down on the sleeping Yewa like the Madonna on her Child.

  The name startled me. I looked around the room for another person. There was nobody. Who was Pascal? The front door and windows were still closed.

  In the silence, Mama lifted her face to me in a wide smile, and I felt at home again, though I didn’t know what to say. It sounded as if the question was directed to someone on the veranda. I could hear Big Guy and Fofo Kpee and Papa chuckling outside like people who had hit a jackpot. They seemed content to stay out there.

  “Pascal . . . ?” she said again, and reached across the center table to hold my hand.

  “I’m Kotchikpa,” I politely corrected her, looking down.

  “Yes, that’s right, sweetie. Big Guy told us. . . . Kotchikpa?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Please, may we call you Pascal? With time, I’m sure we’ll be more conversant with Kotchikpa. You know, with all the children in our care, from different tribes and countries, it’s a bit difficult at first. Pascal is such a sweet name. Memorable. Please? Pascal?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  I nodded.

  “Sure?”

  I nodded again. “Yes, yes. It’s fine.”

  She was still looking at me. I felt I needed to say something more, but I didn’t know what. I felt better now because she had given me a bit of attention, and I hoped my sister would sleep all night.

  “Thanks, Mama, for paying our fees,” I blurted out.

  “Oh, you’re welcome, sweetie.” She blew me a kiss. “So understanding, so grateful. We hear you’re very bright in your school. You’re the best. Oh, come over, sit with us. Don’t be too far away.”

  She reached out for me, her bracelets jangling. I held her hand and came around the table. She hooked me into a hug and kissed my head, all the while making endearing sounds as if I were her precious, vulnerable pet. When she noticed Yewa had begun to sweat, she pulled off her colorful hat and fanned her.

  “BIG GUY, GOOD EVENING!” I said cheerfully, as he entered the house, bringing food from the car and bowing before Mama. But he didn’t answer. It was as if he didn’t even see me. Mama looked at him and then at me. She squeezed my hand in a way that made me feel I should ignore him.

  This evening, he was a different man. This was the third time we’d seen him, and it seemed he had changed each time. Tonight, he wore an immi
gration officer’s outfit. In the glare of our lantern, the beret on his shaven head looked like a coxcomb haircut, and his long sleeves had stripes. He looked bigger than usual because his shirt was bloated, pumped up by cassava starch, and his trousers had two hard lines like sharp blades. His shoes glowed, and when he moved, the legs of his trousers rustled against each other with his military gait. He carried himself about with the stiffness of a bodyguard around foreign royalty.

  When he came back in, Mama rebuked him. “Pascal dey greet you just now! Jamais, never ignore my children!”

  He stopped and stood very erect, as if before a national flag. “Oh, I’m sorry, Madame Ahouagnivo. Je suis très desolé. . . .”

  “Just dey answer the boy, jo o. It’s not about me.”

  “My apologies. . . . Bon soir, Kotchikpa . . .”

  “No, Pascal,” Mama corrected him.

  He bowed and said, “Beautiful name, huh.”

  “Good evening,” I greeted him again.

  Before long, he had filled our table with all kinds of food: crab soup, mounds of akasa wrapped in fresh leaves, macaroni, couscous, and stew. A pot of pepper soup was studded with chunks of bushmeat, each held together with white string, some of the meat still carrying the pellets that had brought down the animal, which was the kind of stuff our people liked a lot. You eat it carefully and slowly, partly because of the pepper, partly because you could bite into a pellet.

  Big Guy staggered in with two coolas, and a draft of cold, icy air stabbed the room when he opened them. He brought out Coke, Maltina, La Place beer, and Chivita orange juice and placed them on the table. Each time he came in from outside, I expected to see the car’s other passengers. From time to time, when my attention strayed from Mama and the food, I wondered what Fofo Kpee was doing with the others outside.

  When our center table was full, Big Guy brought out two fold-up stands from the car. I had never seen so much food in my life except in raw form in the open market. Yet Big Guy kept bringing more. The good smell swallowed up Mama’s perfume, and I was so overwhelmed that I was no longer hungry.

  Though I didn’t sleep like my sister, I was in my own world, a foretaste of what I thought Gabon would be like. I remembered Fofo saying we were going to be rich and start eating well. Things had moved very fast for our family, and, comforted by the care of Mama that night, I had no reason to doubt that we were coming into better times. It wasn’t difficult for me to imagine that our godparents were important people, since Big Guy, an immigration officer, drove them around and served them. Thinking about Gabon as the land of opportunity now came to me naturally, and my mind began to pine for it. I imagined my sister and me being driven to school in a car. Now, even thinking about riding to school on our Nanfang felt sort of beneath me.

  “SWEETIE, I’LL JUST CALL you Mary, OK?” Mama said to my sister, gently shaking her awake. “Good morning, Mary, sleepyhead . . .”

  Yewa rubbed her eyes and her gaze wandered from me to Mama, before coming to rest on the assorted food. Her eyes widened slowly until they almost popped with shock.

  “Would you like to be called Mary, or do you want another name, sweetie?” Mama said to her.

  “Wake up, Yewa!” I said.

  She didn’t say anything but scratched her head and yawned. Then she reached out to touch the Coke nearest her.

  “Your brother likes Pascal, you know,” Mama tried again, winking at me. “He is now Pascal.”

  Yewa looked at me, a flash of understanding touching her face.

  “Pascal?” she said.

  “Yes, my new name is Pascal,” I said, shrugging and smiling shyly. “It’s OK, Yewa.”

  She shook her head. “My name is Yewa Mandabou!”

  “When Mama gives you a name,” I said quickly, “she remembers you because she has lots of children to care for. You’re still Yewa, I’m still Kotchikpa . . .”

