The Dragons, the Giant, the Women, стр. 64

that afternoon. I was happy to stretch my arms and legs. I kept Jallah in sight, now my only lead in finding my husband, my girls. Bo Waterside was twice as crowded and busy as Freetown. There were some who were running down the road, some who walked with buckets of water, bundles of belongings or other goods on their glowing black heads. Market vendors shouted to pedestrians. “Plum, plum, plum, plum” or “Rice here. Rice! Rice!” or “Who want buy salt? Salt! Salt for you!” The smell of fresh fruit mingled with the fumes of rotten and deceased things. I waved my handkerchief over my nose in the heat.

“It takes some getting used to,” Jallah said, walking up behind me. “You will need a hotel first, yes?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, following him.

There was a busy road that intersected with the bustling market. Jallah pointed at the intersection. Vendors waved their goods across my face as I proceeded.

“Move from here, we are fine,” Jallah said, driving them away. “You look American so they will try to sell you anything.”

“How?” I asked.

“We know our people,” Jallah said. “We can always tell when someone has been away.”

Some trucks approached and people moved out of the road. I stepped aside as the trucks sped by. A few hundred yards in the distance, along a dusty road, I vaguely made out the checkpoint. There was Liberia, so close.

“Come, come,” Jallah said and continued walking.

We turned onto the street that intersected with the market and Jallah led me directly to a zinc door, painted blue, beside an alleyway with clothes hanging on either side. I was reluctant to follow and stood at the entry.

“No, please. Come,” Jallah said. “It is a good one. NGO people here,” he said.

I entered a foyer with tile floors, dark and redolent of dry rice and fish. A woman, very heavy and warm, entered the foyer waving.

“Allo-oh, Jallah,” she said. She went to the window and lifted the flimsy blinds so that the sunlight could make its way in. She turned around and the long, skinny braids that hung from her head followed.

“Hello, sister. This is Mam, my Vai sister,” Jallah said.

“Allo-sister,” the woman said loudly. She held out her hand and I shook it.

“You from America? I have room for you. I have one American man stay here. He preacher. He go to Liberia, he come back next week. You very beautiful. You stay here, I have room for you.”

“Okay,” I said, struggling to process everything the woman had said.

“Are there many other hotels in this area?” I asked in a low tone, peering out the window in hopes that I did not offend the woman.

“This is the best one, I tell you,” Jallah said.

“What wrong? This nice place, close to everything. Close to border, to market, to everything. What wrong? Plenty American people stay here. Where you from, Freetown? You from Liberia?” the woman rambled.

“Liberia, yes,” I said. “Can I see the room?”

“Yes, yes, come,” the woman said and opened a cabinet against the wall. There she retrieved a key and moved a curtain at the edge of the foyer.

“I will follow,” I said. Jallah and the woman laughed.

“That’s good. You are smart woman. Beautiful woman. I have room for you,” the woman said.

I followed them down a long and narrow hallway, lit by a skylight partially obstructed by orphaned leaves and garbage on the roof. The woman opened the third door and handed me the key.

“Here your room, sister,” she said and I saw clearly all of her small teeth.

The tile floors had been swept and the glass windows were barred from the outside. There was a metal bucket in the corner. The bed was made of dried mud, and cords of straw broke through a thin mattress.

“Straw mattress?” I asked.

“Yes, the very very best. Stay here. Bathroom down hall. We have running water. Your room.”

I gazed at the tiny room.

“Only ten dollar one night. American dollar,” the woman added.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

“Good, good.”

“Come, come with me outside,” Jallah said. I was tired and hungry. I nodded and followed Jallah to the road outside.

“Here, take my number,” he said, writing his number on a sheet of paper. “She has phone inside. She is nice woman. The building has security. You will see.”

Down the dusty road, crowds continued to move throughout. I could tell those who had recently made it out of Liberia. Their clothes almost swallowed them whole and behind their eyes something had been taken.

“I will go call Satta and bring her here. Stay close by and I will call if there is trouble,” Jallah said. “I must go home now but please believe me you are safe, sister.”

“Okay,” I said confidently. “Bie-kah,” I said in Vai and hugged him.

Jallah disappeared into the crowd, his duffle bag dancing against his leg as he walked. I stared at the zinc door and instead of going back inside I strolled to the market road where dozens of vendors and traders were teeming, yelling above each other to ensure the last deal of the day. As I passed, women turned their heads in the direction I walked. There was one woman in particular who wore a lappa decorated with black traditional masks wrapped around her head. She was a heavyset woman who waddled as she moved intently toward me.

“You want me braid your hair?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” I answered and quickened my pace to a market table I had noticed while walking with Jallah, a table with metal silverware strewn across it. I approached the vendor and those who were standing before the table parted for me.

“Allo, Ol’ Ma,” the vendor said.

“You want salt, Ol’ Ma?” a vendor asked.

“No,” I said.

“Ma, T-shirt for you. Good price,” another said.

“No, no,” I said, more convincing.

“One knife and fork please,” I said with authority. The silverware clanged and screeched as the man found a pair for me.

“Butter good for you?” he asked.

“Steak,” I said. “Please.”

“Just one set?” he