The Ghosts & Jamal

by Bridget Blankley

  There was a glugging sound before the cook started talking again.

  ‘You are hungry, are you? Yes, you’re a growing boy, but you shouldn’t be in the kitchen at night. I should tell the soldiers and they will beat you and send you to bed.’

  Jamal was worried; he hadn’t been beaten since he left home and he wanted it to stay that way.

  ‘No, sir, I just wanted …’

  ‘You just wanted something to eat, I bet. Well, my friend, we shall help each other. I will give you something to eat and you will not tell anyone what you saw. Shall we help each other, eh?’

  Jamal wasn’t sure what he was supposed to have seen, or not seen, but he thought that the food would be good for his journey so he said yes.

  ‘Here, have some plantain chips, and I have these special biscuits. They give them to the hungry – they’re very good, but very expensive, they don’t give me many. Do you have chips? No? Yes? Here, have some. And look – I have onions! Take an onion, take three.’

  The cook piled food into Jamal’s arms. Suddenly the cook’s legs seemed to fold up and he sat on the floor again. He started to cry.

  ‘Get out of here. Get out!’ he shouted at Jamal, waving a bottle in the air. ‘I will lose my job and it will be your fault. Get out, GET OUT!’

  Collecting Things

  Seeing the cook hadn’t helped very much. No answer had been given to any of Jamal’s questions. And now Jamal had a cupboard full of raw onions. He didn’t want to throw them away but was worried that the cleaners would smell them when they came to sweep the room.

  Next morning he wandered into the compound. He was going to try to ask the cook about Anof-anage, but when he got to the kitchen the cook was still unwell. He was sitting down, holding his head and moaning and Afiba was serving breakfast. It was Koko, Jamal’s favourite, thick and sweet and served with extra evaporated milk. Afiba gave Jamal double helpings but he was too busy to talk. It was good to have a friend in the kitchen.

  ‘Come back at ten,’ Afiba said. ‘I’ll have finished work and Cook will be asleep, so I will be able to leave the kitchen.’

  Jamal promised he would and took his breakfast to one of the tables. He sat on his own; he wanted to think about how to get the things on his list and he didn’t want anyone to notice that he had extra in his bowl. Just in case Afiba got into trouble.

  ‘The first thing I need is a good strong bag,’ thought Jamal, sucking on his spoon until all the sticky porridge was gone.

  ‘And why would a boy in hospital need that?’ It was the woman with the tired voice. She had been talking to one of the soldiers. Jamal thought she must be able to read his mind and was worried – perhaps she was a witch. What else did she know about him?

  ‘You said you needed a good strong bag, Jamal, but you haven’t told me why.’

  What a relief – she hadn’t read his mind, he’d been thinking aloud.

  ‘For the trip to Anof-anage. I will need to take my clothes and my book and all my things there. Then I will need the bag to take everything back to Grandfather’s and that’s a long walk, so it needs to be a strong bag.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ she said. ‘I get the picture. You really do need a good strong bag. I’ll see what I can do.’ She shook her head. ‘I have never met such a serious boy,’ she said. ‘He’ll change the world, that one.’

  ‘For better or worse?’ asked the soldier.

  ‘I wish I could say.’

  They both looked back at Jamal and laughed before turning towards the offices.

  That was close, thought Jamal. But at least the bag’s sorted. What else? Drinks, he’d definitely need drinks, but drinks would be difficult as there was only tea and water in the hospital. A blanket would be easy, and his pyjamas and clothes and more food, definitely more food. Jamal was sitting and thinking like this when the nice soldier came back into the compound.

  She handed Jamal a drink.

  ‘Thought you’d like this,’ she said. ‘And the sergeant said you need a bag for your stuff.’

  Jamal nodded. It was funny – he liked the soldier but he hardly ever spoke to her. Yet she had given him a drink for no reason at all. His uncles had told him never to speak to soldiers or the police in case they decided to beat him and put him in jail. Jamal didn’t think that this soldier would beat him, but she did want to send him away, and that was more or less the same as jail. He wondered if his uncles had known much about soldiers after all. I wonder what else they didn’t really know? Jamal thought.

