The Dragons, the Giant, the Women, стр. 4
“Birthday geh,” he said, picking me up with great difficulty as soon as he stepped out of the car.
“Look, my dress,” I said into his face.
“It looks good,” Ma said, touching the lace cloth that lined the hem.
My sisters, who heard their voices from inside, bolted toward Ma and Pa, nearly bowling them over with the charge.
The men settled on the porch with Papa and Pastor. They were mostly dark and stout men who all appeared serious, only to collectively descend into an abyss of laughter at the right word or joke at an unfortunate person’s expense. Korkor walked onto the deck and told the guests that the food was ready, then she whispered something into Ol’ Ma’s ear. Beyond the den and around the dining room table, my family was gathered behind a cake with burning candles coming from its face. They noticed me and began to clap and holler, and Ol’ Ma pushed me toward the table and cake from behind. It became quiet and I was sure they would all sing.
“Where is Mam?” K asked.
Mam. It remained silent for a moment. It was a moment like a box packed tight and closed for so long that when it was finally opened its contents rushed out. I did not wait for them to bellow the birthday song, but ran into my room and stared out of the window. Mam. Korkor came behind me, and Papa, but none would pull me away. Not the smell of fresh greens, not my Ol’ Ma, not my Ol’ Pa. Not the cake and streamers, or turning five. I remained near the window waiting. I needed it to rain again. I wanted to hear Mam sing.
TWO
In the months after Mam left Liberia for New York, we talked to her every Sunday. She sounded the same to me then, though once or twice her voice disappeared while she spoke. I inhaled the heavy silence, hoping that some of her would seep through the phone so that I could lay my head against it.
“I will soon be back, yeh?” she would say.
After moving into the house with palm trees, I found that her smell had moved with us, followed me as I, on so many Saturday afternoons, had trailed her around the apartment in her red high heels that dragged underneath my feet. In her closet, in her room, in the kitchen, even Korkor smelled like her—the calming blend of seasoned greens and rose water.
Every day our driver, a short, chubby man with a blunt line of gray hair an inch above each ear, picked us up from school. Torma met him at the end of the road to walk us home. From the main road we could see our house dancing in the heated rays of the sun, a drawing that grew bigger and more real with each step. We stumbled out of the car in uniform plaid skirts and small pink backpacks. Torma waved at our driver as his tires blew a whirl of dust into the air when he drove away.
“Come,” Torma said, turning around to us. “Surprise for you all inside.”
Upon hearing the word, we sprinted down the dusty road. It was dry season in Monrovia and the sun strained its eyes, burning arms and feet as we ran. Moneysweet waved from a rosebush in the front yard and we waved back before nearly tripping over our feet into the house.
“Surprise today,” he said as we climbed, one step at a time, up the porch stairs. He laughed and shook his head at our excitement.
Inside, there was no father or grandparents. The foyer was empty. We searched our rooms and found nothing of importance or shock, so we approached Torma in the hallway.
“You girls fast,” she said.
“Where’s the surprise?” Wi asked.
“In the den,” Torma said. Before she finished the sentence, we were in full stride through the front hallway toward the den.
In the den, near my mother’s scented couch, there was a large brown envelope with black writing and stickers on it. Anytime something like this sat on the table when we came home, it meant that Mam had sent something for us.
“It’s from New York! It’s from New York!” we chanted and took turns waving the large envelope in the air.
The front door opened and after a short set of footsteps, Papa walked into the den.
“Mr. Moore, you here?” Torma asked, quickly standing. He motioned for her to sit down and allowed us to jump around the room before throwing our arms around his neck.
“I got in early. It came, enneh-so?” Papa asked. Torma nodded. She walked out of the den and returned with a pair of scissors. She cut the tape on the envelope and opened it. I reached inside.
“What is this?” I asked disappointedly. Two small boxes that looked like video cases lay inside the box with a letter.
“Movies,” Papa said as K pinched his cheeks, already distracted by his presence from the mysterious box that she was shouting over only a few seconds earlier.
“Ma-Ma-lawa?” K asked in his lap.
“No, not that movie,” he said. The Malawala Balawala country dancers were K’s favorite. The people on the two boxes I held looked different. On one box there was a girl with white skin and a blue dress, a little dog, and three Gio devils that were connected at their hips. The other was a woman with white skin and white hair with her hands stretched out in grass. I was confused.
“Read it,” Papa said.
“Wiz-ard of Oz,” Wi read from the box with the Gio devils.
“Sound of Mu-sic,” she read from the other box.
I was still confused.
“Why do they look like that?” I asked.
“Like what?” Papa asked.
“Like, sick. White, an—” I said.
“They don’t look sick. They just have different color skin. Like the missionary woman, Sis’