—
Three months after Papa’s disappearance, the Pexton men arrive for their first meeting with the village. Before their arrival, Woja Beki tells us that we should be thankful to Papa and his group: something they did or said in Bézam must be why Pexton has decided to come speak to us. That makes no sense to me—why would people in Bézam cause Papa to vanish if they wanted to help him?—but I hope the meeting will be fruitful.
Yaya and Mama take a break from their seats on the veranda to attend the meeting, carrying along what shred of faith they have left that, despite Bongo’s futile search, Papa might return alive, even if broken. Ours is the worst kind of mourning—not knowing if the men are dead, how they died, when they died; not knowing if there’s still a chance we can save them. Yaya says this when she cries, that if she could only take her son’s corpse and put it in the ground, then she could at least begin the journey to acceptance. But the men from Pexton offer us no information at the meeting. When one of the missing men’s fathers stands up and implores the Leader to at least confirm to us that the Six are dead, so we can offer sacrifices to the Spirit on their behalf, help hasten their voyage to be with our ancestors, the Leader says that he cannot do that, he’s not allowed to do that, Pexton cannot involve itself with superstitious matters.
For more than a year now, they’ve come to speak to us every eight weeks. On every occasion, Woja Beki dons a linen suit, and the Pexton men tell their old lies using new words. Mama and Yaya cry when it’s over. Kosawa grows weaker. We were all on the verge of resignation until a few hours ago, when Konga took away the men’s car key.
The weight of my thoughts puts me to sleep toward the end of the night. When I wake up, the first light of day has descended on Kosawa. I had prayed the sun would never rise, but risen it has, and now I too must rise, to face the guns.
Juba is still sleeping next to me, but Mama and Yaya are already up—I hear them whispering with my uncle Bongo in the parlor. When I enter, they stop talking to look at me, Mama feigning a smile. I want to know everything: Are the men of Kosawa ready for the soldiers? What did they spend the night doing? Are there enough machetes?
“I’m not going to school today,” I say.
“Come,” Mama says, stretching out her hand for me to walk to her. I don’t move.
“There’s no need for you to stay home,” Bongo says. “School is going to go on as usual. Nothing’s going to happen to you there.”
“How do you know?”
“Because…everything will be fine, Thula. Just ignore all the things the Pexton men said last night, okay?”
“I can’t ignore it. They meant it. They were serious. Mama, please?”
Mama does not counter Bongo. Her fake smile remains intact.
I glance outside through the door. All is calm. Why aren’t the men running around preparing some sort of defense against the soldiers? Why doesn’t Bongo appear like someone who stayed up all night getting ready for battle? It is evident from his oiled face and his kempt hair that he just took a bath. His machete is lying against a wall, sharpened and glistening at the edges. Am I supposed to trust that his relaxed demeanor is thanks to a conviction that the machete will cut down speeding bullets?
He looks at me half-smiling, his head tilted; he resembles Papa more than ever. Speaking in the deep voice they share, he tells me that there was a lot about last night that, as a child, I’d misunderstood. He says there isn’t going to be any battle because soldiers are not coming to kill anyone. Yes, the Pexton men had uttered the words I heard, but the men did not mean that the soldiers would slaughter anyone. What the Leader meant was that the soldiers would slaughter the disagreement between Pexton and us and put an end to it all. The soldiers will be coming, that’s certain, but only to have a conversation with the men of the village. Nothing more. Which is why all the children must go to school—the adults will stay home to await the soldiers.
Mama, with a genuine-sounding chuckle, adds that by the time I return home from school, the episode will be nothing more than a story I’ll one day tell my grandchildren.
—
I don’t believe Bongo and Mama, but I don’t know what to say. I can’t argue with them—I don’t have the right to argue with my elders even if I believe they’re not telling me the truth. I look at Yaya, hoping she’ll say something wise to ease my perplexity, but words aren’t my grandmother’s favorite gift for her family at times like this—silence is.
I leave to fetch water at the well. I’m not going to school, I tell myself. I’ll pretend to have a stomachache.
On my way to the well, I see some friends; it is clear from their faces that their parents just told them something similar to what Bongo said to me.
Like me, my friends are children born in 1970. We are boys and girls, age-mates and classmates. We crawled together and toddled together and now we walk together.
