Little Family Read online

  Soon enough, a smaller car came into view, stuck in the ditch at the side of the road. Sharp zigzag ruts told the story: The driver had evidently been in a hurry to overtake other vehicles and, swerving to avoid a pothole, had gone off the road. The driver stood by the car, immaculately dressed in jeans and a sweater over a collared white shirt, twisting a pair of gold-framed sunglasses as he scanned the faces of the passersby. He was clearly in need of help to push the vehicle back onto the road but also just as obviously nervous. It wasn’t the safest road, and he shook his head at one offer of assistance after another, seeming suspicious. Not all of his would-be helpers gave up so easily. Five thin boys, not taking no for an answer, were attempting to push the car out of the ditch.

  Namsa spotted Elimane. He had stopped running and was ambling along, his eyes on a small book he had taken from his pocket, seemingly oblivious of the driver and his predicament. The driver watched Elimane for a few moments, then called out to him.

  “Excuse me, young man.”

  Elimane continued walking, his eyes glued to his book.

  The boys had stopped trying to budge the car and were arguing about who was boss and should, therefore, be in charge of apportioning the money they had not yet been guaranteed. They eyed the windows of the car hungrily.

  “No. I said no. I don’t need your help,” the man insisted, waving them off. He turned to address Elimane again, more loudly, his voice a bit thin and strained with the effort. “Excuse me, young man! Sorry to disturb your reading!”

  At just that moment, the driver’s scent reached Namsa. Had he had showered that morning with a bucket of perfume? she wondered.

  Elimane raised his head. “Good morning, sir. What seems to be the matter?” He held the book open with his fingers to emphasize that he had been interrupted in a worthwhile pursuit.

  The man opened his palms to Elimane in supplication. “I need to catch the ferry back to the city in time to deliver these provisions. Could you help me push the car out of the mud?”

  “Sir, there are so many others on this road who can help you,” Elimane replied, nodding toward the youngsters who were hovering around the car. “Besides, I do not think the two of us can get it done.” He closed the book but kept a finger in it, marking the page he had been reading. Namsa was certain he was not pretending about that much, at least.

  The man glanced at Elimane’s book and then up at his face. “I don’t trust any of these people. They have the unpleasant smell of desperation.” He lifted his frame off the body of the car and came fully to his feet.

  “Well, then, let’s get to it.” Elimane folded down the corner of the page where his fingers had been, returned the book to his pocket, and turned up the sleeves of his shirt. He made no mention of recompense. His posture bespoke a familiarity with vehicles like this one, and perhaps that is what the man sensed. Khoudi, Ndevui, and Kpindi had only been in passenger vehicles like the ones that had passed them earlier, so crowded that walking seemed preferable and so old that the stones on the road threatened to smack your bottom all the way to wherever you were going or before you got there—unless the heat of the tar on the road melted you first. As for Namsa, she had never so much as been near a steering wheel—at least, not that she could remember. She slowed her pace as she approached and kept to the other side of the road, knowing that if she stood next to a car like that, she would not be able to resist peeking inside.

  “It has been a while since I saw such genuine enthusiasm to help another. It used to be common around here,” said the man. He got in the car and turned on the engine. With one foot on the accelerator and his other foot on the ground, he began pushing with Elimane. But hard as they pushed, the car remained stuck.

  The driver got out of the car, leaving the engine running, and stood next to Elimane. “What do you think, my good man?”

  “I think we should offload some things to make it lighter.” Elimane looked down the road, frowning. “But then again, the people passing by may steal it.” There were more women walking along the road now, but they remained fewer in number than men and boys.

  “Yes, you are right on both points,” said the man. “I have to get moving soon so that I do not miss the ferry, or I will arrive very late at night.”

  “How about we offload some boxes, and then I pick two more fellows to help push with you?” said Elimane. “Then I will watch your things while you get the car back on the road.” The man hesitated; his thoughts could be read on his face. He couldn’t give his car keys to a stranger, even one he seemed inclined to trust, but he could give him the task of watching some of his goods. It wouldn’t be easy for Elimane to run off with the big boxes, and even if he did, it would be less of a loss than the car. The little family watched as the man’s eyes darted from one variable to another, making calculations.

  “Okay, let’s offload that box and that one.” The man opened the back door of the car and handed the boxes to Elimane, who set them in the grass, not on the road, where people might rush at them, tear them apart, and run away with the contents. The man closed the rear door of the car and turned back to the road, scanning to see whom he could enlist to help push.

  Namsa spotted something that could spoil Elimane’s plan, their plan. A woman, not as young as Khoudi and not as old as a grandmother, mumbled as she made her way along the other side of the road. “Eh, eh! This boy is more cunning than Bra Spider’s grandfather. Ha! I could get a ride into town if I show him for what he is to that man.” She was heading straight for the car, on a mission. Namsa knew the sort—she was one of those who did not want others to succeed at anything, even if they themselves got nothing out of it. Even if she didn’t succeed in convincing the man that Elimane was up to no good, she would plant doubt in his mind, and that would change everything.

  Namsa ran across the road to her. “Auntie, auntie, help me!” she cried, reaching for the woman’s hand and trembling, as if with fear.

