“Let us go home and find some water to feed our thirst and wash,” Sila’s shaking voice said to his children, who hurriedly followed, fear in their eyes as they looked back at the boy who had just arrived.
“My name is Ernest. I don’t know where I am from but I followed them here.” The boy pointed to Sila and his children, swinging his body and placing his hands crossed behind his back. Out of the corners of his eyes, he followed the movement of Sila and his children to see which house they were going to occupy. He didn’t need to say more. The twitching of his eye and his stammering got worse when he spoke of following Sila. The elders could see the story in his eyes. They kept their refreshed faces alive to make the boy feel as welcome as possible, knowing full well that more needed to be done to mend what had been broken. Pa Moiwa told Ernest to go to the house of Colonel and to say that the elders had sent him to stay with them.
“We have to make sure that no one feels afraid to be here or unwelcome,” Mama Kadie said to her friends.
“The war has changed us, but I hope not so much that we’ll never find our way back. I could have never imagined a world where the presence of a child brings something other than joy.” Her friends agreed with only hums, looking at the boy as he walked away, his apprehensive shadow seeming to dodge the sun, painting itself in strange forms on the earth.
Ernest didn’t go immediately to where he had been told to go. Instead, he walked around town looking for a bucket or jerry can. He found two buckets on a veranda and took them without asking, since no one was present, and went to the river to fetch water. He brought the water and placed it under the stoop of Sila’s house. Then he knocked on the doorframe—the home had no door—and ran to hide in the nearby bushes. Sila came out asking, “Who is it?” but there was no one. His eyes caught the two buckets of water and he smiled, surveying the area more, hoping to thank the person for this kind gesture. He patted his own shoulder; this was how he clapped these days, with his only hand, to thank whoever had done him this good. Ernest saw it all in hiding from under the coffee trees. He didn’t smile; even though he had made Sila happy, he felt a twist in his heart—this man couldn’t clap normally anymore. After Sila went back into his house, Ernest lay in the bushes for a while, his hands folded under his heavy body until they became numb and unusable. He struggled to get himself up without the use of his hands, deliberately letting his body roll in thorns and against trees. He did things like this to himself frequently, sometimes wishing his hands would stop working forever. He made his way to the house where Colonel and the others were, his hands still waking up from their numbness.
He didn’t go inside but looked through the window to see who these other youngsters were. He could tell that Colonel was the head of this group, as he sat facing the others, upright, his head higher. When Colonel spoke, they all quieted and listened. Ernest knew that Colonel would test him before allowing him to join this group. When he walked into the house, he had already accepted being under the command of Colonel. He was attacked by Colonel as soon as he came closer, thrown to the ground. With a knee in his back and his face in the dust, he explained that he had been sent to them by the elders. He was let up and told where to sleep. He sat away from Colonel and his group, all of them observing him and whispering things they didn’t want him to hear. He sometimes averted his eyes to avoid the strong stares from Colonel. Ernest’s mind was too occupied with Sila and his children to worry about becoming an outcast from this group for now. But he didn’t mind sitting near other youngsters, who he knew understood things about war that he didn’t have to explain to them. This was a small but necessary comfort.
What was common among most of the arrivals was that in whatever conditions they found their homes, they started to live in them. Gradually, they cleaned and fixed things, erecting walls of mud brick instead of cement and patching with any materials that were available in nature. Soon, some of the houses had a mixture of tin roof on one side and thatch on the other.
Among the returnees were those for whom the older people couldn’t find faces in their memories. These groups brushed spaces for themselves and built huts. They waited for weeks, and if no one arrived to claim the abandoned houses, they moved in and started renovating. The elders agreed that all were welcome. People had lived temporary lives for so many years that they needed any form of stability. Sometimes this meant building a hut or mending a home. They did it slowly, fearing it would be destroyed again. But when others came to town and weeks passed without any disturbances, their anxiety lessened and they rushed to complete whatever they had been working on. The simple joy of finishing something without running away from it or watching it be destroyed or disintegrate had become rare and was still gaining trust in the minds of these returnees.
* * *
Something unexpected happened one afternoon while the elders sat on the logs greeting more arrivals. The heads of two girls, three boys, their mother, and their father emerged in the distance. Pa Kainesi felt the wind about him warmer than it had been. He could not explain why he suddenly felt the presence of his heart more strongly. He stood up, and his friends asked if he was well. His legs took him toward the path, and it was there that he set eyes on his son, Bockarie, and his family.
Bockarie, his children, and his wife had gone missing during the war, and Pa Kainesi hadn’t heard anything about their existence. Bockarie had also thought that his father had been killed, since he couldn’t find him anywhere. They were one of those few lucky families who had not lost many members. Bockarie had managed to keep his family together throughout the war with a few separations here and there. His wife had gone missing for four months, and he and his children had found her at a refugee camp on the Liberian border, one of the countries next door. Their oldest daughter, too, had been lost and spent months homeless in some town in the north. The oldest son had escaped multiple recruitments. They had all known hunger and suffering intimately; they had all been close to death. Bockarie told his family that as soon as the war was over and things were safe, they would go home, even if it meant walking for weeks.
