Help

The reddish rounded hills grow slowly closer and taller. They are unlike anything I’ve seen before—almost straight-sided and smooth, like the mounds of paprika the spice sellers make to attract customers. As I hobble toward the vast base of the mountain, I realize that what I see in the distance is not a camp, but a town. There are white buildings with green trees between them. In front of the town are fields of what look like palm trees.

My ankle throbs, but I suddenly feel energy returning from somewhere. There might be water, food, shelter. But I will need money for water and food. Swirling in the heat of my brain is the memory of my mother sewing money into my shoes.

After two hours, I reach the first buildings at the edge of town. My head is spinning and I can’t focus. My mouth is so dry that I cannot swallow. The sun beats down, but I don’t feel myself sweating anymore. Some small boys and girls run past me, laughing and talking. The sandy desert gathers itself into a wide dusty road leading farther into the town. On either side are walled compounds and fruit trees; one of the fruit trees hangs over the street, creating a little shade. I need to look for the notes or coins hidden within my shoes.

I fall shakily to my hands and knees and start to crawl toward the shady spot. Stones scrape my skin. But I reach the cool sanctuary. The sounds around me become fainter, as if they’re moving away.

Just as I am about to lose consciousness, I feel a hand on my shoulder. A man is shaking me. He says something in a language I don’t understand and then drops a coin in the dust in front of me. It is gold around the edge and silver in the middle. As my head spins, it seems to shine with unnatural brightness. At home the coins are silver. They have the words Liberty, Equality, and Justice written around the edge. I don’t understand the writing on this coin. So I did cross the border. This town is in a different country. My coins may be worthless, but no one will know me here. No one will be looking for me.

I look at the new coin and am grateful but know that I cannot get up to buy anything with it. It’s then that I realize that if I let myself drift away again, I will not wake up. I think hazily about the people in the prison, about Bini. I am free and they are not. Somewhere people can help me.

I hear voices behind me. Two boys are walking into town with a donkey laden with onions.

I whisper, “Water,” and point to my mouth.

One of them gives me a piece of bread.

I mimic drinking from a cup and they pass me a goatskin water bottle. I take a sip, then another. I wonder if they realize that they have saved my life. How many times can my life be saved before my luck runs out?

As the sun sinks lower in the sky, I decide to try to walk down the wide dusty road with my coin in search of a market. As the road curves around, I hear the beeping of horns and buzz of motorbikes. I can also smell food and cattle and gasoline. I find the smells almost overwhelming. My senses seem to have become sharper now that I am properly starving. I wonder how I appear to people passing by. Poor and homeless. Like the people my mother would give a few cents to, before the police came to shoo them on or take them away.

Around another corner I see the edge of a market. The stalls spill from a central covered square out into the street. There are sheets on the ground, covered with vegetables and baskets of spices, rows of banana bunches and mounds of grain.

Near me a man crouches on the ground; next to him is a basket full of bottles of water. I give him my coin and take some water. I put my hand out for change and he gives me some. I do not know how to say “hello” or “thank you” here.

Toward the covered central area I see a kiosk with a glass front. Inside are rolls of bread. I limp over slowly and give the woman my money. She is wearing a bright headscarf like all the women around me, not a white netela like at home. She gives me two rolls and no change.

I turn to find a quiet spot to sit and drink and eat. A feeling of loneliness creeps over me as I realize that although I am free, it’s obvious that people are used to seeing boys like me because they don’t pay me any attention; they look around me. I have a strange sensation that I’m starting to disappear.

What would Bini do now? He would find somewhere to spend the night. He would not give up. So I try to think logically. I cannot walk far because of my ankle, which has swollen to twice its normal size, and because I am very weak. Maybe I can find a quiet corner in the market and sleep there. There will be old food on the floor of the market. Some of it will be edible, I’m sure.

I’ve never been on my own before. I’ve never had to look after myself. There’s always been somebody else to do it for me. It occurs to me that I might never see anyone from home again and an icy chill trickles through me. I would give anything right now to see my mother’s face, or Lemlem’s or Bini’s. To ask them where they think I should sleep, where I should look for food. I want someone to take my hand and give me a bed, something hot to eat.

Perhaps I will starve to death here, on my own.

By dusk, the marketplace begins to empty. Market traders cover their stalls with big sheets of plastic, or wrap everything up in the sheet it was laid out on.

From my hidden place behind the sacks of flour and grain I see two men who seem to be patrolling the area. They walk down each aisle of the covered market, maybe looking for stragglers or anyone trying to steal the traders’ produce. Three aisles are left until they reach mine.

There’s no way I can outrun anyone right now. I scan around for somewhere to hide, but behind me are more sacks stacked on top of one another. I look up and see that beneath the low tin roof are metal rafters close together. If I can get up there, I will be safe from the guards. They are now only two aisles away, walking slowly around sacks and baskets that litter the path. They are deep in conversation. I climb slowly onto the next sack, using my arms and my good leg to push myself up. The guards stop talking and I freeze. They peer around the deserted market, looking straight at me. My body hugs the sack. After a few seconds, they resume talking and I haul myself up onto the next sack, from where I can reach the metal beams.

Rats scuttle nearby but I don’t mind them. I curl across two beams next to where the wall meets the roof, panting. My arms feel shaky and my ankle throbs, but I have bread and water and shelter.