Chapter 9

The midday sun beat down on their backs. Heaps of empty pods lay scattered about – temporary shelters for the myriad insects that toiled through the grass. The cocoa beans sweated on their mats, every last trace of moisture destined to be sucked out of them over the following days.

Kojo was humming and occasionally breaking into song.

‘D’you hear that, Tiene?’ Pascal called. ‘It’s the mating call of the greater spotted hairy baboon.’

‘That’s a Salif Keita song I’m singing,’ Kojo retorted. ‘He’s the best.’

‘He might be,’ said Pascal, ‘but you’re not. Didn’t your maman ever tell you that you can’t sing?’

‘She thought I had a nice voice. You’re just jealous.’ Kojo began to sing even more loudly.

Pascal brought his machete down on to the head of a pod with a vicious smack. The pod shattered, spilling some of its beans on the ground. Pascal stamped on them until they were flattened.

‘Don’t do that!’ Kojo protested. ‘You’ll have Le Cochon after us again.’

Pascal shrugged his shoulders. ‘Right now, he’ll have his face in a trough and then he’ll be snoring in his hammock.’

Tiene rushed around, snorting like a pig. When he dropped on all fours and snuffled about amongst the trampled beans, Kojo joined in, giggling uncontrollably, and tried to barge Tiene over. He wasn’t strong enough. Tiene knocked him over instead and stuffed a handful of beans down the front of his shorts.

‘Ha!’ Pascal laughed. ‘More muscles for you.’

Kojo struggled to his feet, the beans dropping out through the bottom of his shorts.

‘Yuck!’ screeched Tiene. ‘Look what he did, look what he did!’

Kojo was about to throw his own handful of beans when one of the other boys warned that someone was coming. In unison, they each picked up a pod, raised their machetes and buried them into the shells once, then again.

As Pascal emptied the contents of a pod, he looked round to see a small boy approaching, his back bent double under the weight of the sack he was carrying, his face taut from the effort of staying upright. Pascal ran over to him and grabbed the sack from his back.

‘You shouldn’t be doing that,’ he said angrily. He dropped the sack on to the pile of untouched pods.

The boy stood in front of him, eyes red from exhaustion and wide with fear.

‘You’re frightening him,’ said Kojo. ‘It’s not his fault.’

‘I know it’s not his fault,’ snapped Pascal. ‘Do I look stupid all of a sudden? How old are you, boy, and what’s your name?’

The boy looked anxious to get away, but Pascal took his arm gently and asked him again.

‘Name: Didier. Age: nine. I go now.’

‘Didier!’ squealed Kojo. ‘His name’s Didier!’

Pascal gave him a withering look.

‘Drogba! Drogba! Drogba!’ Tiene chanted. ‘He’s gonna wipe the smile off the faces of all those other countries. Vive Didier Drogba! Vives Les Éléphants! We’re gonna crush those other teams.’ He placed a cocoa pod in front of his feet, took four long steps backwards, then ran towards it. He made to kick it with all his might, but right at the last moment lifted his foot over the top. ‘Goal!’ he cried. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and skipped around, punching the air with his fists. When he stopped and pulled his T-shirt down, he saw that Pascal was glaring at him, while Kojo had resumed his work. He sniffed loudly and turned his back on Pascal. ‘Just cos you’re not from here,’ he muttered.

‘I don’t want to be from here,’ Pascal retorted. ‘You can keep your stinking country and your stinking football team.’ He turned back to the boy, who was trying to get away. ‘Where have you come from, Didier?’ he asked. ‘We won’t hurt you, don’t be scared.’

‘Far, very far,’ muttered Didier. ‘Go now or big trouble.’ He started to run.

Pascal let him go, but hurled his machete across the ground in anger. ‘What are they doing bringing kids that young in here?’ he growled.

Kojo and Tiene didn’t answer.

‘It’ll kill him,’ Pascal continued. ‘He only looks about six.’

‘You had it worse,’ Kojo said quietly.

‘What would you know?’ said Pascal. ‘Anyway, I’m tough. I’ve always been tough. That kid won’t be able to hack it.’

‘What do you care all of a sudden?’ Kojo asked. ‘It’s the same for all of us.’

‘Someone has to.’

‘You never did before.’

It was true, Pascal had to admit to himself. But there was something about the young boy’s face that reminded him of himself when he was that age. He hadn’t always been tough, whatever he might have said to Kojo.

‘Maybe I’ve had enough,’ Pascal sighed. He picked up the sack of pods and tipped them on to the pile, just as another boy arrived with a sack.

‘Better not let Le Cochon see you slacking,’ the boy said. ‘He’s already on the warpath.’

‘Ha! He’s always on the warpath,’ said Tiene. ‘What’s Mr Piggy upset about this time, Youssouf?’

‘Herve dropped a cocoa pod on his trotter and he thinks Herve did it on purpose.’

‘Did he?’ Kojo asked.

‘Would you?’ Youssouf sniggered.

‘So Le Cochon’s footballing days are over,’ Tiene said, laughing.

‘Before they’ve even begun,’ Kojo sniffed.

‘Perhaps we could arrange to drop one on the other trotter as well,’ Pascal joined in. ‘Or on his head.’

Tiene pretended to thump his head with a pod. ‘Ow, ow, ow!’ he shrieked. ‘My head feels like it’s gonna burst.’ He dropped to the ground, waggled his legs in the air, then fell still.

‘Whoops! The Pig has snuffed it.’ Youssouf grinned. ‘Better bury him.’ He began to heap discarded pods on top of Tiene, but a warning shout made him empty his sack and run off through the bushes.

Pascal saw Mr Kouassi marching towards them, his stained shirt stretched tight over his enormous belly. He was wielding a bicycle chain in his right hand and a stick in his left.

‘Stay where you are and do as I say,’ Pascal hissed at Tiene. He knelt on the floor beside him and cupped Tiene’s head in his hands. ‘Close your eyes and pretend you’ve fainted.’

‘What the hell’s goin’ on?’ the overseer yelled.

‘It’s Tiene,’ said Pascal. ‘He needs water. The sun’s got to him.’

‘I’ll get to him if he don’t go back to work. If he can’t do the job, he can get out and we’ll find somebody else to do it. On your feet, slacker.’

‘Really, Mr Kouassi, he’s not at all well. He could die if he doesn’t have some water soon.’

Pascal could sense the overseer hesitating. He wouldn’t want a death on his hands. Tiene groaned theatrically – too theatrically, Pascal thought, and when he felt Le Cochon breathing heavily right behind him, his shoulders tensed. He waited for the stick to land on his back.

‘He don’t look that bad to me,’ Le Cochon said finally. Then he demanded of Kojo, ‘You, fetch some water and be quick about it. You others, get on with your work or you’ll soon know what it feels like to be ill.’ He hauled Pascal up by the back of his T-shirt. ‘You too,’ he ordered. ‘He don’t need you fussin’ over him like some big soft mama.’

Pascal turned on him, fists clenched, and stared him in the eyes.

‘Go on,’ Le Cochon goaded him. ‘I dare you.’

‘I wouldn’t waste my energy,’ Pascal growled.

The overseer pulled away, then lashed the ground with the bicycle chain right by Pascal’s feet. ‘You’re livin’ on borrowed time,’ he spat. ‘You don’t seem to understand who’s in charge ’ere and what that means.’

‘I understand,’ said Pascal.

‘Then get your butt over to the plantation before I redesign your legs with this.’ He stretched the bicycle chain out in front of Pascal’s face. ‘Don’t push me, son, d’you hear? Just don’t push me.’