December 1990, and Freetown looked beautiful from heaven. The winding roads made a bed among Sierra Leone’s hills, so green and perfect my lungs filled with clean air. I could see the palm trees from the sky, home to coconuts and unripe plantains, nuts that would make oil for some Ol’ Ma’s cassava leaves that night. There were many people who tried to convince me to stay before I boarded the plane at LaGuardia—but in the end their memory was the only approval I needed.
I only had one small suitcase, which I carried with me on my flight, full of those dresses I had once loved. Facia had advised me to wear my long hair in a ponytail, to try to look as though I had never left. She had reminded me that for months the women there did not have those simple things that contributed to the natural beauty of West African women—a brush, lipstick, perfume, a clean dress—so I should pack the most plain dresses possible so I would not stand out.
“They will steal from you if they know you coming from America,” Facia had cautioned, taking the dresses I had packed out of my suitcase and replacing them with more plain, nondescript ones.
Before leaving our apartment, I held my son for what felt like an entire day. I nursed him, I sang to him and told him those stories my Ol’ Ma told me, and her Ol’ Ma had told her. I doted on his eyes and cheeks—I promised him I would be back with his father and sisters. I was able to obtain a sponsorship letter from the scholarship program, which I would use to get visas from the American embassy for them to come to New York with me. I had tried to obtain letters for my mother and sisters, but in the end, only my immediate family would be allowed back into America with me. Since the stipend was not enough for all of their plane tickets, I asked everyone I considered a friend for help. I was able to raise enough for our tickets and had a thousand dollars left for an anticipated two-month stay.
I met with Yasuka days before my flight, and like others, Yasuka asked me if I was afraid to go, if there were other options, if I had considered and planned for the worst.
“I am not afraid, no,” I answered. “I actually feel like myself again. I feel like I can breathe again.”
Yasuka looked down at the table toward the barely touched cups of tea for most of the conversation. I lifted her hand and placed it on mine, which was warmer than the temperatures outside would suggest.
“I can’t wait to meet them,” Yasuka said, finally, gracefully shielding her fear with hopefulness, just like everyone else I told.
When I exited the plane in Freetown, I was greeted by a familiar West African warmth and stuffiness. I swore I smelled all that was mingling in a smoke pot in the distance, all those things I had missed the past year. There were two lines: one for Sierra Leoneans and one for foreigners. I went to the line for foreigners and waited amid a crowded lot of British military personnel and members of various nongovernmental organizations, all wide-eyed and noticeably overwhelmed with excitement that they, too, had arrived in Africa. The airport was loud, too loud to hear myself worry. Beyond the customs counters I noticed local men in safety vests wave toward arriving passengers, offering their help with checked luggage. I approached the front of the line. I nervously pulled out my passport from a folder of traveling papers I was keeping in a purse close to my chest. I handed it to the attendant.
“Hello,” he said, examining at my passport. “Where is your address here?”
I cleared my throat and handed him a sheet of paper with the address of Facia’s friend written on it.
“I am staying with Marta Raman,” I said.
The man nodded and stamped my passport, letting me pass. Beyond the counter, two security guards waited for me, blocking my way to the airport exit.
“We just need to check your bag,” one said.
I handed them my suitcase and watched carefully as they opened it and lifted a few of my clothes.
“Open your purse,” one of them said.
I held out my purse and opened it for the guard to look inside.
“Okay, you can go,” he said and pushed my valise aside. A man approached with a customs vest and paced in front of me.
“Where you coming from? London or America?” he asked.
My exit was so close. I glanced at the door.
“America, but I don’t need your help,” I said, remembering Facia’s stories about rogues who waited at the airport for naive travelers to steal from.
“Your people outside?” he asked and I nodded.
“Let me take your bag for you,” he said, gesturing toward my suitcase. “Too heavy for the beautiful lady.”
“No, no,” I said holding my bag close.
“Okay, okay,” he said, friendly and respectfully. “I am only trying to help. Welcome, sister,” he said and walked away.
I felt sorry for how short I had been with him, but the feeling was fleeting, eclipsed by my new anxiety that I had actually made it back. Outside, the sun ran to meet me, kissing my face like the sister, the child it recognized me to be. A plane flew above us out of Sierra Leone and cars honked their way out of the parking lot in jagged lines.
A man approached me wearing a newly pressed shirt. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief and smiled my way.
“Are you Mam?” he asked. He extended his hand toward my suitcase. Again, I pulled the suitcase and purse close.