Upon arriving now with two additional children—twins, a boy and a girl born during the war—Bockarie passed by his former secondary school, where he had taught before the war came. The school was deserted, overgrown with trees and grasses, the floors now harboring roots and littered with leaves. He had hoped he would be able to resume teaching. His family had seen the disappointment on his round face when he surveyed the school compound. Nonetheless, he was glad to be home, and the rest would work itself out.
Pa Kainesi smiled at his son, who couldn’t yet recognize this old man with a distorted face. But as he peered into the face, he saw the eyes of his father. He then allowed his father to embrace him, his wife, Kula, and all the children. Pa Kainesi didn’t ask many questions but wept as he pressed his palm on each forehead, looking at them and wrapping his arms around them again and again as though to reassure himself that this moment was real and not just another of the dreams he had been having.
“Father, who is this man with this strange face?” Thomas asked, hiding behind his father’s leg after the old man had released his arms around him.
“He is your grandfather, my son.” Bockarie lowered himself to his child. He had not spoken much about his father for fear that his children would ask whether he was dead or alive. He had no answer to that question at that time.
Oumu, Thomas’s twin, then held her grandfather’s hand and shook it until he brought his face to the height of her bright, curious eyes. She passed her fingers over his face, touching the scars, and in her innocent voice asked, “Were you born like this, or is this what happens when you become so old?”
Everyone laughed without answering the little girl. She was of the generation that didn’t witness the war and had been told only good stories of this land, so she still believed that people get old and then die and that marks such as the ones on her grandfather’s face were a result of old age and not of other consequ
ences.
Pa Kainesi’s friends had now joined him and welcomed the family, but sadness was in their voices. They still had no news of any of their children or grandchildren. Sensing the mood of his friends, Pa Kainesi announced to the wind, “Kadie and Moiwa, our children have arrived. We now have permission to be old!”
This brought smiles and laughter to the elders, and they all walked to his house and had a feast that evening of cassava and groundnut soup with bush meat that had been caught that morning. The evening brought back one of the old ways and feelings, which was that children were everyone’s and that they belonged to all adults, who had the responsibilities to care for them. Mahawa and her child were part of the family gathering. Pa Moiwa, noticing that Mama Kadie was half present, one foot in happiness and the other in sadness, spoke directly into the ears of his friend: “There is no need for too much sadness. There are enough children in town to be fathers, mothers, and grandparents to. You already have two.” He pointed to Mahawa, who was playing with her child.
She went to them and gave her voice out to the young woman. “What is his name?”
“I haven’t given him one.” Mahawa wiped the sweat from the boy’s forehead and went on. “But I have thought about it a lot and I have decided that whatever way he came into this world, he is my truth. So I would like to call him Tornya.” She looked at Mama Kadie for confirmation. Tornya, the word for “truth.”
“Yes, I agree. Tornya.”
The boy smiled and made a few incomprehensible remarks followed by saliva coming out of his mouth in abundance. He quieted when they smiled and put his hands tenderly on his mother’s face.
“He wants to say more than his tongue is ready for,” Mama Kadie told Mahawa as they both held a hand of the child. They then moved closer to everyone to become part of the gathering.
“Father, where is the river that you told us you played swimming games in?” Thomas asked his father.
“Yes, and the big mango tree that always had a mango? I would like to try some.” Oumu followed her brother’s questioning.
“We have time to see all these things. Be patient. For now, let’s eat,” Bockarie told his children, tickling them under their armpits.
Oumu had been eyeing Mama Kadie ever since the gathering began. Now that there was a small quietness, she walked over to the elder and sat beside her.
“I have been expecting you.” Mama Kadie placed her hand on Oumu’s forehead and looked into the face and eyes of the little girl.
“I asked Mother who knows the most stories and she said it was you. Can you tell me all of them?” Oumu asked, her voice thick with excitement.
“It isn’t about knowing the most stories, child. It is about carrying the ones that are most important and passing them along. I have already decided to tell you all the stories I carry. You have to be patient, though, for the stories can only remain in the mind and veins of a patient person. Come visit me anytime you need a story.”
She never stopped to ask if Oumu understood what she was saying, as she usually did with other children. There was a calm seriousness on the child’s face that convinced whoever spoke to her that she had heard the words deeply. Oumu said nothing that night and just sat by Mama Kadie until it was time to eat, and she went to assist her mother and older sister in getting the drinking water and plates ready.
All the men and boys ate together and the women and girls did the same, bringing a lively aura to that evening that resembled the way things used to be. There was music coming from the old cassette player, slow traditional music in harmony with the wind. Kula started dancing, her smile and eyes inviting others to join. Bockarie was the first, and then the older people got up one at a time and swayed around for few minutes before sitting down. They continued nodding and shaking their bodies in the chairs and benches they sat on. The children observed and laughed, playing games with their hands in between their laughter. Every so often a passerby would join and dance vigorously, showing off his or her dance skills, and everyone clapped. The visitor would then bid them good night and hum the next tune as he or she went into the night on the way home.
