The Dragons, the Giant, the Women, стр. 69

“What?”

“That the border. No man go out. So we go with rebel transport and I get you to the other side.”

The terror was clear on Papa’s face. He held K’s legs against his chest, her hands firm on his head as she sat on his shoulders. He looked down at me and Wi, then out toward the group of rebels several times.

“And my girls. They will be safe?”

“Yes, trust me. You with me. All will be well. They will not talk to you. They think you family,” she said in a low tone.

“Okay,” Papa said, finally.

Ten minutes later, a vandalized bus with writing on its body, muddy tires, and no windows pulled up to the intersection. An arm hung out of a back window and was beating the bus like a drum in a foreign, bluffing rhythm. There were a few women on the bus, and they all looked like they were around Satta’s age. When the bus stopped, some of the rebel boys got out to pee in the nearby field. Ol’ Ma had taught us how to close our eyes when this happened, making us promise to count to ten before opening them again. Several of the rebels at the junction gathered at the bus door to board. The ones who held weapons took them off their shoulders by the handles before boarding.

Satta waited until there were no others left to board and she tapped Papa’s arm.

“Stay close,” he said again, and we followed as he drew near the bus door, his pace snaillike. When we entered the bus, Satta pointed to a row in the front and Papa quickly pushed us into the seat before sitting next to the aisle. It smelled like a bathroom inside and the smoke from lit cigarettes throughout the bus filled the air around our seat. I tried turning around to see who was on the bus but Papa pinched me. He leaned down and whispered, “Look forward. Never look back. We will be there soon.”

I obeyed him and kept my eyes on the road. The bus began its route and while we drove, the boys were loud behind us, using those words their Ol’ Mas would have popped their mouths for saying. Satta sat across the aisle in a seat with another girl, both of their guns laid across their laps and jutting out of the bus window. Some boys in the back of the bus kept looking at Papa, and Satta went to the back to talk to them. I heard them ask her about Papa, and I think he heard it, too, because he sat with his back straight, as if he was not afraid, as if his leg was not shaking beside us.

Outside the front windows, those who were walking scattered into the fields when they noticed the bus. Papa’s leg shook every time he saw this. Our rainy season escape was not so long ago that he had forgotten when we were the ones running. Papa periodically looked across the aisle at Satta and avoided turning around for fear of engaging the young rebels. There were other rebels on the road, stopping pedestrians, interrogating pedestrians, even those with children. I looked ahead until I became sleepy, and I leaned my head against Papa’s shoulder to rest.

“We see Mam soon,” he whispered again, though I was not sure if he was saying it for us or for himself.

The boys in the back of the bus were loud and their words, rough and mannish, bounced around the bus. There were clicking sounds as if they were playing with their guns; there was laughter, too dry to believe; and every time it became a little quiet, unrestrained laughter or more unconvincing laughter ensued.

Wi sat beside me near the window, and K was between Papa and me. He looked down at us frequently. And when he was not looking at us, eyes overcome with a worry I was not used to seeing in him, he was looking out at the road, his lips slightly moving with words too low to hear. His feet tapped the bus floor, swathed with large irremovable stains of spit.

When the bus slowed down, Papa looked across the seat at Satta, and I knew that we were even closer to seeing Mam. Almost immediately after it stopped, Papa instructed us to stand, grabbing each of our arms to exit the bus behind Satta. Outside, the rebels piled out of the bus. Some went to the road to pee while others loitered around it. Satta said goodbye to her friend and led us away from the bus. A small group of mostly women, children, and elders formed a slow-moving line that inched its way toward a massive checkpoint some fifty yards away. Their frayed lappas hung from their hips, their eyes darkened. Children were tied on some of their backs and the women periodically stepped out of the queue to catch a view, however distant and blurry, to Sierra Leone. There were many Liberian flags ahead, unmoving as they hung on poles in the stiff wind, and defaced on the sides of parked cars. Some in the line were crying, and there was chatter throughout that they were now keeping all men in holding centers, for fear that they were carrying news to opposition on the other side.

Taylor’s men were manning the checkpoint and Satta scanned the faces ahead for whom she would approach with Papa. They were dressed like her and also carrying guns. Members of the rebel army stood behind tables interviewing all those who passed into Sierra Leone. It was rumored to be the most dangerous checkpoint. None were turned away. They were either allowed to pass, apprehended and held for days in rebel centers for questioning, or killed. So rather than risking the latter, many remained in hiding.

As we approached the checkpoint, Satta turned around and faced Papa.

“I will walk you close to