The Ghosts & Jamal

by Bridget Blankley

  The nurse shook her head.

  ‘Well I never. I didn’t expect that. But you’re not off yet, young man. Not till I’m quite sure you’ve got the hang of your meds, and one dose won’t do that.’

  The nurse pulled down the mosquito net over Jamal’s bed then went off to see to her other patients, humming quietly, like she always did.

  Jamal lay on his bed, wishing that he could stay in the hospital. He knew he couldn’t – even if he didn’t leave they would send him to the orphanage in a day or two. Worse than that, they might find his grandfather, and if the soldiers scared him enough, he might actually take Jamal back to the mountain. Jamal tried to imagine what would happen if he had to leave with his grandfather; he was just thinking how awful it would be when, thankfully, he fell asleep.

  He didn’t get up straight away. He lay in bed, looking at the insects hitting the mosquito net above his head, and thinking. He thought of lots of things that might happen, but none of them ended with Jamal being happy. He knew that if he was going to leave it had to be tomorrow morning, he just wished he didn’t have to go. But that was the only way he was going to find the ghosts and stop anything else going wrong. He didn’t really believe that last bit. It seemed to Jamal that everything always went wrong, at least for him.

  When he finally got up he packed his bag, trying to think of everything he might need for his trip. When other people were about he wandered into the compound and sat under the tree.

  Questions, Questions

  When he saw the soldier, he asked her about the terrorists.

  ‘Don’t you worry about them. They’re all up in the north. You’re safe now, Jamal.’

  Jamal had wanted to know more about the terrorists. Did the ghosts live near the terrorists? Did the terrorists know how to control them? Maybe the terrorists were trying to catch the ghosts as well. Jamal wondered if he should be trying to find the terrorists instead of the ghosts. He knew he had to get some answers and he only had the rest of the day to get them.

  After lunch he went to find Afiba.

  ‘Where do people stay when they come to this town?’

  ‘Well, that depends on who they are.’ He passed Jamal a plate of fried plantain. ‘If you are rich you might stay at the George or the Eko or maybe at the Palace. Would you like me to book you a suite, sir?’ Jamal knew that Afiba was laughing at him but he didn’t mind. Afiba was always laughing at him, or he was laughing at Afiba. I wonder if that’s what happens when you’re friends, he thought. He wasn’t sure – he couldn’t remember having had any friends – but Afiba was how he imagined a friend would be.

  ‘No, I’ll stay here tonight, maybe even tomorrow, but I need to know where to stay if I don’t like the orphanage.’

  Afiba laughed and slapped Jamal’s back so hard that some of the plantain flew out of his mouth.

  ‘How about poor people, like you or the cook?’ Jamal managed to say. ‘Where do they stay?’

  Afiba stopped laughing. The cook was walking behind him and had overheard what he said.

  ‘I am not a poor person. I have a good job and so does my wife. Mind what you say.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, so sorry, I didn’t mean, I only …’

  ‘It’s OK, I know you didn’t mean any harm. But you must be careful. People aren’t poor just because they don’t stay at the George. Maybe they just don’t get the same bribes as the people who stay there, eh?’

  The cook looked at Jamal again and made a sort of tut-tut-tut sound through his teeth.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re asking. You’ll be in a nice warm bed at the orphanage, but the people who come in from the villages, they stay on the lagoon, in Makoko. But that’s not a place you want to go. You stay at St Mary’s or St Joseph’s with the other boys. And don’t let your grandfather go to Makoko either. Hear what I say: it’s not a place for people like you.’

  Jamal was about to ask why he shouldn’t go to Makoko but the cook was getting fed up with questions and went back to his kitchen.

  Jamal was sitting under the tree to finish the plantain when the woman with the tired voice reached over his shoulder and took one of the crispy treats.

  ‘I hear you’re getting ready to leave us,’ she said. ‘Any questions before you’re off?’

  Jamal had lots of questions, but he started with what was confusing him most.

  ‘What’s Suntmarys? Cook says I’m going there, or Sunjosufs, but I thought I was going to the orphanage.’