  ‘I’ve got an old kitbag in the barracks, will that do?’ The soldier’s voice broke into Jamal’s thoughts. He looked up.

  ‘Yes, sir! That would be very good.’ He wasn’t quite sure what he should call a woman soldier. His uncle had said that you must always call a soldier or a policeman sir, but this soldier wasn’t a sir. But he decided that it was probably best to stick to sir anyway. At least until he could find out for sure.

  ‘It’s got a few holes in it, but it should be OK – you’re not going far.’

  Jamal knew he was going far, but maybe if he took a sheet as well as the blanket, he could put that in the bag to cover the holes.

  ‘No, sir, the holes won’t matter at all.’

  The soldier got up and passed her drink to Jamal.

  ‘Here, finish this for me; I’m about to go on duty. I’ll bring your bag in the morning, and maybe another couple of bottles of Sprite – you may need them to make new friends.’

  At ten o’clock Jamal went to find Afiba.

  ‘Not much in the kitchen,’ Afiba said, as he threw a mango at Jamal.

  ‘Is the cook still sick?’

  ‘Not as sick as he’ll be once the colonel finds out he swapped a side of beef for whiskey.’

  ‘Wasn’t it a good swap?’ Jamal asked, taking a bite out of the mango.

  ‘Not for him. He’ll lose his job by this evening. The minister is visiting tomorrow and he won’t eat groundnut stew.’ Afiba started laughing, then suddenly went quiet. ‘I don’t know why I’m laughing. I’ll probably lose my job too, if the new boss brings his own kitchen boy with him.’

  ‘That sounds very bad,’ said Jamal, ‘and unfair. Will the colonel let the new cook do that?’

  ‘The colonel doesn’t care about kitchen boys, why should he? But it doesn’t matter, I’ll find something else. Anyway, what’s your news? I hear they’re moving you out soon.’

  ‘Yes, I am being sent to a place called Anof-anage till my grandfather comes to collect me. Do you know where that is?’

  ‘Well there’s a few, but they usually send kids to St Joseph’s, on the other side of the market.’

  ‘I don’t understand. How many towns are called Anof-anage? How do people know which one to visit?’ Jamal had often been called country boy, as if people from the country were stupid, but he was beginning to think that people from the city were stupid too. Why call lots of towns by the same name?

  Afiba started laughing again.

  ‘An orphanage isn’t a town, country boy, it’s a place, a building. Somewhere to send kids whose parents have died. You must have orphanages in the country, or do they still leave babies in the bush to die?’ Afiba kept laughing. Jamal didn’t think it was funny at all. How was he supposed to know that in the city you put children in a special building? Why did they do that? Surely there were aunties or uncles or second wives to look after them. Everyone has some relatives. Even Jamal lived with his family, or near his family anyway, and his parents had died. He was about to ask about babies being left in the bush when he realised that Afiba had started talking again.

  ‘… nuns. You’ll be baptised and wearing shoes in no time. And that old book of yours’ll go; they’ll have you reading proper English from a big black Bible.’

  ‘No, they won’t do that. I don’t belong there.’ Jamal was quite keen on the idea of reading, but had no intention of letting his book go. He wasn’t sure what being baptised was but he didn’t like wearing shoes so he guessed he wo
uldn’t like being baptised either. He was definitely going to have to leave, not just before they found his grandfather, but before they moved him to the orphanage. He needed to go straight away. He decided to share his plans with Afiba.

  ‘I’m not going.’

  Afiba just looked at him, waiting for Jamal to explain himself.

  ‘I can’t go, I can’t. I have to find … I have to be somewhere else … find something, someone. That’s where I was going when they brought me here. I can’t stay in the orphanage.’

  ‘OK,’ Afiba said, as if he had always expected Jamal to run away, ‘but you’ll have to go from here. You’re stuck once you get to St Joseph’s. Those nuns keep everyone locked in and they watch you all the time.’

  ‘Will you help me?’

