“So, there are no beignets for my tea this morning?
“Did you give me money to buy anything? There is not even enough sugar in the house.”
“I gave you money on Monday, or am I dreaming?”
“It’s Friday today!”
I don’t want to get into an argument with her this morning. I gulp my hot tea wishing there was more sugar in it to wake my stomach up. Anyway, it’s time to get going. My two-year-old daughter tugs at the khaki pants, arms stretched. I pick her up, bouncing her in the air. She seems lighter than usual. Her giggles appease my swollen heart. Rubbing her tiny nose his face was all I needed to face the world.
Abou, my neighbor brought back my motorcycle at dawn. It’s been two weeks since I walked to work with no money to pay for the repairs. After some near-tearful negotiations, he agreed to give it back on the condition that the fee be paid with interest at the end of the month. The air hitting my face at all speed brings smells of food, trash, and car exhaust. I veer off the dirt road towards a main tarred road. At the four-way crossroad, I wait for cars to pass before continuing. An old man pushing a cart with jerry cans filled with water stands next to me. I can hear his breathing. I inched forward to avoid hitting his cart once I was ready to enter the road. I notice that he also inches forward. A glimpse at his face reveals wrinkles, each showing years of hardship.
“You need to hurry up and buy the beignet before heading to school” Mama was standing akimbo while I crouched by a bucket of water. I rush to wash my face, hands, and legs.
“Yes, mama.” I managed to mumble while scrubbing my face. My uniform is already on, I take the coins she hands me and speed out the compound door. I bump into my older brother who is entering the house and drop the coins on the ground. I let out a cry of distress.
“Can you see where you are going? You made me drop the coins.”
“You came full speed at me, you are the one who should be more careful.” He leaves me there not even worried that he made me lose our breakfast money. Mama gave me three coins and now there is only one left in my hand. I run my fingers on the sandy ground looking for the missing two. After a few seconds, I find one but I’m unable to locate the other. I keep searching and begin to panic. I cannot go back to Mama and admit I lost some of the money. My uniform is also now dirty from my kneeling on the ground. After thinking for a few minutes, I come up with a plan.
“Good morning Uncle Ali” Ali was the neighborhood uncle who ran a shop where most families buy on credit and are reimbursed at the end of the month.
“Good morning my son, how are you this morning?”
“I am fine. Mama sent me.” The lie came so naturally during this moment of panic.
“Does she need something?”
“No, she wants 100fcfa because she has no change at home. She will reimburse on her way back from the market.”
“Ah ok, not a problem, here it is. Tell her I’ll just add it to her credit list, she can pay at the end of the month.”
‘Thank you, uncle, I will tell her.”
With my problem temporarily solved, I realized it would be better to buy from the lady selling across the main road rather than the usual spot we buy from which is farther. I need to make up for the lost time, so I head toward the main tarred road. I stand by the edge waiting to cross. There are cars, motorcycles, and bicycles speeding from opposite lanes. On either side, more motorcycles and pedestrians are waiting to cross. I feel overwhelmed, not sure at which moment to move. I wait for what seems too long with sweat running down my spine. The speeding cars seem to be slowing and the people on the other side are inching closer ready to cross. On an impulse, I squint my eyes and make a run for it. someone yells “Hey!” I hear multiple beeps and then feel cold metal hitting me. The coins are on the ground again, my arm is stretched. I feel a banging pain on the left side of my head then nothing.
The man with the water cart charges forward as the cars in front of us slow down. I press on the accelerator to pass him before veering to the left. In that split second, a child comes at full speed in front of me and it’s too late for a full stop. The front wheel of the motorcycle collides with his body. He falls on his back with arms stretched, I fall on the side with part of the motorcycle on my leg. The screech from the wheel, the boy’s thump on the ground, and the old man’s yelp send a chill down my spine. Two men lift me pushing the motorcycle to the side. A quick check pat down of my body doesn’t seem like there is anything broken.
“Don’t move yet, stand there.” One of the men, still holding on to my arms tells me in a stern voice.
“The boy, is he alright?”
“The police will be here soon, but someone should take him to the hospital.”
A small crowd forms around us. The old man is sprinkling water on the boy and wiping his forehead. A discussion amongst bystanders debating whether to wait for the police or head to the hospital. I turn my eyes back on the boy, and he is still not moving. Is he at least breathing? My heartbeats match a throb on the back of my neck. The sound of a whistle brings me out of my mind. A thin policeman pushes through the crowd with his baton until reaching the center of the human circle. He heads to the boy, puts his hands on his forehead, and lifts one arm before laying it carefully on the boy’s belly. He turns around asks me a few questions and takes some notes. He orders a departure to the hospital in the back of the pickup truck he got out of.