“Yes,” I said softly.
“No worry, no worry. I am Marta’s driver,” he laughed. He looked out onto the lot and pointed toward a car about a hundred yards away. The door opened and a short woman stepped out, straightening her dress. She waved toward me and adjusted her sunglasses. I laughed and waved to the woman.
“Oh!” I said. “Thank you. Thank you,” I said to the driver and handed him my suitcase. I followed him to the car where Marta waited. The impending greeting made me anxious. I knew nothing of the woman except that she was a former classmate of Facia during her time at the University of Franche-Comté in Besançon, France.
“Hello!” Marta said, giggling. “Wow, you look just like Facia!”
I hugged her and landed a soft kiss on each cheek.
“Thank you for coming,” I said.
She smelled like she had rubbed peppermint oil behind her ears. I couldn’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but I imagined they were as kind as her voice.
“You must be famished,” Marta said.
The windows had been manually rolled down and all of those delightful smells raced to meet my senses.
“I am,” I answered, shyly. “Thank you again for everything.”
“No, please,” Marta smiled. “If you are Facia’s sister, then you are my sister.” She rubbed my shoulder. “It is truly brave what you are doing.”
“I haven’t done anything yet,” I said. “I want to leave tonight for the border town if possible. I could at least get there in the early morning.”
“Nonsense!” Marta said, hitting the seat playfully. “You just arrived. Please. I had my house girl make you jollof rice. And we can make palaver sauce if you want. Plus, it’s better to arrive in the afternoon. Especially now.”
I reluctantly agreed. The driver hit the brakes hard as schoolchildren crossed the road. The Freetown intersections were swarming, more packed than I remembered from my visits when I was younger. On the other side of the street, the children danced and chased each other through the passing crowd. One turned around and made a face at us, twisting his mouth and nose in opposite directions, before continuing with his friends.
“Don’t mind them,” Marta laughed, noticing the child’s face. “Their gut is full. Everybody happy about Christmas.”
“Yes, yes.” I breathed in the day’s sighs. “I can’t believe it’s been a year since I’ve been back.”
“Time does fly, doesn’t it?” Marta asked, not missing a beat.
“There are so many people,” I said.
“Yes, many of your people have come this year. Nobody ever imagined this could happen to Liberia. I remember we were all once trying to cross your borders for jobs. Now it’s Liberians looking for jobs everywhere else since things do not look like they are changing.”
“Wow.”
“I hear Guinea and Ghana, and even Nigeria, have many more in refugee camps,” Marta said.
I wondered how many of the friends were in those camps.
“They say they are setting up settlement programs in New York for those in the camps. In Staten Island, I believe,” Marta said.
“Yes, I’ve heard that too,” I said, staring at the many pedestrians on the road. “And also Rhode Island, is what they are saying.”
“Yes, there too.”
“This is all still unbelievable,” I said.
“Yes, it’s too bad,” Marta said. “You know there are rumors now that Taylor’s rebels are on their way through Sierra Leone. They want to overthrow Momoh too.”
“We heard it but we didn’t know how true it was,” I said.
“I am making my way out of this place myself soon. I will go to France and wait it out.”
“We will pray.”
A boy approached our window selling fried plantains. I imagined he would place that day’s earnings in a pot near his front door, to be used by a shy but stern mother or Ol’ Ma, or a tired but joyous father or Ol’ Pa. I handed him a few coins. He smiled when he saw the money and grabbed a few of the bags out of his bucket.
“No,” I said waving my hand.
He nodded in gratitude as the car drove away from the intersection. I retrieved a handkerchief out of my purse and pressed it against my forehead. The heat filled the back seat as the car once again stopped in traffic.
“You will be broke in a week’s time that way,” Marta said laughing.
“It’s a good thing I won’t be here for long then,” I said.
“So you were serious about leaving soon then?”
“Yes,” I said. “I have to. I will leave for Bo Waterside first thing in the morning.”
“Yes, well, anything we can do to help,” Marta agreed. “We will take you first thing. Do you know anyone there?”
“No,” I said. “I will find a room to rent and decide what to do from there.”
“You really are as brave as Facia claims,” Marta said. “Well, I will give you my number. You can call me just in case.”
