The Illegal

  “I promise to bring it back,” Keita said.

  “I cannot do that, son.”

  Keita fished a five-dollar bill out of his pocket. It was all he had.

  “Son, a wagon costs more than that.”

  “It’s for my father. They are holding him in the Pink Palace.”

  “Oh my Lord. Why did you not say?”

  The woman spread out a tarp on the ground. Keita helped her unload the wagon and set the fruit in a pile.

  “Here,” the woman said. “Take it and hurry.”

  It was laborious and frustrating to haul the wagon through the crowded market, and to ask people to step out of the way to let him pass. They took their time, assuming a boy couldn’t be in a real hurry.

  “Please,” Keita said over and over, “it’s an emergency. Please let me by.”

  He made better time once he got on the President’s Promenade; then he could run and pull the wagon behind him.

  At the Pink Palace, Keita left the wagon at the foot of the steps to the entrance. He ran up past the armed guards and inside, into the office where he had last seen the short man. The door was locked again. He pounded on it. This time, it opened right away.

  “Stand aside.”

  Keita moved to the left. Two large soldiers stepped out of the room, carrying Keita’s father. One held Yoyo by the legs and the other under the armpits. His eyes were closed. He didn’t turn his head to look at his son.

  “Dad!”

  “Move out of the way,” the short man said.

  They lugged Keita’s father through the building to the exit. They pushed through the door and down the six steps, then they placed Yoyo on the wagon.

  Keita ran to his father’s side and felt for a pulse. Yoyo’s heart was beating. He was breathing. But his face was bruised. His feet were bare and swollen.

  As he pulled the heavy wagon, Keita looked back every few moments to be sure that his father was safe and not falling off. His arms soon ached. His back ached. But his father was alive, and Keita could take him home. This time, people saw the load Keita was carrying and got out of his way. Cars swerved around them. Pedestrians avoided him. But it wasn’t until he was back in his own neighbourhood that people offered assistance. Three men helped pull the wagon over the last kilometre, relieving Keita and his exhausted arms. They pulled Yoyo on the creaky flatbed wagon all the way to the Alis’ front door and lifted him into the house and to his bed. Then they came back with a car and drove Yoyo to the Yagwa Hospital.

  The doctors did not believe the story that Zantoroland’s best-known journalist had fallen down the stairs. But they did not ask any questions that might require Keita to say something that might attract trouble, and they did not issue a bill for treating the two broken fingers on each hand, the broken ankle, the other badly bruised ankle, the split lips or the concussed head.

  The nurses told Keita to go home, but he would not leave his father’s side. Finally, they wheeled in a cot so Keita could sleep there.

  Charity returned home the next day and went straight to the hospital. Yoyo had by then regained consciousness, and she put her hand on his shoulder and wept.

  “It’s all right, children,” Yoyo told them. “I’m still here.”

  The nurses knew he had no wife at home. They fed and bathed him and gave him time to learn to use crutches. After four days, Yoyo could get to the bathroom unassisted. On the fifth day, a neighbour drove him home.

  For the next two months, the women on the street took care of Yoyo when Keita and Charity were at school. Hardly a night went by without someone bringing fruit, eggs, a chicken or fried plantain. Yoyo tried typing again, but hardly wrote a thing. He could not use either pinkie, and he said his hands throbbed. After three months, he graduated from wheelchair to walker, and in another two months he was able to walk unassisted with an oak cane that he said had come from his own father. He needed help with household chores, especially those involving bending the knees, so while he napped, Keita cleaned. Cleaning was more than a chore; it was a chance to show his father how much he loved him. The house had never been cleaner.

  One Saturday morning, while his father snored, Keita removed all the items stored inside the bungalow’s only closet. He hauled out the vacuum cleaner, six boxes of books and two suitcases. And then Keita found a red cane. He jerked his hand back as if he had touched a venomous snake. It was the same government-issue used by crippled men in the streets of Yagwa.