  ‘St Mary’s is one of the orphanages, so is St Joseph’s. There are loads of them in the city, but St Mary’s and St Joseph’s are the two closest – you’ll go to one of those, whichever has a place. We’ll let you know on Friday. St Mary’s is west of here, St Joseph’s is further south. But they’re pretty much the same. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Just something Cook said.’

  ‘Pleased to sort that out for you. Anything else you need to know? For some of your plantain I might be persuaded to share my knowledge.’

  ‘Well, where is Makoko and why mustn’t I go there? And where will I get more medicine when mine runs out and what happens if they can’t find my grandfather and where do the terrorists live and how do they know about the ghosts and…?’

  ‘Stop, stop, stop! One question at a time. Right then.’ She started counting off on her fingers.

  ‘One: Makoko is south of here, next to the lagoon and on the lagoon and maybe under the lagoon as well, for all I know.

  ‘Two: There are lots of reasons you shouldn’t go there but let’s go with the most obvious – it’s very big and you’d get lost.

  ‘Three: You will have to visit a doctor to get more medicine, but you won’t have to worry about that till you leave the orphanage; they will arrange all that for you until your grandfather gets here.

  ‘Four: If they can’t find your grandfather then you’ll stay at the orphanage and go to school there.

  ‘What was the other one?’

  ‘The terrorists,’ said Jamal, ‘and the ghosts. I want to know about ghosts and terrorists.’

  ‘That’s more difficult. I’m afraid no one knows where the terrorists live – if only we did. And I don’t know about ghosts. Not really my field. I’ve turned a few people into ghosts though, but that’s my business. Now stop worrying, everything’s going to be fine.’

  She walked away, popping another plantain chip in her mouth as she went.

  ‘What on earth is going through that boy’s head?’ she said, to no one in particular.

  Jamal wondered if she knew more about ghosts than she had told him. After all, she had said she knew how to make them, and if she wasn’t talking to ghosts she must have been talking to herself. But Jamal didn’t think she would do that.

  ‘What is it with you and ghosts?’ Afiba asked. ‘The problem with you, boy, is you don’t live in the modern world. You don’t have a mobile, you don’t have a fridge, you don’t even have a bicycle, and you still believe in all that old stuff – witches and ghosts and bush spirits. It isn’t real, country boy. There are no spooks or trolls or curses.’

  ‘What do you know?’ Jamal shouted. ‘What do you know about spirits? How they catch you and how you fall down and how you get scratched and bruised and how they bite your tongue and…’ Jamal stopped and looked at his friend. ‘You don’t know anything about spirits; I’m the one they come to – they leave you alone.’ Jamal got up and turned away from Afiba. He didn’t want his friend to know he was going to cry. How could Afiba think like that? Why didn’t he understand?

  ‘I’m going,’ Jamal said. ‘You need to work. You must be too busy to spend time with a stupid country boy like me.’

  ‘Hey, Jamal, come back, I didn’t mean it. Maybe you’re right, maybe all that magic stuff is true. Come on, Jamal, we’ve got plans to make.’

  But Jamal didn’t turn round; he went to his room, letting the screen door slam behind him.

  The rains were late, and the afternoon was hot and steamy and Jamal
decided to rest on his bed. He didn’t intend to go to sleep, though if he was getting up early tomorrow it wouldn’t have mattered if he had. But he wanted to be on his own. He had thought Afiba was his friend. He thought Afiba understood, but he didn’t. He was just like everyone else, trying to make him feel small. Jamal decided to spend the afternoon planning his next move.

  As he pulled down the mosquito net a nurse put her head round the door.

  ‘You tired, Jamal?’

  ‘Yes, Auntie. Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘You can ask, but I might not be able to answer. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Which way is south?’

  The nurse pointed towards the big gate that led out of the compound.

  ‘But you sure you want south? I think you want north-east from here. You should ask the watchman – he’ll know, for his prayers.’

  Jamal just looked at her. Why had she answered a different question to the one he’d asked? People in the city were strange, he thought.

  The nurse went off to the tea room with her friends.

  ‘What a strange little boy. I wonder what the nuns will make of him?’