I sit on a bench in a corridor waiting to hear about the boy. It’s been an hour, there is no hope that I can make it to work today. The policeman, who left after dropping us, reappears. He is with an older lady and two men. The lady is sobbing underneath a veil while the man walks up to me. The policeman takes the lead, introduces them as the family members of the boy, and explains what happened at the accident site. He adds that I was not at fault but has agreed to take care of all the hospital bills. I don’t remember agreeing to any payment yet. The men listen and nod quietly. The oldest states that the worst was prevented, and the most important thing is that both parties are alive. A nurse comes by and leads the group into a room. The boy is under a drip but his eyes are bright and open. He perks up as he sees his family. My heart is relieved.
*****
After a day in the hospital, the family takes the boy home. Just a few days later, a man who introduced himself as the uncle showed up at my door with the news that the boy died due to his injuries. Life’s boxing glove punched me in the face. He comes back again a day later with other members of the family with a payment request. According to the traditional law in their tribe, the person responsible for the death of their child pays the death payment to appease the spirits. With no intention of hurting a soul at any time, my mind cannot accept the news. I am not a killer. Their arrival on the second day was unannounced, and I didn’t have time to call my family members to help me make sense of the situation. By the time they left my house, I had a payment date. With no strength left in my body, my wife is the one to inform our families. Our elders come by the house the same evening.
“Why should you be held responsible for the boy’s death?” the soft voice of old age showed weariness.
“I don’t know uncle.” My face was buried in my hands; I did not want to ever retell what happened that day. It was an accident I did not cause.
“We will go to see the family in the morning. You have no choice but to comply with the death payment.”
“Yes, uncle.” In five sleepless days, I gathered the money that two of the boy’s uncles came to collect. I wanted to go to their house and shake the mother’s hand, I was part of the day that took his life away, but I am not a killer.
Mama and everyone are so nice to me these days. I haven’t been to school in a week. I am now allowed to leave the compound and Baba buys me sweets, a rice cake my favorite. For the first time, I was the center of attention, but I couldn’t understand why they believed that I was going to die. The chaotic commotion in our compound was dizzying, but I was enjoying it until Mama packed a bag for me. Baba, teary-eyed, let me know that I was going to live with a relative in a place I never heard of.
Mama wakes me up in the middle of the night. I still have the stomachache that started earlier. I ate too many sweets. She carries my bag to the front gate and hands it to a man seated. She gently pushed me into the car and the man grabs me. I sit on his lap. I look at Mama, she is hiding half of her face with a scarf. Placing her hand on my head and muttering words I cannot hear, my sleepy eyes are not sure what they are seeing. The man tells my Mama to let us go and we drive away. He adjusts my tired body and puts my head on his chest. I feel his heartbeat.
Even my glasses can’t protect my eyes from the sand. To cut down on cost, I chose to ride in the back of the pickup truck for over six hours now. A metal tin with water is comfortably nested next to me while my feet balance on my travel bag. I almost wanted to use the water to wash my face, though it would be useless, the chatter of the other passengers let me know that we should be soon arriving at our destination.
“So, what brings you to this part of the country?” an older lady, who occasionally gave me furtive looks, broke the windy silence. A broad smile revealed black gums and spotless white teeth.
“I am here for work. I have to set up a new school in the area.”
“A school? Who will send their children to learn the white man’s language?” she must have been a lady who knows the white man’s language herself.
“It is now mandatory for all the regions in the country.”
“Good luck convincing the parents.” We share a short laugh. I am hiding my apprehension behind that forced laugh.
“Come here, little boy. Why are you so filthy?” I was entering my uncle’s compound after a few hours of play. I overspent time and came home after him.
“Sorry uncle, I went to play.”
That’s all you know how to do. Instead of helping your aunt with chores, you spend your days galivanting.” I narrowly escape a shoe he throws as he presses on each syllable in his words.
“Sorry!”
“Go wash your sandy face and go to the main village shop. Tell that Old Man to give you the bottle of sesame oil I ordered.” I grin at the second opportunity to leave the house.
“Old Peugeot sent me for his sesame oil.” My uncle gained that nickname from his battered car which gives him a standing in the village.
