Radiance of Tomorrow (6 page)
3
THERE WAS A TIME
when the days in Imperi were longer and marked by elaborate conversations, tales, visiting friends and family, lying in hammocks under the shade and welcoming strangers with a calabash of cold water, going to the river for a swim or to watch children play diving games. The elders still clung to these moments and wanted them back. Aspects of this life were there but without the previous enthusiasm. Perhaps it was because a large part of the population was unsure what to expect out of their lives; they had gotten used to the fragility of things. But they knew they wanted something different from the elders, something new, though they didn’t know exactly what or how to set about attaining this new life in their current condition.
The simplicity that had once been life had become a burden, especially when it seemed everyone waited for something to do. In the silence of that waiting, memories of war were awakened, bringing restlessness and irritability. People didn’t spend much time on their verandas anymore. Besides the farming that had started on a very small scale just for people to feed their families, everyone just sat around, afraid to find pleasure in most things. Only incidents brought them together and reminded them of the need to mend themselves and their community.
The day after his arrival, Bockarie decided to show the town to Thomas and Oumu. The twins held the long hands of their father as they ventured into the realities of stories he had told them. His quiet demeanor and even his strides were calmer than his children’s, whose impatience made him laugh, a slow, drawn-out laughter that made others smile. Oumu and Thomas greeted people, the few who sat on verandas, the way their father had told them about how things used to be.
“Good morning. Was sleep generous to you and your family? Has the world greeted you kindly this morning…?” the children repeated to everyone they encountered. Most of the people ignored them and went inside their homes because these questions reminded them either of the families they no longer had or of the fact that the world was still cruel to them, and they wanted to forget for just a bit before facing the day. Some of the people laughed because they knew these old words didn’t belong to the children who spoke them.
“Father, how come they do not respond the way you had told us? Is it because we are small and they don’t know us from before?” Oumu asked.
“No, children, it isn’t because you are small. They will answer better with time. I am sure they will,” Bockarie said slightly ponderously, as he wasn’t sure when this would happen. The children didn’t give up, and the next person they greeted was Sila, who was standing under the stoop of his veranda, looking at the sky and breathing in the morning air with a vigor that made the children laugh. When they greeted him, he responded in detail about how he and his children were and how they had slept, and he asked the same questions to Bockarie. While Sila was speaking, Hawa and Maada came onto their veranda and sat on an old wooden log, listening to their father and watching the visitors with eyes that hadn’t completely been freed from sleep. Oumu’s and Thomas’s faces filled with joy as they experienced what their father had spoken of so many times. Afterward, they giggled and poked each other as the adults had a long conversation about the way things had been—how in the morning there used to be a man who would play the drum at 5:00 a.m., then again in the evening for dancing, and finally deep at night, singing a quiet melody that summoned sleep for everyone.
“I used to dance to that drum every time I walked by to my farm. The sound cheered me up all the way to work,” Sila said, mimicking some of the moves, crossing his feet over each other quickly and making the drum sound with his mouth. He was dancing so well that looking at him the children forgot about his missing hand. Bockarie joined in dancing while telling Sila that he, too, had liked the drum, closing the night in particular. He also said that it was actually how he met Kula, dancing in front of the drummer in the evening.
While the adults reminisced, the children watched one another. Oumu and Thomas clearly wanted to know why Hawa and Maada were missing arms and hands, but they didn’t know when it was appropriate to interrupt the adults. So they stepped onto the veranda closer to their age-mates to see if they had just put their hands inside their clothes as children do sometimes, especially in the morning when it was a bit colder. Oumu even touched the stump of Maada’s arm—he smiled awkwardly, trying to understand why this little girl didn’t seem to understand that his hands were gone. Thomas began to emulate the dancing of the adults as an excuse to get closer to Hawa and Maada to observe them more. The adults were too consumed with one another and their past to notice what was transpiring among the children. Perhaps it was a good thing that they learned to be with one another on their own without the adults, who made the situation more awkward at times.