  ‘Yeah, why not. I’ll need to think about moving on and now’s a good time to go. We can take stuff from the kitchen and the cook will get blamed – he’s getting the sack anyway, even if he doesn’t know it yet, so it doesn’t matter what we take.’

  Jamal wasn’t sure if this was strictly true, but he didn’t say anything. He needed Afiba’s help – and anyway, Afiba was much cleverer than he was and was probably right.

  Afiba looked up at the clock on the old tower. ‘Best be going. Cook will be short-tempered today. I’d better not be late. I’ll be busy all day. I will have to do the cooking. I’ll have a think tonight and see you tomorrow. Sort out our plans.’ Afiba punched Jamal on the arm, in what Jamal thought was probably meant to be a friendly way, then ran off to the kitchen. Jamal wandered back to his room, but was chased out by one of the cleaners.

  ‘Out you, get some fresh air and leave me to do my work,’ she said. So Jamal hung around the compound all day, throwing stones at tin cans and trying to catch grasshoppers like his cousins used to do. He wasn’t very good at it. He caught them but hated the way their legs scratched and tickled so he opened his hands as soon as he caught them. Good job I don’t need them for lunch, he thought, or I’d go hungry again.

  When he finally got into his bed he decided that, even though it had started off well, it had ended up being a very boring day.

  Not a Boring Day

  The next morning Jamal had a shower before the nurses came round to check if he was OK. He wanted to enjoy the experience for as long as he could, just in case it was the last shower he ever had. Since he had come to the hospital he had showered whenever he got the chance. He would have spent half the day in the showers if he could. Usually someone else was waiting, or the cleaner wanted to scrub the floors, so unless he got up early, his showers had to be very quick. He liked the smell of the soap and the roughness of the towels, but mostly he liked the feel of all that clean water pouring down his back. He thought that maybe this was how it would feel if you lived under a waterfall.

  Did the river sprites from the stories feel like this? he wondered. If they did, Jamal was sure that they would not be like the spirits who came to worry him and make him shake. Jamal would never have to worry anyone if he lived under a waterfall. Maybe that was why the spirits had left him alone since he’d been in the hospital. Jamal decided that he would have a shower as often as he could to keep the spirits away.

  ‘Hey, you, have you washed yourself down the drain? Leave some water for me, boy. We all need to get clean.’

  Jamal woke up – well, he didn’t wake up exactly because he hadn’t been asleep. He was quite awake; he’d just been thinking about the wrong things. He turned off the shower and dried himself quickly. A bit too quickly, really; he was still damp when he got dressed and his shorts stuck to his knees as he pulled them up.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, as he dodged out of the shower, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the corridor as he ran to his bed.

  The nurse was waiting when he got there.

  ‘Breakfast, then back here. You need a thorough check before you leave us.’ She pushed Jamal towards the door. ‘A haircut as well, I think, or they’ll put you in the girls’ room when you get to the orphanage.’

  More problems, thought Jamal. How many rooms would there be and why would his hair make a difference? He ran his hand over his damp hair. Feels OK to me, he thought. He didn’t think about his hair for long, though, as he could smell breakfast and that was much more important than haircuts or rooms at the orphanage.

  ‘The rooms don’t matter cause I won’t be there.’

  ‘Where won’t you be?’ asked the cook. He was back at work, trying to look twice as busy as he really was. ‘If you’re not here you won’t want breakfast, so get out of line and let me serve other people.’

  Jamal realised that he’d been thinking aloud again. He didn’t used to do that, or maybe he did. He’d been on his own before so no one would have noticed, but now there was always someone about listening to what he was thinking.

  ‘No, sir. I do want my breakfast. I was thinking about the orphanage, sir, and how I hope the food will be as good as yours.’

  ‘Eh? You’re talking nonsense. What has that got to do with not being here? Are you leaving today? Good thing, you’ll stop distracting my kitchen boy.’ He sounded cross but he was smiling. Jamal thought he’d better keep talking just in case the cook got really cross.

