Say You’re One Of Them (10 page)

“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.”

“Hey, honey, you must eat something,” Mama said, handing Mary over to Papa and moving to Paul’s side. “You need the energy, please. We know it’s been difficult for you, but everything will be OK. Dear, what would you like to eat?”

The boy pointed to beans and
dodo,
and Mama served him and started feeding him. Paul began to cry even though he was older than me. Mama put the food aside, held him close, and caressed and rocked him.

Antoinette looked this way, that way, edged nearer, and whispered into my ear, “They brought many of them in a fish truck from northern Nigeria . . . desert, six days ago. I don’t like him. I wish he wouldn’t come to Gabon with us! I came four days ago. I’m better than him—”

“Shut up, Antoinette!” Papa said, and gave her a stern look. “Don’t be rude. In Gabon, we don’t whisper about people in their presence.”

Antoinette sat up immediately, afraid for the first time. “I’m sorry, Papa.”

“You better be!” the man said. “Good behavior is important, very important.”

“It’s OK, darling,” Mama told Papa, handing him a bottle of La Place beer and a bowl of pepper soup. “Just relax. Don’t you think you are overreacting? You, eat something too, otherwise these children will drive you nuts. Children are like that. They’ll get along eventually. . . . Kpee, eat something, please. Big Guy, come on. Everybody, please, feel at home.”

Our uncle began with the pepper soup and rice, but the movement of his jaws was very deliberate, as if he expected to bite into a pellet. Big Guy unwrapped two mounds of
akasa
onto a plate, poured crab soup over them, and paused to suck at a bottle of Gulder beer as if on a feeding bottle. I went for Maltina and a mixture of beans and rice and stew. Everybody was laughing at Antoinette, who had mixed pineapple juice with Maltina and Coke and was asking Papa now whether he could pour a bit of his beer into the mix. Yewa was nibbling on a chicken breast in a way that suggested she was already full. She looked tired from eating but wasn’t able to say no to anything that was pushed her way.

SUDDENLY
, A
GUST
OF wind rolled in off the sea, and we could hear it press on the door. It smashed the windows shut. Paul, who was now sitting alone, retched, bent over, and vomited. Papa rushed forward and grabbed him. Mama and the men gathered around him.

“Oh, seasickness again,” Mama grumbled, and looked helplessly at Papa.

“I hope it’s not as bad as yesterday,” Papa said. “We didn’t bring any spirits, darling, or did we?”

“I’m afraid I forgot,” she said, looking beaten for the first time that evening.

“No worry,” Fofo Kpee said, and exchanged a telling glance with Big Guy. “No
wahala,
no
wahala.
”

He quickly produced a bottle of
payó
from under the bed, opened it, and poured it into a bowl. He soaked a piece of cloth in the gin, wrung it out, and placed it on Paul’s face. Mama, who by now was already carrying the boy, held it in place. Fofo cleaned up the vomit. Paul was so weak that no matter what Mama did to hold him, he unwrapped and sprawled, their bodies in an easy tangle, mother snake sand-bathing with her baby.

“You see what I said about Paul?” Antoinette whispered to me.

“He’ll be OK,” I said, to keep her quiet.

“He’s such a baby . . . ,” she began, but stopped when Big Guy lashed her with an angry stare.

Everybody returned to their seats, and in the uneasy quiet that followed, Big Guy turned on our boom box at a low volume, and Alpha Blondy began to croon in the background. Antoinette left her food, giggled, and started dancing near Fofo’s wardrobe. Her hands kept thrashing into the clothes because there wasn’t much space. Then she pulled me up and asked me for a dance, and everybody cheered us on. Yewa joined us at Mama’s suggestion. She stood there unable to wriggle her small waist as Big Guy taught us, because of too much food. Mama said she would have come to dance with us if not for Paul, who was still lying down. Big Guy sat there, following the heavy rhythm with his head, as if our place was too small to contain his height and dance wizardry. Fofo just watched quietly, still not comfortable with this crowd.

Later, against the lantern light, Papa checked our exercise books and praised us for being bright students. Fofo had never looked at our exercise books, so we were excited.

“You two should be given the best education possible in this world!” Papa concluded, embracing Yewa and giving me a rigorous handshake.

“We’re intelligent too!” Antoinette announced to everybody, pouting.

“Yes, I should say you two are as bright as Paul and Antoinette. Right, Paul?”

Paul was still staring at the floor and didn’t say anything, the cloth covering half his face like a medical mask.

When he finished looking at our books, I said, “Thank you, Monsieur Ahouagnivo!”

“No, no . . . Papa, just Papa!” Big Guy said suddenly, shaking his head and sighing and giving Fofo a bad look. “If you no remember well, just be quiet like dis
aje-
butter boy.” He pointed at Paul.

“Thank you, Papa,” I corrected myself. “I’m sorry, Papa.”

“It’s OK, Pascal,” the man said.

“
N ma plón wé ya?
” Fofo Kpee fumed at me. “How come
ta soeur dey
behave better dan you
egbé,
Kotchikpa . . . ?”

“Oh, no, his name is Pascal,” Mama corrected Fofo, who stiffened up like someone who has touched a live wire. “Pascal,” she said again. “See how easy it is to make these mistakes? Do we expect too much from these children in one night?”

“Sorry,
madame, je voulais dire
Pascal,” Fofo Kpee said, a hangdog smile straining his face.

Papa and Mama began to show us pictures of Gabon and some of their property in that land and in Nigeria and Benin and Côte d’Ivoire. They showed us pictures of the inside of some of the ships we saw crossing the water and pumping smoke into the horizon every day. They were all very beautiful. They showed us pictures of some of the children they had helped, doing different things—studying, playing, eating, singing, even sleeping. Some were as young as Yewa. These pictures were shown hurriedly, and Antoinette commented on each of them excitedly, as if she had already been to Gabon and knew all these children. She seemed to know many of them by name.

“And, by the way,” Mama said, “make sure the children remain in good health for the trip, OK?”

“Sure,
madame,
” Fofo Kpee said.

“Make you buy mosquito net for dem, you hear? I mean prepare de children well well
o.
”

“No worry,
madame.
Everyting go
dey
fine fine.”

“And Big Guy no go worry you again about de oder children, OK,” Papa said, standing up to leave.

“Tank you,
monsieur!
” our uncle said, and bowed.

“We no go take back anyting from you,” Papa continued. “Just
dey
do your best. But if someting bad happen to dese two children, we go hold you responsible
o.
”

Everybody laughed. Fofo gave him his assurances and winked at me and rubbed Yewa’s head. He cracked a few jokes and pulled at his lip, and everybody laughed, even Paul. It seemed to me that for the first time during that long night he had come into his usual confident self. He must have sensed the visit he had dreaded was coming to an end on a good note.

“All right, then,” Papa said suddenly, putting the pictures away, “Big Guy, begin
dey
pack up. We still get two places to go. It’s a long night.”

“No, four places . . . seven children,” Big Guy corrected him, and started packing up the food and returning everything to the car.

My heart started to sink as they packed away the food. I had nursed the secret wish that they would leave the buffet for us. I had thought about pouring out the
ogbono
soup that filled our biggest pot, to accommodate the food. I had also thought about converting our aluminum bathing bucket into a temporary pot. Instead of letting anything go to waste, we could have poured everything into these two containers and stirred. As Fofo used to say whenever anyone was eating too many things at the same time, “Dem all
dey
enter de same stomach.” I could warm the food two or three times a day.