  Leaving Home Again

  Jamal had decided that he wasn’t going to talk to Afiba again, but Afiba came and found him.

  ‘We have to leave tonight,’ Afiba whispered. ‘I heard them talking – they’ve found out about the meat, they’ve sacked the cook. He’s gone. I have to make pepper stew for supper and the colonel is taking his visitors to the Palace. Tomorrow there will be a new cook and a new kitchen boy.’

  ‘No, not tonight. We can’t leave at night, the watchman will see us. We have to go in the morning.’

  ‘Jamal, think about the new cook – he’ll be here in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, but not until breakfast time – we will be gone by then. Trust me, Afiba, we cannot leave at night.’

  Afiba sat down on Jamal’s bed, ducking under the mosquito net.

  ‘You may be right, but we would have to go very early, before dawn.’

  Jamal disagreed. ‘No, not before dawn – just after, when the watchman goes to pray.’

  Afiba stopped looking worried.

  ‘You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you? You know, country boy, you’re not so stupid after all.’

  ‘What about supplies?’ Jamal asked.

  ‘Leave that to me. I’ll take what I can before they come to check the stock in the kitchen – I’ve already started. Do you have a bag?’

  Jamal said that he did and they agreed to meet up after supper to finish their plans. In the meantime, Jamal would collect something from the kitchen every time he passed.

  Afiba got up, ready to return to his chores. When he reached the screen door he stopped.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘about this morning. I didn’t mean anything. It’s just things are different here. More modern, more scientific, you know? Doesn’t mean you’re wrong; it’s just different.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jamal, ‘I know I can’t blame you, not if you’ve never seen a ghost.’

  The rest of the day was a sort of dream. Mealtimes and rest times and packing and talking all seemed mixed up together. That night was more like a nightmare. Jamal didn’t want to go to sleep, just in case he overslept. But he didn’t want to stay awake either. He knew that he needed to be wide awake when he left the hospital. So he spent half the night trying to stay awake and the other half trying to sleep, but dreaming that he should be awake. When he heard the morning noises coming through the windows he was already dressed and hiding in the shadows where he could see the watchman’s hut. At first, he sat on his kitbag, but his eyes began to close so he stood up with his bag propped against the wall. After a while he too leant against the wall. He was thinking about how to keep from falling asleep when Afiba appeared out of the shadows.

  ‘Hey, Jamal!’

  ‘Shh, the watchman’s still about. You ready?’

  ‘Ah, well, the thing is … change of plans.’

  ‘But you said we were leaving together. You know where we’re going.’

  ‘Hey, chill. It’s all arranged. I’m staying so I don’t get blamed for the missing food. And my uncle has paid a dash to the new cook, so I get to keep my job.’

  ‘But what will I do?’

  ‘Like I said, it’s all settled. You take out the stuff – the food and things – and my uncle will meet you outside. He’ll take you across the city. It’s much safer.’

  Jamal wasn’t sure. It sounded safer for Afiba, but not very safe for him. Who would believe him if he got caught? And could he trust Afiba’s uncle? Jamal’s uncles had told him to trust only the family. But they didn’t tell him what to do when there wasn’t any family around. What could he do? There was no one else to trust, and he had to leave the compound before they sent him to the orphanage and locked him up.

  ‘OK, OK. What does your uncle look like?’

  ‘No worries, I’ll come out with you, help you carry the crate to my uncle’s car, then I’ll go back to the kitchen. Easy, and everyone wins.’ Afiba grinned. For Afiba everything was always easy.

  ‘Come on, Jamal, help me get the crate from the kitchen.’

  The two boys wrestled with the blue plastic box; they could just about lift it between them.

  ‘What’s in this, Afiba? It feels like you’ve got half the kitchen in here.’

  ‘Oh, you know, things that won’t be missed. A little here, a little there … just things for the family.’

  Jamal doubted that the things in the crate wouldn’t be missed, but he didn’t say anything. It’s difficult to say much when you’re trying to carry a heavy box without making a sound. When they put the crate down, Afiba took off his backpack.