  ‘The nurse says I must have a haircut today so I won’t go to the girls’ room at the orphanage, so I might not be here for lunch.’ Not really the truth but sort of nearly truthful. No one could actually say that he’d lied.

  ‘Good job too,’ said the cook. ‘Better feed you up if you’re leaving us.’

  He put an extra serving in Jamal’s bowl.

  ‘There might even be bean cakes for supper.’

  Jamal took the bowl and was about to go back and tell the cook how much better he looked, but he remembered the nurse and ate his breakfast as fast as he could, then ran back to his bed.

  ‘You must be ready to leave us,’ said the nurse. ‘Every time I see you now you’re running somewhere. Now let’s go and see the doctor.’

  She took Jamal’s hand and they walked across the compound to the doctor’s office.

  The doctor looked in Jamal’s eyes, in his ears and down his throat. He measured Jamal and weighed him, listened to his chest and banged his back. Then he turned to the nurse.

  ‘Eating OK? Bowels? Pee?’ Jamal didn’t quite understand why the doctor asked the nurse instead of him. The words weren’t difficult. The doctor did talk with a strange accent – almost everyone in the compound did – but Jamal had got used to that. He hardly ever had to ask people what they meant any more. The doctor must believe that I’m very stupid, Jamal thought, if he thinks I don’t know if I’ve been to the bathroom or not. Living with adults can be so strange.

  ‘Just the one problem then. You understand that you are a very sick boy?’

  Jamal did not understand this at all, but he was quite pleased that the doctor actually spoke to him instead of to the nurse.

  ‘No, sir. I am not sick. I am very well indeed. I am very strong and I have grown taller since I came here.’

  The doctor frowned. Instead of answering Jamal he started talking to the nurse again.

  ‘Has no one explained the epilepsy to him, nurse?’

  ‘No, doctor. He is simple, he cannot even read. He has a book that he carries around with him but he cannot understand that it contains words. He would not understand, doctor.’

  ‘Well, let’s try, shall we? Jamal, you have been very sick. You are very sick. You have something called epilepsy. We give you medicine every day and it stops you from being ill, but you will only stay well if you keep taking the medicine. Do you understand that, Jamal?’

  Jamal understood what he said, so he nodded his head. What Jamal didn’t know was why he said it. Jamal would have known if he was sick, and he wasn’t. He had told the doctor that he was very well and very strong. So Jamal decided that the doctor might be simple. He decided to agree with the doctor so that he wouldn’t become upset. He was sure that simple people got upset very easily.r />
  ‘Up till now, Jamal, the government has paid for your medicine. They’ve paid for all your care while you’ve been with us. That is because of the terrorist attacks. Is this clear to you?’

  The doctor was talking about the same tribe that the soldier had talked about. Who were these terrorists and where did they live? Jamal did not have a clue what the doctor was talking about but he remembered that the doctor was simple and that he should be nice to him. And so Jamal nodded his head again.

  ‘That is good. See, nurse, he is quite capable of understanding.’

  The nurse shook her head, but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Now, Jamal, when you leave here the government will not provide your medicine. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You must take your medicine and your grandfather must buy the medicine for you. Do not let him take you to the witchdoctor because a witchdoctor cannot make you well. Only the medicine from a real doctor can make you well and you must take it every day. Can you remember that, Jamal? Every day.’

  Jamal said that he could.

  ‘Now, Jamal, I haven’t met your grandfather. Will he buy the medicine for you?’

  At last an easy question and one he could answer truthfully.

  ‘No, sir. I am quite sure that my grandfather will not buy any medicine. He is a very poor man, sir. He doesn’t even grow his own food, sir.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, Jamal?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. I am quite sure that he is a poor man. But even if he were a rich man he would not buy any medicine for me, sir. He does not like me, sir. He said so. I am not sure he will even come to collect me, even if the soldiers fetch him. He does not like me at all.’

  The doctor looked at Jamal as if he’d never heard a boy talk like this before.

  ‘Is this true, nurse? Do we know anything about his family?’

  ‘No, doctor, we know nothing at all. But I hear the boy said something similar to the judge.’

  The doctor looked at Jamal again.