The Dragons, the Giant, the Women, стр. 60

The man nodded and stamped my passport, letting me pass. Beyond the counter, two security guards waited for me, blocking my way to the airport exit.

“We just need to check your bag,” one said.

I handed them my suitcase and watched carefully as they opened it and lifted a few of my clothes.

“Open your purse,” one of them said.

I held out my purse and opened it for the guard to look inside.

“Okay, you can go,” he said and pushed my valise aside. A man approached with a customs vest and paced in front of me.

“Where you coming from? London or America?” he asked.

My exit was so close. I glanced at the door.

“America, but I don’t need your help,” I said, remembering Facia’s stories about rogues who waited at the airport for naive travelers to steal from.

“Your people outside?” he asked and I nodded.

“Let me take your bag for you,” he said, gesturing toward my suitcase. “Too heavy for the beautiful lady.”

“No, no,” I said holding my bag close.

“Okay, okay,” he said, friendly and respectfully. “I am only trying to help. Welcome, sister,” he said and walked away.

I felt sorry for how short I had been with him, but the feeling was fleeting, eclipsed by my new anxiety that I had actually made it back. Outside, the sun ran to meet me, kissing my face like the sister, the child it recognized me to be. A plane flew above us out of Sierra Leone and cars honked their way out of the parking lot in jagged lines.

A man approached me wearing a newly pressed shirt. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief and smiled my way.

“Are you Mam?” he asked. He extended his hand toward my suitcase. Again, I pulled the suitcase and purse close.

“Yes,” I said softly.

“No worry, no worry. I am Marta’s driver,” he laughed. He looked out onto the lot and pointed toward a car about a hundred yards away. The door opened and a short woman stepped out, straightening her dress. She waved toward me and adjusted her sunglasses. I laughed and waved to the woman.

“Oh!” I said. “Thank you. Thank you,” I said to the driver and handed him my suitcase. I followed him to the car where Marta waited. The impending greeting made me anxious. I knew nothing of the woman except that she was a former classmate of Facia during her time at the University of Franche-Comté in Besançon, France.

“Hello!” Marta said, giggling. “Wow, you look just like Facia!”

I hugged her and landed a soft kiss on each cheek.

“Thank you for coming,” I said.

She smelled like she had rubbed peppermint oil behind her ears. I couldn’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but I imagined they were as kind as her voice.

“You must be famished,” Marta said.

The windows had been manually rolled down and all of those delightful smells raced to meet my senses.

“I am,” I answered, shyly. “Thank you again for everything.”

“No, please,” Marta smiled. “If you are Facia’s sister, then you are my sister.” She rubbed my shoulder. “It is truly brave what you are doing.”

“I haven’t done anything yet,” I said. “I want to leave tonight for the border town if possible. I could at least get there in the early morning.”

“Nonsense!” Marta said, hitting the seat playfully. “You just arrived. Please. I had my house girl make you jollof rice. And we can make palaver sauce if you want. Plus, it’s better to arrive in the afternoon. Especially now.”

I reluctantly agreed. The driver hit the brakes hard as schoolchildren crossed the road. The Freetown intersections were swarming, more packed than I remembered from my visits when I was younger. On the other side of the street, the children danced and chased each other through the passing crowd. One turned around and made a face at us, twisting his mouth and nose in opposite directions, before continuing with his friends.

“Don’t mind them,” Marta laughed, noticing the child’s face. “Their gut is full. Everybody happy about Christmas.”

“Yes, yes.” I breathed in the day’s sighs. “I can’t believe it’s been a year since I’ve been back.”

“Time does fly, doesn’t it?” Marta asked, not missing a beat.

“There are so many people,” I said.

“Yes, many of your people have come this year. Nobody ever imagined this could happen to Liberia. I remember we were all once trying to cross your borders for jobs. Now it’s Liberians looking for jobs everywhere else since things do not look like they are changing.”

“Wow.”

“I hear Guinea and Ghana, and even Nigeria, have many more in refugee camps,” Marta said.

I wondered how many of the friends were in those camps.

“They say they are setting up settlement programs in New York for those in the camps. In Staten Island, I believe,” Marta said.

“Yes, I’ve heard that too,” I said, staring at the many pedestrians on the road. “And also Rhode Island, is what they are saying.”

“Yes, there too.”

“This is all still unbelievable,” I said.

“Yes, it’s too bad,” Marta said. “You know there are rumors now that Taylor’s rebels are on their way through Sierra Leone. They want to overthrow Momoh too.”

“We heard it but we didn’t know how true it was,” I said.

“I am making my way out of this place myself soon. I will go to France and wait it out.”

“We will pray.”

A boy approached our window selling fried plantains. I imagined he would place that day’s earnings in a pot near his front door, to be used by a shy but stern mother or Ol’ Ma, or a tired but joyous father or Ol’ Pa. I handed him a few coins. He smiled when he saw the money and grabbed a few of the bags out of his bucket.

“No,” I said waving my hand.

He nodded in gratitude as the car drove away from the intersection. I retrieved a handkerchief out of my purse and pressed it against my forehead. The heat filled the back seat as the car once again stopped