  “I am not your auntie, little girl!” The woman snatched her hand away, but Namsa caught it again and held on tighter, this time with both hands.

  “I know, auntie, but they will hurt me if they know I am alone. Please just be my auntie for some minutes,” Namsa insisted. She fell to the ground in front of the woman, holding her feet the way a child begs for forgiveness, and impeding the woman’s progress. When she looked up, she saw that the woman was furious to the point that even her cheeks were trembling. There was no ounce of kindness anywhere on her hard face. But the time Namsa had bought was enough.

  Ndevui and Kpindi were approaching slowly, apparently engrossed in a conversation about their final exams, the way they had often heard other kids talk.

  “Hey, schoolboys, come make some lunch money.” The man waved them over.

  “We don’t have time, sir. We need to go to our study session.” Ndevui looked at Kpindi for confirmation.

  The man stepped in front of them. “It won’t take long, I promise, and this will be a lesson too.”

  The boys eyed each other with some reluctance and then agreed. The man began to explain what they were to do, his attention no longer on the boxes.

  The woman had lost the opportunity to make a case against Elimane, and now the newcomers had been enlisted. Moreover, while speaking with Kpindi and Ndevui, the man had glanced briefly in the direction of Namsa and the woman, and shaken his head in disapproval at how unsympathetic she was to a child in need. Whatever she said now would have no merit.

  “You, if you don’t get off my feet this minute, I am going to crush you into the ground. Ah, you think the day is only rough for you!” The woman gave Namsa a knock on the head and stared down at her menacingly for another moment before she continued on her way, grumbling into the day. Despite the pain, Namsa felt proud of her quick thinking and action, and a smile started to rise to her face until she remembered that she must not show such emotions and she quickly hid it away.

/>   Namsa dusted off her clothes and got to her feet, stealing a glance at Ndevui and Kpindi, who were concentrating on helping the man push the vehicle back onto the road, not once showing that they knew Elimane. Now Khoudi and Namsa began to work together, in silent harmony. Namsa went around to the front of the car, apparently transfixed by the sight of its predicament, and so provided additional distraction as Khoudi ransacked the boxes, squatting so that the body of the car hid her from the driver’s view. Swiftly she removed a pack of powdered milk, four cans of Nescafé, and a few packets of what looked to Namsa like long yellow broom straws, and placed them in her raffia bag, rearranging the boxes so they didn’t look tampered with. Then she duck-walked away from the car before she stood up to walk off.

  As soon as Namsa judged it was safe, she herself moved on. She knew that Elimane would make sure that Ndevui and Kpindi helped him put the boxes back in the car, so the man wouldn’t have a chance to notice any difference in weight. Khoudi’s restraint would also help allay any suspicion. Namsa realized she was learning about good faith and its uses, and the way greed could put it at risk. Playfully kicking pebbles on the ground as she walked, she followed Khoudi to the junction above the ferry landing. Namsa perched herself on a stack of concrete blocks where what looked to be the beginnings of a house no longer appeared to have the possibility of getting finished, as evidenced by the weeds that now grew up and around them. Khoudi had a seat a short distance away, and they stayed like that, not speaking, as they awaited the others.

  From where Namsa sat, she saw the ferry approaching. It looked like a dilapidated two-story house floating on water. The rusty hull was stained with salt water, and along it hung old tires. The deck was stacked to the brim with people, cars, and goods, making a festive display of color against the cloudless sky. The sound of the engine became deafening as the boat neared, though for all the noise, the boat moved very slowly. Two concrete pillars, eroded so that their skeletons of iron rods showed through in places, waited to stop the boat’s movement before it hit the shallow waters. Beyond them, on the jetty and the shore, an anxious crowd waited, hoping to find their day’s livelihood with the arrival of the ferry. Already skirmishes were breaking out, as people hustled for the best spots on the landing from which to offer their services. Ten port guards in green pants and yellow shirts tried unsuccessfully to hold back the crowd by banging their batons against the iron posts of the jetty and dragging them against the concrete as they opened the wire-mesh gates. “Please clear the landing area for arriving passengers and vehicles!” a man shouted from a megaphone when the ferry’s laboring engine halted. No one heeded his command. As the ferry neared the pier, he retrieved a hose and sprayed the crowd with it. This time, they moved back just beyond the demarcated area, but just barely, waiting for the moment when they could return, some beginning to claw their way along the wire mesh of the opened gates.

  Beyond the crowd, along the side of the road to town, was a long line of vehicles waiting to board whenever the ferry was ready. Namsa saw the man with the car whom Elimane had helped. He was alone now. She guessed that he had trusted Elimane only so far, not enough to offer him a ride.

  The man spoke to the guard in charge of the queue, and the guard motioned for him to drive his car past the others to the front of the jetty, where there was a RESERVED FOR OFFICIAL USE sign. The other drivers were disgruntled at the special treatment, and one of them called out, “We can grease your palm too, to become ‘official,’” but the guard paid them no mind. And while they stood outside their cars in the heat, their engines off to save fuel, the man stayed inside his vehicle with the engine running and the windows rolled up, talking on his phone, and, evidently, taking advantage of the air-conditioning.