  ‘Here, stuff for you, a sort of payment for helping me out.’ Just then they heard the keys turn in the metal gate. Jamal moved forward and saw the watchman heading towards the prayer room. He lifted his bag onto his shoulders, surprised by how much heavier it was with Afiba’s backpack inside. The boys waited a few minutes, just to be sure the watchman wouldn’t come back, then they looked round to check that no one else was about. They struggled through the gate with Jamal’s bag and the heavy blue crate, then stood panting in the shadows.

  A car flashed its lights at the end of the road.

  ‘There!’ said Afiba. ‘You see, Jamal? I told you he’d be here.’

  Afiba picked up his side of the crate. ‘Come on, we need to be quick.’

  Heading South

  Afiba’s uncle didn’t get out of his car; he just sat there waiting while the boys struggled down the road to where he was parked.

  ‘Hurry, hurry. I don’t want to be seen here.’ He spat betel out of the window while the boys hauled the crate onto the back seat.

  ‘You, Afiba’s friend, you sit in the front so you can get out quickly.’

  Jamal did as he was told, pulling his bag in with him.

  ‘Good luck! I hope you find the people you’re after,’ Afiba said before slamming the door, just as his uncle started to pull away.

  It was still early – there was just a hint of yellow behind the clouds – but the roads were crowded. Afiba’s uncle cursed the other drivers in ways that Jamal had never heard, but it didn’t help: the traffic was packed all around them almost straightaway. Yellow buses and three-wheeled taxis pushed into gaps that were barely big enough for motorbikes. Bikes and scooters wove through spaces that were too small for people to squeeze through and everywhere there were people. Jamal had thought that it was busy when the nurse had taken him to the market, but that was nothing.

  ‘Where do all these people live, Uncle?’ Jamal asked.

  ‘So Afiba wasn’t joking. He said you were stupid. They live here, of course, in the city. In the old city if they’re lucky, down by the lagoon if they’re not. And him …’ Afiba’s uncle pointed to a huge black car with a policeman at the wheel. ‘He lives the other side of the bridge. Not that you’ll ever go there so you don’t need
to worry about people like that. You just need to get out of their way.’ He turned the car to the left, where a space opened up between a man with a red umbrella and a bicycle loaded with oil cans. The black car sped past, then all the other cars did the same.

  ‘So, do you want to get out here? There’s plenty of people, easy to hide yourself.’

  ‘Not really, sir,’ Jamal said. ‘I need to head south. We are going towards the sun – isn’t that east?’

  ‘More country lore, eh? Well, you can’t trust your country knowledge here. But yes, boy, we’re going east – that’s where I need to be. You get out here, like I said. It’s a good place to hide yourself. If you want to go south, follow the railway line. Even a country boy can do that. Now, out! I want to get home.’ He leant across Jamal and opened the car door, almost pushing him onto the street. ‘Don’t forget, boy, if you’re caught don’t mention my nephew. If you do, I’ll find you.’

  He then reversed his car, causing a dozen other drivers to lean on their horns but Afiba’s uncle didn’t look back.

  Jamal stood by the road, holding on to his bag as people bumped and pushed him from every side. This wasn’t what he had planned. He wanted to get to Makoko. So many people had told him that he shouldn’t go there, that it was a bad place. Jamal thought that it sounded just like the sort of place where the ghosts would be. So he had to go south, to Makoko. Afiba’s uncle had said that country rules didn’t apply in the city, but that couldn’t be true. Not when it came to the sun. The sun was the same wherever you went. Even on the godless mountain, where his grandfather lived, the sun was the same. So Jamal turned his back to the sun then held out his left hand. It pointed across the road to where a market was being set up. That way was south, or it would have been at dawn, so he started walking – not straight across the road, but almost. He couldn’t have walked straight across the road even if he’d wanted to; he had to dodge between the cars and taxis, and weave between the other pedestrians. When he was at home it was easy to walk in a straight line. There was nothing in the way, except perhaps a tree or two. Jamal didn’t get lost walking round trees but it was much harder to walk in a straight line in the town. Jamal thought that something or someone was in the way every few steps.