  Keita showed the cane to his sister. The two of them sat by their father’s bed and waited. Yoyo opened his eyes and said, “Is this a news conference or a palace coup?”

  “There’s a red cane in the closet,” Keita said.

  Yoyo forced a smile. “Let’s not overreact.”

  “Why do you have it,” Keita asked, “and when did you get it?”

  Yoyo said a boy had delivered it to the house a few weeks after he was released from the hospital. “Use this,” the boy had said. “It is an order from the authorities.”

  “I thought the red cane was to mark refugees who had been returned to Zantoroland,” Keita said.

  “Looks like the authorities have widened the eligibility rules,” Yoyo said. “Now, it’s a sign of all who oppose the government. But I’m not using their red cane. They know who I am, and so does everybody else. Try not to worry. But there is something else you should know about. You are both old enough now.”

  Yoyo said the president had a taste for yachts and palaces and was anxious to build up his private coffers. “He wants to be as rich as other despots, but there is no viable income tax base, so he has no money to steal from standard revenues.” Therefore, the president had begun to instruct his men to kidnap people—especially dissidents—and issue ransom demands.

  Yoyo said they called it The Tax. It usually operated in one of two ways. If they kidnapped you and gave your relatives a day or less to come up with a nearly impossible ransom, they were almost certainly going to kill you anyway. They wanted you because you were a dissident, and the ransom was just a way to terrorize and intimidate your family. But if they kidnapped you and gave your loved ones time—weeks or even months—to pay The Tax, they truly wanted the money and might release you.

  “Why would they show any mercy?” Keita said.

  “If people are going to pay up, they need to be confident that the government will keep its end of the bargain.”

  “Why are you telling us this?” Charity said.

  “They’ve taken my passport, but you still have yours. You should leave the country when you finish school.”

  Keita sat closer to his father and took his hand. As long as his father was alive, Keita was not going anywhere. He would stay in the country, try to establish himself as a nationally ranked marathoner as soon as he was old enough to test himself over that distance, and take care of his father. Charity was the one with the brains. She should be the one to take off first. Keita would get out later, if he could.

  ANOTHER YEAR PASSED. THOUGH YOYO NO LONGER WROTE regularly, Keita sometimes heard him slipping out of the house late at night to have hushed conversations with visitors on the street.

  One fellow with a foreign accent who appeared to be about sixty years old came around a few times, so Keita asked about him. Yoyo said his name was Mahatma Grafton, and that he was a journalist from Canada and an old friend.

  CHARITY FINISHED GRADE 12 WITH A 99 PERCENT AVERAGE. She became the first student in the history of Zantoroland to be flown to the United States for university interviews, and the first to be offered a full scholarship—travel, tuition, residence, books, the works—at an American university. She had several offers but accepted the one from Harvard.

  Keita knew Charity’s favourite foods, so he made them all for their last family supper: guacamole with lemon, diced tomato and a few hot peppers; chicken stewed with yams and ground peanuts; fried plantains; and for dessert, madeleines with jam and vanilla ice cream. Keita spent hours cooking for his sister and father, while th
ey debated world news, speculated about the future of ethnic tensions in Zantoroland, teased Keita about his onion-dicing technique (he diced and re-diced until the pieces were minute) and sang with him.

  Charity asked her father if he would ever consider remarrying.

  “I’m too old for that.”

  “The women on this very street would marry you in a flash,” she said. “What about Mrs. Pascall, who brought baked chickens once a week for months after Mom died? Or Mrs. Craig, who kept inviting you to church picnics until she finally gave up?”

  “Your mother still keeps me company in my thoughts. Anyway, it’s too dangerous for any woman to be seen with me.”

  “You need to stop writing anything at all,” Charity said. “Can’t you wait for a regime change? Sooner or later, there will be another coup.”

  “I’m not doing so much these days,” Yoyo said.

  “Right,” Keita said, “and I’m not training every day on the hills of Zantoroland.”