  At last Ndevui, Kpindi, and Elimane arrived, one after the other, the hems of their trousers wet. They must have gone to the sea to wash the mud off their feet. They did not greet the girls but moved past them some paces down toward the ferry, surveying the scene as they considered the best approach. By now the place was in turmoil. The vehicles in the first batch coming off the ferry refused to give way to one another, creating a logjam. The arriving passengers squeezed out between the stuck vehicles while the drivers shouted at one another and tried to maneuver out of the chaos. As soon as the tiniest bit of space opened up, one of them accelerated into it, honking, and people sprang out of the way, cursing. But Namsa could tell that the others were more relaxed now, because they had already gotten something for their efforts from the man with the car—Mr. Scent, as Namsa now thought of him, the memory of his heavy cologne still assaulting her nose.

  A small stone fell next to Namsa, interrupting her thoughts. Instinctively she turned in the direction of Khoudi’s shadow, which signaled for her to stay where she was by taking a pace forward and then another back. Namsa stayed put as Khoudi’s shadow departed toward the entrance to the market. Then she lifted her head to see where Khoudi had gone. The market was less busy at this hour, because most people were at the ferry landing, and she could follow Khoudi with her gaze as she spoke to this person and that. She watched as Khoudi pushed someone out of her way, and then as she shook hands with a barefoot woman wearing a dress with a herringbone pattern in yellow, green, and pink. Khoudi reached into the raffia bag and handed the woman the powdered milk, the cans of Nescafé, and the packets of what looked like broom straws. The entire right arm of the woman disappeared into the pocket of her dress and returned with some bills that she thrust into Khoudi’s hands. Reflexively, Khoudi stashed the money inside her bag.

  “Who told you to sit here?”

  Namsa looked up to see two boys she guessed to be about Ndevui’s age. One of them, in tattered clothes that barely covered his body, was pointing at her.

  She shooed him away. “Does this place belong to you? Get out of my sight.” She had encountered this type before. She had also learned from observing Khoudiemata that she must speak firmly, so as not to leave room to be taken advantage of.

  The tattered boy came closer, his face portending no good. “Where is your respect for your elders?”

  “How about you give my nose some respect, because you smell,” Namsa said, as loudly as she could, giving the boy a shove. Ndevui and Kpindi and Elimane didn’t turn around, but she saw that their spines straightened, and the boy noticed it too. His friend was pulling him toward the market, and he let himself be led away, his face telling Namsa that he would find her some other time, when there wouldn’t be people around to protect her.

  Namsa resumed her position on the column of concrete blocks, this time mindful to stay more aware of her surroundings. Soon Elimane’s whistle reached her. Not as constant as the Northern Star, Not as constant as the Northern Star. That one was Elimane’s own invention. He had said that it came from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, reciting in his deep voice, “But I am constant as the Northern Star, of whose true fixed and resting quality there is no fellow in the firmament.” So if they whistled, Not as constant as the Northern Star, that meant they were moving. Only Khoudi seemed to follow and enjoy this convoluted explanation, but they all knew what the signal meant: Let’s continue. Namsa rose, dusted herself off, and followed the others on down toward the ferry.

  The private cars had finished disembarking, and a procession of trucks and long carts loaded with goods were waiting to go next. But before they could move, three green Land Rovers drove off onto solid ground, and a phalanx of men in khaki uniforms jumped from the vehicles and positioned themselves on either side of the gate. The guards themselves now advanced on the bystanders, waving their batons.

  Most of those crowding the landing were young men and boys, but there were older men and some women as well. “Yes, sir, yes madame. Yes, madame,” they called. “My boss! You remember me from last time? It’s still me, and my price is lower today.” Everyone shouted and pushed, calling out their offerings even as their bodies were carried from place to place in the fray. “Only f
ifty thousand to get all your loads to land!” “I can do it for less and quicker!” “Picking me is the best decision you’ll make today!” Vying to offload goods to the vehicles parked nearby, men and boys showed off their muscles, cracking their knuckles and necks, and some even tore open their shirts in a display of strength and readiness. “Sixty thousand for here, thirty thousand for there. What space do you want? What is your last price? I can work with you, my son. You look like my son and brother.” The women called out how much they’d charge to stow a load until transportation could be arranged, in spaces that were covered with bamboo and raffia mats and guarded by little girls.

  A horn blared from the ferry and the goods were rolled out, while the owners walked beside the carts and trucks. As they advanced, they pointed to those whom they wanted to hire. The chosen were allowed through the gates by the men in khaki uniforms. Sometimes someone jumped in front of the person who’d been selected, and a fight broke out until another choice was made. The workers hoisted the goods off the vehicles and dollies as directed and followed their temporary employers toward the exit, where guards waited to collect their fees, ten thousand per small box or bag, twenty thousand for bigger. One of the guards collected the money as soon as it was paid and handed it to their boss, who reclined on a chair in the middle of the hubbub, a pistol on his lap. He pocketed the cash and gave a slip of paper in return, streaked with a red marker. That was the only semblance of order to the operation, which otherwise had the air of the market just before a holiday.