“You should come to my house this evening. The children can play together.” Bockarie tapped Sila on his shoulder and waved goodbye to the children, who giggled, knowing they would have playmates later on. Their shyness had subsided a bit, and Hawa, with her only right hand, waved to Oumu and Thomas, who hesitantly waved back. Sila wasn’t worried, as his children had been through this so many times that it was no longer a worthy conversation. Bockarie knew that his children would ask him questions about this family. “Your mother will explain better, so wait until we get home,” Bockarie said before the children let their inquisitive tongues loose and while their eyes remained on Sila and his family as they walked home. He had to say something but he hadn’t the words, nor did he know how to explain why or how Sila and his children were like that.
Just then a man came running as fast as possible and halted next to Bockarie, almost hiding himself behind him and his children. The man pointed to the path and shouted, “Someone is coming again to do away with us all. Run, everyone!”
A few people who had left their verandas returned to see what the commotion was all about. Most of the others already had their bundles ready to run into the bushes. Soon enough, Colonel emerged from the path holding a machete. He was walking hurriedly with deliberate intensity, marching like a soldier, holding the machete not like a farmer but as someone ready to use it for a fight, his strong arms raised and ready to strike. This was out of habit. The man had seen him from afar; now Colonel saw the man pointing at him and the many hesitant eyes directed his way. He stopped, dropped the machete on the ground, and waited. Victor, Salimatu, Amadu, and Ernest came into view with bundles of wood on each of their heads. The man sighed with apologetic eyes as people now turned to look at him, some relaxing and bringing their bundles back inside their houses. Who was to be blamed? A machete in someone’s hands these days, especially in a young person’s hands, had a different meaning. The man went toward the path and shook hands with Colonel before passing, perhaps his way of saying it was not his fault that he feared Colonel.
“We have wood for sale if your household needs some. Please tell everyone we are at the house at the end of town near the oldest mango tree,” Colonel said to the dispersing crowd. He didn’t introduce himself to Bockarie or anyone else as he walked on. Bockarie later learned about him and the others from Pa Kainesi.
As soon as they arrived home, Thomas and Oumu went to their mother and asked why Hawa and Maada had no hands.
Kula looked toward her husband, whose eyes said,
I didn’t know what to say
.
“Well, it was an accident that happened in this country when you were just babies, and it happened to many people,” she told the children, and then she preempted their follow-up question. “It is an accident that people do not want to speak about just yet. So don’t ask questions, okay. In time you will know if necessary.” She hugged them both.
“Mother, we also saw a man running away from a young boy and then he realized he was wrong!” Oumu said.
“So many stories already this morning! Go in and eat with your brothers and sister.” She released the children from her arms and placed her head on her husband’s back, leaning on him and folding her arms around his waist. He turned to face her. She always had a smile waiting for him that made him feel at peace. He put his hands around her waist and squeezed her until she giggled and playfully pinched him. They laughed and stood together for a while, holding each other to gather the strength that was needed for this day, another day of waiting.
“Mother, Father, I am going to see Mama Kadie. She said I should visit whenever I need a story for the day.” Oumu distracted her parents, who looked at each other and nodded to her request. They knew she would go anyway, or harass them to tell her stories.
“What story do you need for today, if I may ask,” Bockarie said, kissing his daughter’s forehead.
“Mama Kadie will know when she sees my eyes,” Oumu said and skipped off.
On that same day, when the sun was in the middle of the sky, a group of children had ventured into the river for a swim. As they splashed in it, making the water swing harder to both shores, they had shaken loose a body that had been hanging from the branch of a tree for who knows how long. The children’s frightened shouts filled the air, waking the town from its slumber and bringing adults running with heavy hearts. They found a stick and fished the body out. All they could tell was that he was a young man whose genitals had been cut. Memories of that particular past filled everyone’s minds again and they quickly covered the body, as though this would halt the invitation of unpleasant sights into their minds. The children who had been swimming in the river were all too young to know what had happened not so long ago. They had seen burnt villages and houses and holes in walls, and their minds had told them it was fire from a burning farm that had consumed the houses. The adults were happy to agree with such innocent explanations. But as everyone stood with the children at the banks of the river, Oumu, whose innocent mind still thought people died only of old age, asked her father, “Why is this man dead in the river? He does not look older than grandfather.” Bockarie and all the other adults searched one another’s faces. He cleared his throat and said to his daughter, “The young man was drowned by a bad genie, a water spirit, because he went swimming at night, and by himself.”
