The Dragons, the Giant, the Women, стр. 65
“No, a set of four,” I corrected myself.
“That will be one dollar American,” the man said and wrapped the metal in a sheet of newspaper. I paid him, and grabbing my purchase, I rushed to the next vendor, a woman selling kala.
“Kala, kala, kala, fresh kala bread,” the woman said.
“Yes, two bags please,” I said.
“For you one dollar American. Usually two dollar but I give it to my sister,” the woman said.
I paid her and put the bread in my purse.
Back at the hotel, the woman was sitting in the foyer against her locked cabinet.
“Allo-oh!” she said when she saw me. “There now, I tell you I’m the best one.”
I quickly paid the woman and went to my room, locking the door behind me. I sat on the bed and listened closely for threatening noises—signs to confirm that I was moving in the right direction—but nothing could be heard above my beating heart.
That night, I unfolded the silverware from its wrapping. I gripped the handle of a steak knife and took it to bed with me. The straw from the mattress poked at me from every angle. I closed my eyes but I knew I would not sleep well. The darkness was deep except for a dribble of moonlight that entered my window in streams. I held the knife close to me, waiting in the night, unsure of whether or not I slept.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Jallah did not show up the next day. When he still did not come on the following day, I began to call the number he had given me every hour of the following day, and the day after that, beginning at dawn.
“No worry, he come,” the proprietor had said, recognizing the number in my hand every time I emerged from the room to use the telephone. “He good man. He come back.”
During my second afternoon, I used the phone to call Facia to tell her all that had happened and to ask advice, but the service was so poor that I could tell by Facia’s response that she wasn’t hearing all that she was being told.
“You are well? You made it to Bo Waterside?” Facia asked several times.
“Yes, I am well,” I yelled. “I am here.”
“Service to America not good this time. Wait for night, you try again,” the boarder said. I did not know Marta well enough to call her, and I did not want to worry her with trouble so soon.
I waited in my room for most of the day and slept with my knife by my side during the night. I heard other boarders in neighboring rooms, their snores loud. I brought a book with me but was too distracted to read. I looked over the papers in my purse, including the letter from my Fulbright sponsor that I would present to the American embassy in Freetown. I pressed my fingers against the letters, along the lines of each of my daughters’ names, my tears staining the page. I frequently took out all of the dresses from my valise and shook them for bugs, then folded them again and neatly placed them in my bag. I sat facing the wall, then stood against the door facing the window. On a few evenings I went outside and strolled up and down the street and around the market, listening for any news of what was happening on the other side. I would always hurry back, afraid I would miss the call. It had been almost one week and I resolved that if Jallah did not return by the end of the week, I would attempt to cross the border myself. I decided this while pacing my room, my slippers beating the tile floor.
“Come,” I heard the boarder yell outside. “Mam, sister come!”
I ran out of my room to the foyer, where the boarder had placed the phone on the counter.
“That him,” she said and smiled. “See, I tell you.”
“Hello? Jallah?” I asked, my nerves fluttering.
“Yes, I found the girl,” he said cheerfully.
“Good! I have been trying to call you!”
“Yes, I was trying to find her. We will come to you tomorrow morning. No worry,” he said. He had hung up the phone quickly, and I stood in the void with his tarrying words.
“Good, right?” the boarder asked, gathering her braids into a ponytail above her neck. I nodded.
“All good,” I said.
On the following morning I kneeled before my bed, resting my knees on the hem of my dress, and I prayed, murmured my thanksgiving before asking God for favor. The boarder let me borrow two folding chairs for Jallah and the woman to sit.
“Can’t we meet in the foyer?” I had asked.
“You can,” the boarder said in a low tone, lower than I had ever heard her speak. She then came close to me. “But some meetings should be private.”
“Yes,” I said. “I understand.”
Jallah and Satta arrived an hour later and the boarder knocked on my door. I stood up from my bed, where I had hidden the knives at either end of the straw mattress.
Jallah shook my hand and gestured toward the girl behind him.
“This is her. Satta,” he said.
Satta was wearing camouflage pants and a stained shirt. Her short hair was braided into cornrows with endings that jutted out from behind her ears. She had stocky shoulders for her small frame, and her eyes were red and sunken, fighting to be desirous again. She nodded toward me and took a seat on one of the chairs against the wall. I sat on the mattress.
“So, uh, as I told you, Satta, our Vai sister has family still in Liberia,” Jallah said, trying to ease us, but he sounded so unnatural that it worried me.
“You are Vai?” I asked Satta, in Vai.
“Yes,” Satta answered in English. “Where is your family?”
I looked at Jallah. He waved at me to speak, assuring me that the woman was trustworthy.
“They are hiding in a village near Junde,” I said. “You are