A good part of the sky was red, as though it were on fire or someone were cooking on it with firewood. The hue was not that of a threatening fire but of something playful and inviting, with such richness that the red deepened the more the eyes marveled at it. The clear blue around the surface of the red formed patterns that resembled openings and ladders. The evening grew older and became night.
That night, curiosity engulfed the face of the sky, its stars and moon, and they turned their eyes to Imperi to see the unimpeded spirits that had returned home despite all difficulties. Something within all of them, however small, had propelled them back here. Some did not even know what, how, or why.
Colonel was in the veranda room that he had chosen to be able to guard the others, who were asleep—except Ernest, who for now was on the floor in the parlor, lying on his hands with all his weight. Often in the night, Colonel would come into the rooms where Amadu, Victor, and Salimatu were sleeping and stand over them in the dark. Sometimes he would sit at the doorway looking into the night before going back to his own room.
“I know you are not asleep. Take the empty room in the back. There is a mat and some old blankets there,” Colonel said to Ernest as he walked through the parlor on one of his rounds. Ernest went to the room, but before he settled, he left the house through the back door and went to see if Sila and his children were safe. He observed them through the window that had been left open to invite the cool breeze inside. The children were turning in their sleep and their father was awake. Ernest felt he knew what they were reliving. He encountered Colonel as he came back in.
“You cannot undo what has been done. Your heart is in the right place, though, so don’t give up trying to mend it.” He towered over Ernest and stepped aside for him to get by.
The sky turned its face to different parts of the town that night and ended with Mama Kadie, Pa Moiwa, Pa Kainesi, and the rest. The merriment had ended and they were preparing to return to their various houses, where the habits of despair waited for some. For Mahawa, it was staring at the face of her sleeping son, a reminder of many things that made her lips tremble from the pain that remained inside her body. The visible ones heal quicker.
Nights like this had been rare, and in the past the sky had removed itself farther from the town, but now it came closer, listening to the wind, which was no longer accused of carrying news that stuck needles in the hearts of the living.
After many years of only partially allowing the heart to drum life through their veins, people gradually heard the full drumming of what life used to be. The birds had returned and resumed their vigorous chanting to welcome the day. Children’s voices filled the town once again. Every now and then a hesitant air would blow through and quiet things for a few minutes.
3
THERE WAS A TIME when the days in Imperi were longer and marked by elaborate conversations, tales, visiting friends and family, lying in hammocks under the shade and welcoming strangers with a calabash of cold water, going to the river for a swim or to watch children play diving games. The elders still clung to these moments and wanted them back. Aspects of this life were there but without the previous enthusiasm. Perhaps it was because a large part of the population was unsure what to expect out of their lives; they had gotten used to the fragility of things. But they knew they wanted something different from the elders, something new, though they didn’t know exactly what or how to set about attaining this new life in their current condition.
The simplicity that had once been life had become a burden, especially when it seemed everyone waited for something to do. In the silence of that waiting, memories of war were awakened, bringing restlessness and irritability. People didn’t spend much time on their verandas anymore. Besides the farming that had started on a very small scale just for people to feed their families, everyone just sat around, afraid to find pleasure in most thin
gs. Only incidents brought them together and reminded them of the need to mend themselves and their community.
The day after his arrival, Bockarie decided to show the town to Thomas and Oumu. The twins held the long hands of their father as they ventured into the realities of stories he had told them. His quiet demeanor and even his strides were calmer than his children’s, whose impatience made him laugh, a slow, drawn-out laughter that made others smile. Oumu and Thomas greeted people, the few who sat on verandas, the way their father had told them about how things used to be.
“Good morning. Was sleep generous to you and your family? Has the world greeted you kindly this morning…?” the children repeated to everyone they encountered. Most of the people ignored them and went inside their homes because these questions reminded them either of the families they no longer had or of the fact that the world was still cruel to them, and they wanted to forget for just a bit before facing the day. Some of the people laughed because they knew these old words didn’t belong to the children who spoke them.
“Father, how come they do not respond the way you had told us? Is it because we are small and they don’t know us from before?” Oumu asked.
“No, children, it isn’t because you are small. They will answer better with time. I am sure they will,” Bockarie said slightly ponderously, as he wasn’t sure when this would happen. The children didn’t give up, and the next person they greeted was Sila, who was standing under the stoop of his veranda, looking at the sky and breathing in the morning air with a vigor that made the children laugh. When they greeted him, he responded in detail about how he and his children were and how they had slept, and he asked the same questions to Bockarie. While Sila was speaking, Hawa and Maada came onto their veranda and sat on an old wooden log, listening to their father and watching the visitors with eyes that hadn’t completely been freed from sleep. Oumu’s and Thomas’s faces filled with joy as they experienced what their father had spoken of so many times. Afterward, they giggled and poked each other as the adults had a long conversation about the way things had been—how in the morning there used to be a man who would play the drum at 5:00 a.m., then again in the evening for dancing, and finally deep at night, singing a quiet melody that summoned sleep for everyone.