  “Yes and no, Pascal,” Mama interjected in the softest of voices. “It’s best if we just use one name so that there’s no confusion. I’m sure your sister will understand.”

  “Yes, Mama.” I nodded.

  I felt I had overreached in my attempt to help matters. A pang of remorse settled in my stomach, and I shifted on the bed and held on to the bedpost to hide my embarrassment.

  “Mary?” Mama said to her, testing out the name, her smile at its widest.

  Yewa nodded awkwardly, still staring at me. I nodded vigorously, partly to make up for my bad explanation earlier, partly to assure Yewa it was OK. “Mary is a beautiful name,” I said. “Beautiful.”

  “You’re so so cute,” Mama told her. “Oh, so obedient, respectful of your older brother. . . . I’m sorry I had to wake you up for dinner. Is that OK, Mary?”

  “I don’t know,” Yewa said, and shifted her attention to the food.

  “She can be stubborn,” I told Mama. “She needs a bit of time.”

  “I don’t think she’s stubborn,” she said. “She’s a good girl, and we have time.”

  With her forefinger, Yewa traced the Coca-Cola logo on the can. She was about to lick the finger when Mama grabbed her hand. “Oh, no, Mary!” she said, shaking her head. “You can have whatever you want . . .”

  “Yes, Mama,” she said.

  “Everything is for you, sweetie. OK, Mary?”

  “Yes, Mama. . . . Could I have Coke, please?”

  Mama opened the Coke immediately, as if Yewa would reject her new name if she wasted time, and poured it into my sister’s mouth. Yewa’s face was upturned like a suckling lamb’s. The bubbly drink filled her open mouth slowly, her throat releasing loud gulps into her stomach.

  Mama stopped abruptly.

  “Do you want more, Mary?” she asked.

  Yewa was panting. “Yes, Mama.”

  WHEN THE OTHERS FINALLY came into the room, it felt crowded, with everyone sitting on the beds. Apart from the three men, there was a boy and a girl. Mama had scooped a plateful of couscous and stew and was spooning it into Yewa’s mouth. She ate like a hungry dog, her gaze following every movement of the spoon. It was hot inside, and though Big Guy asked Fofo Kpee to open the two windows, the room still swelled with steamy appetizing smells.

  “So how are you, my children?” Papa’s voice boomed out, and Mama proudly told him our new names and nudged me toward him to shake his outstretched hand. “Hello, Pascal,” he said, taking my hand.

  “Welcome, sir,” I said.

  “I’m Monsieur Ahouagnivo.”

  “Nice to meet you, monsieur.”

  Papa looked far older than Mama, as if he were her father. He was big, as tall as Big Guy, and he was very black. His skin was darker than his hair, and the lower part of his face dissolved into a thick, groomed beard. His nostrils had some gray hair. If not for his white T-shirt, which caught the glow of the lantern, it would have been difficult to see the rest of his body because of the depth of his blackness. He smiled often, staining the dimness with a set of fine teeth. He wore shorts and flip-flops, as if he were on his way to some night beach.

  “Hello there, Mary!” he said, waving to Yewa, who was too busy with her food to respond.

  Fofo Kpee, who was leaning by the door that led into the inner room, opened his mouth, as if to prompt Yewa. His face wore embarrassment.

  “No say anyting!” Big Guy hissed to him. “Leave de gal alone.”

  Fofo nodded and put his hands behind him like a servant.

  I had hoped he would crack jokes and ring with laughter the whole evening, to entertain everyone. Though he was tense as we awaited our godparents’ arrival, I had hoped he would start acting the fool, the way he did during the party after the Nanfang Thanksgiving. But he didn’t. We were in his house, but he didn’t even welcome the guests or introduce them to us. Now, he stood around like a new servant who had to rely on an older one, Big Guy, to know his bearing. I didn’t like it when Fofo lost his sense of humor. But tonight, I thought maybe he was dazed by the generosity of our godparents or was afraid we might let him
down by not making a good impression.

  Then Papa stood up and gestured to the other children. “Oh, before we forget, Pascal and Mary, please, here are your siblings . . . Antoinette from Togo and Paul from northern Nigeria.”

  I smiled and turned to Antoinette, who was closer to me. But she ignored me, stood up, and started scooping the pepper soup into a bowl. She was short and big-boned, with a round face, little flat nose, and big mouth that later on that night would gobble up everything, irrespective of the food combination. Her little eyes were restless, taking in our poor surroundings with disgust.

  “Antoinette, stop and greet your brother!” Mama snapped at her.

  “Mama, I don’t like this hut!” she responded, and bit into a piece of meat.

  Mama glared at her. “What did you say?”

  “Yes, Mama, yes, Mama,” Antoinette said, and turned toward me and gave me a peck on each cheek, the pepper in her breath fanning my eyes.

  “Good girl,” Mama said, her face back in creases of smile. “That’s how we ladies greet men in Gabon!” Mama turned to me. “I’m sure she is just teasing you. Go ahead, say hello to Paul.”

  “Hello, Paul,” I said, putting forward my hand.

  “Hi,” he said, and gave me a limp handshake.

  Paul’s eyes were red and teary. A tall frail-looking boy, he sat at the edge of Fofo Kpee’s bed and was as silent and unmoving as a statue. His skin had rashes, and the lotion he used had a pungent smell. He had a wide forehead and a sharp chin, which made his face look like a big cone. All evening, he hung his head as if it were too heavy for his neck to carry.

  “And what would you like to eat, Paul?” Papa asked.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Nothing? Nothing at all?” Papa begged.

  “I want to go home,” Paul said.

  “My son, it’s OK to miss home,” Papa said. “You’ll get used to the coast. All our children miss home for a while. But this is for your good. We’ll do everything to help you.”