The Dragons, the Giant, the Women, стр. 59
“Not absolutely,” I said. “But yes—Amos said he was with them until the checkpoints to Junde.”
“So wait until the war is over and they return to Caldwell. Then you can think about how to bring them here with you.”
“No,” I said, without hesitation.
“No?”
“No,” I said, folding my hands in my lap. “He would do it for me if he was in my place.”
“But he is not. And he would want you to stay here,” Roy continued, unwavering.
So I asked him if he had ever been close to death. Consumed by it. I asked if he ever had mornings when even waking up seemed the most unfair burden. Eating. Bathing. And even after somehow building up the courage to wake up, every thought not directly linked to them was a betrayal. The restlessness made a home on my shoulders, tormenting me as the day went on. This was the other side of love. Love gone is painful, and I existed in that grief upon hearing news of the Ol’ Pa. But love almost gone—the lurking threat of loss—that was a daily torture, death realized every morning. And I did not know which was worse—the fear of losing them to the war, the fear that some rebels would find Lai and kill them before the war ended, and knowing that if such a thing did occur, I would not be able to go on; or admitting that I had already died, so many times that year, with my Ol’ Pa, with Liberia and hopes of returning and making the life that we planned for, with my rosebush in Caldwell likely incinerated, with my fears that my daughters were gone, those fears that delivered the most cruel lullabies every night I did not hear from them. Such is the danger of deep love, however beautiful. Dying lingers close behind.
“And if you love someone that much, that fully, what would you do?” I asked Roy, tears raining onto the scarf wrapped around my neck.
“I would go,” he said.
TWENTY-SIX
December 1990, and Freetown looked beautiful from heaven. The winding roads made a bed among Sierra Leone’s hills, so green and perfect my lungs filled with clean air. I could see the palm trees from the sky, home to coconuts and unripe plantains, nuts that would make oil for some Ol’ Ma’s cassava leaves that night. There were many people who tried to convince me to stay before I boarded the plane at LaGuardia—but in the end their memory was the only approval I needed.
I only had one small suitcase, which I carried with me on my flight, full of those dresses I had once loved. Facia had advised me to wear my long hair in a ponytail, to try to look as though I had never left. She had reminded me that for months the women there did not have those simple things that contributed to the natural beauty of West African women—a brush, lipstick, perfume, a clean dress—so I should pack the most plain dresses possible so I would not stand out.
“They will steal from you if they know you coming from America,” Facia had cautioned, taking the dresses I had packed out of my suitcase and replacing them with more plain, nondescript ones.
Before leaving our apartment, I held my son for what felt like an entire day. I nursed him, I sang to him and told him those stories my Ol’ Ma told me, and her Ol’ Ma had told her. I doted on his eyes and cheeks—I promised him I would be back with his father and sisters. I was able to obtain a sponsorship letter from the scholarship program, which I would use to get visas from the American embassy for them to come to New York with me. I had tried to obtain letters for my mother and sisters, but in the end, only my immediate family would be allowed back into America with me. Since the stipend was not enough for all of their plane tickets, I asked everyone I considered a friend for help. I was able to raise enough for our tickets and had a thousand dollars left for an anticipated two-month stay.
I met with Yasuka days before my flight, and like others, Yasuka asked me if I was afraid to go, if there were other options, if I had considered and planned for the worst.
“I am not afraid, no,” I answered. “I actually feel like myself again. I feel like I can breathe again.”
Yasuka looked down at the table toward the barely touched cups of tea for most of the conversation. I lifted her hand and placed it on mine, which was warmer than the temperatures outside would suggest.
“I can’t wait to meet them,” Yasuka said, finally, gracefully shielding her fear with hopefulness, just like everyone else I told.
When I exited the plane in Freetown, I was greeted by a familiar West African warmth and stuffiness. I swore I smelled all that was mingling in a smoke pot in the distance, all those things I had missed the past year. There were two lines: one for Sierra Leoneans and one for foreigners. I went to the line for foreigners and waited amid a crowded lot of British military personnel and members of various nongovernmental organizations, all wide-eyed and noticeably overwhelmed with excitement that they, too, had arrived in Africa. The airport was loud, too loud to hear myself worry. Beyond the customs counters I noticed local men in safety vests wave toward arriving passengers, offering their help with checked luggage. I approached the front of the line. I nervously pulled out my passport from a folder of traveling papers I was keeping in a purse close to my chest. I handed it to the attendant.
“Hello,” he said, examining at my passport. “Where is your address here?”
I cleared my throat and handed him a sheet of paper with the address of Facia’s friend written on it.
“I