“Ah yes, my boy. I have been waiting for you to come by.” He limps into the shop and brings out a 5L jerry can. He hands it to me while greeting someone.
I thank the old man and am about to leave before I look up at the person he is greeting. A burst of joy makes me giggle. It’s the man with the motorcycle from the city.
“Hello, Mister.”
“Hello!”
“It’s me. The one you hit with your motorcycle the last time.”
“What are you saying?”
“Run home my boy, it’s getting late.” The old man with his stick was watching the interaction with his eyebrows raised.
“You hit me last time and took me to the hospital in the city.” I chuckles remembering the days when I ate to my heart’s content, and everyone was nice to me. He hunches his head forward, takes off his sunglasses, and stares at me. I keep chuckling.
“But…. You… the little boy…. You are here?”
“Yes, I am. I live with Old Peugeot.”
“But you are dead.”
“No uncle, I am here. I don’t go to school anymore.” The man is gesturing his arms up and down. He drops his glasses, I pick them up to give them to me, he looks at me, mouth open, and does not take the glasses back. I want to leave but I stand there listening to them. The man says “dead” over and over. I wonder who is dead.
The Old Man scolds me again. I say goodbye to the man who is still staring. I force my hand into his for a handshake and then runoff. What an excitement to see him again after the accident. I can’t wait to tell my friend and Old Peugeot.
********
I enter the compound when it’s almost time for the evening porridge. My aunt with Old Peugeot seated close by is stirring the porridge in a large cement pot. My empty stomach growls at her sight.
“The Old Man sends his greetings. Here is the sesame oil.”
“Go put it under my bed.”
“Uncle, I saw the man from the accident!”
“What accident?” he asks without looking up from the piece of paper he is reading.
“That man who hit me with his motorcycle. I saw him at the main shop. Maybe he was there to buy something.”
“How do you know it’s him? Did he recognize you?” His eyes are now on me and my aunt briskly stopped stirring the porridge.
“Yes, he did. But he said I was dead. I don’t know why.”
“Did you tell him it was you in the accident?”
“Yes, uncle. At first, he didn’t know I was me, with his glasses he didn’t see me, I think. I told him over and over. He finally believed me. Hehehe!” I let out a laugh like those hyenas that come out at night.
Uncle pulls me towards him by my collar, and a backhand slap meets my temple. I stumble and can’t stop myself on time before tripping on a piece of firewood and falling face-first into a cement pot. The hot porridge slapped my face, a pain never felt before. My aunt yelps as she stands up. Laying there, I feel a hit on my head.
I only had to say Old Peugeot and a new friend I made in the village who I urgently called for help knew which house to take me to. Replaying that morning with my motorcycle and the frantic search for money in the days following churned my stomach. Trying to tell the story to my friend on our way, I jumble details and each question he asks irritates me. It was the boy in front of the shop, but I needed to see him again. Maybe my eyes and ears were teasing my mind.
“Are you sure it’s the same child?”
“The child himself told me who he was.”
“This is a tale straight from a folktale story. I cannot believe my ears.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
As we approach the gate of a compound, a group of men and women are also rushing in the same direction. We exchange furtive greetings and enter. It was the first time I saw a compound lit at night in the village. There is a man with grey hair seated, and a woman face down wailing. A pot sideways on the ground with white liquid around it. More women join in the wailing, and men start chattering, but I can’t make out what they are saying. My friend inches towards Old Peugeot with me in tow. The two are acquaintances so he introduces me to a new arrival from the city. In a few sentences, he explains the ordeal at the shop. I try to concentrate on the conversation, but the wailing distracts me. Old Peugeot nods at each sentence, eyes on the ground and one hand twisting his beard.
“We just want you to tell us who the boy is.”
“The one you are asking about is no longer with us.”
“The little boy who my friend saw earlier, he said he was from the city.”
“Yes. He was my nephew.”
“So can we see him?”
“He just died, there is the body.”
Deborah Melom Ndjerareou is a humanitarian, writer, and blogger from the Republic of Chad. She runs the blog wewriteafrika.org which focuses on highlighting the positive in Africa. She also writes social-political opinion and analysis pieces. She is a traveler, reader, and advocate of creating an African-centered narrative. She is fluent in English, French, Spanish and her native Ngambaye. Her work has appeared in Brittle Paper, the Kalahari Review, the Diplomatic Courrier and the Diplomatic Insight.
Blog: wewriteafrika.org