  “When I’m away,” Charity said, “this is how I want to remember us at home. Keita dicing onions into smithereens, Papa wearing his Paris Bistro smock and me in this big fat chair bossing you around.”

  Keita wondered when he would see his sister again. He had not realized, until her departure drew near, how much he counted on her presence in the house. His heart was held aloft by only a few pillars. With Charity’s departure, one of them was being kicked away. How did you say goodbye to someone who had always been with you? Keita longed to throw his arms around her. She was leaving them behind. How could he and their father go on living without her in a country sliding into such hatred?

  Keita wanted his sister to be safe overseas and to succeed at university, but when it was time for her to go, he felt only grief. He put his arm around Charity’s shoulders.

  “Get in closer,” she said, and she gave him a hug, kissed his cheeks and then stood to receive a bear hug from Yoyo.

  “I love you so much, Dad,” she said. “You taught me to write. You taught me everything—except for all the most useful things, which I learned from Mom,” she added with a grin.

  Charity had fit her essential belongings into one small knapsack.

  “Miss Efficiency,” Keita said.

  “It’s all I need,” she said.

  “You’ve got what you need, up there,” Keita said. “You did get all the brains in the family.”

  “That’s not true,” she said. “Dad has a few brains too.”

  Keita laughed, which was better than crying, as his sister slung the bag over her shoulder. He walked with Charity down the red dirt road and waited with her until a cab came along and took her away.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ANTON HAMM, A MARATHON AGENT BASED IN Freedom State, had contacted Keita many times to offer his services. He came to Zantoroland often to expand the pool of runners whose careers he managed.

  On the first occasion, when Keita was nineteen, he had just finished third in the 10,000 metres in the Zantoroland National Junior Championships. There were only two white men in sight that day. One was a representative from Marathoners First, the world’s most famous sports agency for African and Zantorolander distance runners, who went after the boys who finished first and second. The other was Hamm.

  He didn’t approach the top two finishers. He stood no chance with them. Instead he came up to Keita, congratulated him and offered his card.

  “Call me if you continue to improve,” Hamm said. “I could take you overseas and get you some international racing experience.”

  The second time was a few years later, after Keita had won a minor marathon, at altitude, in 2:11:45. The fastest runners in Zantoroland had skipped the race because it offered no cash prizes.

  “If you can run this fast at altitude,” Hamm told him, “you will run faster at sea level. You could turn some heads in Rotterdam or New York.”

  Hamm was the only person from Freedom State who had won gold in a track and field event at the Olympic Games. In fact, he was a two-time gold medallist, with world records back to back in the 2008 and 2012 Olympics. But the shot putter had received no lucrative sponsorship offers—even though he was white and from one of the world’s richest nations. Slender, attractive men and women who ran the 100 metres or the marathon were able to pull in hundreds of thousands of dollars in sponsorships, but who would look twice at a 320-pound shot putter? Also, Anton Hamm was rumoured to have taken steroids, although he was never caught. He was also rumoured to have an anger management issue. After retiring from heaving sixteen-pound balls more than twenty metres in the air, Hamm started eating much less, stopped weightlifting and walked two hours a day until his weight dropped under three hundred pounds. Then, he started running. He declared in an interview with Track and Field News—a magazine Keita had read since childhood—that he had always wanted to be a runner and didn’t want his heart to implode at the age of thirty. Within a year, he began to build a small business managing the careers of promising distance runners from Africa and Zantoroland.

  Hamm was a small fish in the ocean of big-money marathon agents, and specialized in representing talented but second-tier runners from Kenya, Ethiopia and Zantoroland. Now, he wore beautifully tailored suits over his six-foot-five, slimmed-down, 250-pound frame, and he moved through life with class and elegance—at least, when things were going his way. When they were not, he lashed out as fast as a tiger. Or that’s what people said.

  When Keita was twenty-three and had won a half-marathon in Yagwa, Hamm approached him again. “I could grow your career,” Hamm said. “I’m in Zantoroland all the time. Call me up and we’ll have lunch.”