The children looked at the faces of their parents to confirm this explanation. The adults asked them to head to town, announcing that storytelling would take place that night about humans and water spirits. The children were delighted—their parents had told them of such gatherings, and now they would witness one for the first time. Mama Kadie said she would tell the story at the town square. They raced one another to their various homes, leaving the adults by the river. Pa Moiwa called out to Colonel, who had been sitting on a stone by the river observing things.
“Man in Charge, could you and your caboodle help us with some firewood for tonight’s gathering?”
“Yes, Pa Moiwa, and you will have the firewood for no charge. Our contribution to the town.” He turned away to look at the river. Pa Moiwa went back to the adults’ discussion about the body.
Before they took the body to be buried in the cemetery, they decided to take canoes early the following morning to look for any other bodies that were floating under bushes at the edges of the river and to clean up as best they could. They knew they couldn’t clear everything. A massacre had happened on the river, and though the blood no longer cloaked the surface of the water, there may have been all sorts of things underneath. A fisherman among them suggested he would use his nets to dredge whatever he could from the bottom of the river. What he didn’t say out loud was that in that process, he would also catch fish, which he could sell to them.
* * *
Sila and his children arrived at Bockarie’s house all dressed in colorful, embroidered traditional clothing. Their clean Vaseline-covered bodies were shiny in certain spots and dry in others. Sila carried raw rice wrapped in a cloth, which he gave to Kula as soon as they arrived. It was a tradition to bring a particular kind of red rice to signify that one was grateful for the friendship of the person whose house you visited. She hugged him and kissed his cheek, his smile growing wider. She then wrapped her arms around Hawa and Maada, squeezing them at the same time. They giggled—it was the first time they had met someone who didn’t make them feel uncomfortable, someone who hugged them with no hesitation. Sila admired the attitude of this wonderful and beautiful woman. He stared at her, hoping to catch her eyes to thank her, which was more genuine than the handshake he lacked these days.
“I see that you have come to take my woman away from me!” Bockarie joked.
“Well, now that I am missing an arm, women don’t find me threatening, and I don’t complain when they come closer.” He laughed and put his left arm around Bockarie’s shoulder. Bockarie didn’t know whether to hug him or shake his hand.
“But the hugs and kisses are only accepted from women, man!” Sila said. They walked to the front of the house, where most of the family was gathered. Miata, Bockarie’s older daughter, Mahawa, and Oumu had gone to the river to bathe and fetch water for the evening. The visitors began their round of greetings to the elders. Mama Kadie was holding Tornya.
“Shake my hand with your left, and we should do so from now on, as this hand now has the responsibility of both,” Pa Kainesi said to Sila.
“But this isn’t proper. The right hand is customary for greetings.”
“Times have changed and so must certain traditions. The respect for the tradition is in your eyes and mannerisms. So from now on I choose to shake your left hand.” Pa Moiwa and Mama Kadie shook Sila’s hand and rubbed the heads of his children. Maada and Hawa felt comfortable knowing that the elders treated them the same as all the other children.
As the adults settled on benches and hammocks to talk, Manawah and Abu, Bockarie’s oldest sons, and Thomas took Hawa and Maada to the other side of the veranda. First they rubbed the Vaseline properly on parts of their faces that were dried and then they played word and riddle games, avoiding activities that required both hands. There were moments when they felt themselves thinking too much about the fact that Maada and Hawa were amputated, forgetting to look at their faces. Maada at one point stood up so the stump of his hand was at Manawah’s eye level. He swung himself around and his stump slapped Manawah. He laughed, falling playfully to the floor. Manawah got the point. They would get used to it eventually and would play naturally together.
