The Dragons, the Giant, the Women, стр. 61

“You will be broke in a week’s time that way,” Marta said laughing.

“It’s a good thing I won’t be here for long then,” I said.

“So you were serious about leaving soon then?”

“Yes,” I said. “I have to. I will leave for Bo Waterside first thing in the morning.”

“Yes, well, anything we can do to help,” Marta agreed. “We will take you first thing. Do you know anyone there?”

“No,” I said. “I will find a room to rent and decide what to do from there.”

“You really are as brave as Facia claims,” Marta said. “Well, I will give you my number. You can call me just in case.”

Marta’s flat was the same size as my suite in New York. She lived in the middle of Freetown where the voices of laughter and soccer balls lasted through the day. The smell of burning coal stalked the bathroom from a tiny window with iron bars. The water pressure in the shower was low and the water was cold, but I stood underneath shivering. The nervousness came to me at once—the noise outside shaking my confidence, those faces on the road with no trace of my family. I had no plan beyond taking the bus to Bo Waterside and finding a room. Marta confirmed that it was nearly impossible to cross the border, but I tried to remain hopeful. Bo Waterside was so close to Junde, only a day’s journey—and Lai was a canoe ride outside Junde. Surely there were people in the town who would be familiar with the area. I wrapped myself in a towel and gazed into a mirror. I had kept my hair in a ponytail as Facia had suggested, so my cheekbones were especially high below my sunken eyes. I remembered what Ol’ Ma had told me about coming home if I was ever unable to recognize myself in the mirror.

“I’m here, Ma,” I said.

That night, Marta’s cook boiled a pot of white rice. She boiled pork meat, chicken breasts, shrimp, and smoked fish in another pot with diced onion and peppers. She took the meat out of the pot and emptied most of the salty, seasoned water. She placed jute leaves in the leftover water until it boiled, the sound like joking Ol’ Pas on a dry-season porch who fought with the sun to stay a little longer behind the sugarcane fields. The smell of the seasoned leaves filled the apartment, making my mouth water. The cook then emptied the bowl of boiled meats into the boiling greens and added palm oil, along with fresh peppers and other seasoning. Palaver sauce. When the greens were finished, she placed them over the rice she had prepared and took two plates out for me and Marta. I thanked her and stared at the bowl, its steam rising in perfect undulations. I had no appetite, bullied by nerves, but I forced myself to eat for energy.

Once when I was young, I got sick and lost my appetite for days, becoming so frail that it worried Ol’ Ma and Ol’ Pa. Ol’ Ma made me a bowl of checked rice with okra and gravy, frying two of the best chickens on the farm in Lubn Town. She took it to the bed where I lay, next to the lantern that made a titan of her shadow.

“Eat,” Ol’ Ma had said, and I shook my head.

“You must eat,” Ol’ Ma said again, and I still refused.

“Then what will you do when the Mamy Wateh witch and the dragons them come for you? You will need energy if Pa not here to save you.” That had gotten my attention, and I opened my mouth for Ol’ Ma to feed me.

“And with each bite, pray for your strength against those bad bad things,” Ol’ Ma said, easing the metal spoon into my mouth. So with each bite at Marta’s, I prayed for strength from those things, trying my best not to cry.

Early the following morning, I boarded a local bus in Freetown headed to the Sierra Leone–Liberia border town of Bo Waterside. Marta asked if I wanted to keep any of my belongings in Freetown, but I took my entire suitcase and purse with me. Inside the bus I placed the suitcase on the seat near the window and I held my purse in my lap, squeezing it against my stomach. I was told by Marta’s driver to occupy my own row if I could, to avoid pickpockets who frequently used the transit for extra income. He had also said to sit at the aisle seat instead of the window, so in the unlikely event of a carjacking or other emergency, I could more easily escape. The advice had given me angst and I trembled as I boarded, and I concluded that I would pray during the entire nine-hour bus ride. There were two holes in the back windows, made by bullets. The seats on the bus were covered with old vinyl that had been tied with string or taped at bursting corners. I found an empty row in the middle and sat.

The bus passengers were mostly traders who traveled back and forth from Freetown to the border towns for goods to sell in market. The bus was less rank than I thought it would be, and I was glad that the morning breeze crept through the opened windows. As the bus pulled off, there was a loud knocking at the front door. The driver cursed while he opened the door, and a short man boarded, paying him and moving through the bus to find a seat. I looked toward the window in hopes that he would not try to sit beside me. I heard his heavy footsteps approach, and the man stopped right in front of my seat.

“Please, can I sit?” he asked.

I examined his face. His skin was the same color as his dark eyes, he was graying, and he had short fingers tightly wrapped around the handle of a duffle bag.