  Keita was worried about his father and did not want to leave Zantoroland, so he thanked Anton Hamm, took his card again and said that he might be in touch later.

  Now, Keita was twenty-four and trying to improve his national marathon ranking. His father was only fifty-nine, but he had paid for his career as a journalist, and he hobbled like an old man. He had little appetite and slept poorly, and he continued to slip out at night, refusing to tell Keita what he was working on. Charity called and emailed often from Harvard. She had been gone for six years, and was in the first year of a PhD program in African Studies. Each time she asked if she could come home for a visit, Yoyo insisted that it wasn’t safe and that she should stay put.

  The Canadian journalist Mahatma Grafton paid another visit to Yagwa, but when he came to the house, Yoyo wasn’t home. Keita stepped outside, as his father always did, to speak to the man. Mahatma was a kind, disarming soul who immediately put Keita at ease and made him feel that he was in the company of a trusted friend. Mahatma led Keita down a block, past a woman hawking barbecued fish and calling out to customers.

  “Your old man used to do this, in Baltimore,” he said. “Cook street meat, for a few dollars.”

  “I heard about that,” Keita said.

  Mahatma stood near and lowered his voice. “Tell your old man it is not worth it.”

  “I’ve tried, and so has Charity,” Keita said.

  “Your father is on to a story. I’ve tried to talk him out of it. It’s dangerous. He has sources in the president’s office. He says they’re legit. He says they’re trustworthy. But I think he should leave the country.”

  “He can’t go,” Keita said. “His passport was confiscated.”

  “If he can’t leave,” Mahatma said, “maybe you can.”

  One day, Keita was frying eggs and heating beans for dinner, while his father sat in the armchair and read the New York Times, when someone pounded on their front door. Friends who knew that Yoyo had few means often brought him produce or cooked meals, but none of them announced themselves like that. Yoyo stashed his newspaper under his chair while Keita answered the door.

  Three government officials in suits and ties stood on the porch. The one closest to Keita said, “Stand at attention for His Excellency, President for Life of the Republic of Zantoroland.”

  A tall man in an African-style
robe stepped from behind them. The white cloth of the robe was the highest quality cotton, bordered with intricate blue stitching. The man wore sandals made of crocodile leather, and his toenails were thick, yellow and crusty.

  Lots of people came to the door to pay homage to his father. But it took effort to not stare at the president and show all the hatred that he felt. As far as Keita was concerned, the president was responsible for his mother’s death, his father’s torture, and the deaths and disappearances of countless others. He was barbaric, often leaving his victims naked and dead in public places. Keita had been taught at home and in school not to hate, only to forgive. But looking at the president now, he felt no forgiveness.

  “No woman in the house to greet me?” the president said. He gave a booming laugh. One of his aides murmured that Yoyo was a widower. “Well,” the president said, “every father needs a faithful son to cook for him.” The president entered and approached the stove. Because of the unreliable electricity, the Ali home had a small two-burner stove hooked up to two propane gas tanks. When one tank ran out, the other could be activated.

  “Quaint and lovely, just like the ways of people up in the hills,” the president said.

  Keita and Yoyo stood at a respectful distance; they knew to be silent unless they were asked a direct question.

  “Eggs and beans,” the president said.

  “Would Your Excellency like some?” Keita said. Speaking out of turn—without explicit invitation from the president—was the only way he knew to convey his contempt.

  “I would accept eggs and beans another time,” the president said, “but as they are ready now, please go ahead and eat. Yes. Serve your father, son, and yourself. Be at ease.”

  Keita removed two fried eggs and placed them, with beans, on his father’s plate. His father slid into his chair at the table, his look saying, Do not speak again unless you are asked a direct question. Keita served himself, brought two mugs of water to the table and sat with his father.

  The president’s three aides stood silently at the door, each with his left hand hanging down and his right pulling back a suit jacket and resting on a hip, exposing a revolver.