Marta’s flat was the same size as my suite in New York. She lived in the middle of Freetown where the voices of laughter and soccer balls lasted through the day. The smell of burning coal stalked the bathroom from a tiny window with iron bars. The water pressure in the shower was low and the water was cold, but I stood underneath shivering. The nervousness came to me at once—the noise outside shaking my confidence, those faces on the road with no trace of my family. I had no plan beyond taking the bus to Bo Waterside and finding a room. Marta confirmed that it was nearly impossible to cross the border, but I tried to remain hopeful. Bo Waterside was so close to Junde, only a day’s journey—and Lai was a canoe ride outside Junde. Surely there were people in the town who would be familiar with the area. I wrapped myself in a towel and gazed into a mirror. I had kept my hair in a ponytail as Facia had suggested, so my cheekbones were especially high below my sunken eyes. I remembered what Ol’ Ma had told me about coming home if I was ever unable to recognize myself in the mirror.
“I’m here, Ma,” I said.
That night, Marta’s cook boiled a pot of white rice. She boiled pork meat, chicken breasts, shrimp, and smoked fish in another pot with diced onion and peppers. She took the meat out of the pot and emptied most of the salty, seasoned water. She placed jute leaves in the leftover water until it boiled, the sound like joking Ol’ Pas on a dry-season porch who fought with the sun to stay a little longer behind the sugarcane fields. The smell of the seasoned leaves filled the apartment, making my mouth water. The cook then emptied the bowl of boiled meats into the boiling greens and added palm oil, along with fresh peppers and other seasoning. Palaver sauce. When the greens were finished, she placed them over the rice she had prepared and took two plates out for me and Marta. I thanked her and stared at the bowl, its steam rising in perfect undulations. I had no appetite, bullied by nerves, but I forced myself to eat for energy.
Once when I was young, I got sick and lost my appetite for days, becoming so frail that it worried Ol’ Ma and Ol’ Pa. Ol’ Ma made me a bowl of checked rice with okra and gravy, frying two of the best chickens on the farm in Lubn Town. She took it to the bed where I lay, next to the lantern that made a titan of her shadow.
“Eat,” Ol’ Ma had said, and I shook my head.
“You must eat,” Ol’ Ma said again, and I still refused.
“Then what will you do when the Mamy Wateh witch and the dragons them come for you? You will need energy if Pa not here to save you.” That had gotten my attention, and I opened my mouth for Ol’ Ma to feed me.
“And with each bite, pray for your strength against those bad bad things,” Ol’ Ma said, easing the metal spoon into my mouth. So with each bite at Marta’s, I prayed for strength from those things, trying my best not to cry.
Early the following morning, I boarded a local bus in Freetown headed to the Sierra Leone–Liberia border town of Bo Waterside. Marta asked if I wanted to keep any of my belongings in Freetown, but I took my entire suitcase and purse with me. Inside the bus I placed the suitcase on the seat near the window and I held my purse in my lap, squeezing it against my stomach. I was told by Marta’s driver to occupy my own row if I could, to avoid pickpockets who frequently used the transit for extra income. He had also said to sit at the aisle seat instead of the window, so in the unlikely event of a carjacking or other emergency, I could more easily escape. The advice had given me angst and I trembled as I boarded, and I concluded that I would pray during the entire nine-hour bus ride. There were two holes in the back windows, made by bullets. The seats on the bus were covered with old vinyl that had been tied with string or taped at bursting corners. I found an empty row in the middle and sat.
The bus passengers were mostly traders who traveled back and forth from Freetown to the border towns for goods to sell in market. The bus was less rank than I thought it would be, and I was glad that the morning breeze crept through the opened windows. As the bus pulled off, there was a loud knocking at the front door. The driver cursed while he opened the door, and a short man boarded, paying him and moving through the bus to find a seat. I looked toward the window in hopes that he would not try to sit beside me. I heard his heavy footsteps approach, and the man stopped right in front of my seat.
“Please, can I sit?” he asked.
I examined his face. His skin was the same color as his dark eyes, he was graying, and he had short fingers tightly wrapped around the handle of a duffle bag. I looked around the crowded bus and stood, picking up my suitcase, to let him slide into the window seat. The man was short—even shorter than me—and looked up at me when I stood. I placed my suitcase underneath the seat in front of me, watching it carefully as the bus continued on.
“Thank you,” the man said. “I am Jallah.”
I nodded but did not respond, afraid to encourage conversation, and I continued in silence as the bus rode along. The faces of pedestrians and city buildings sitting too close together became deep and vast plains. The Atlantic Ocean was not too far away, and my head leaned against its jubilant sound. Gus had courted me in the presence of that same ocean. I was a teenager when we met, and while we were undergraduates at the University of Liberia, he spent all his spare change on bus fare to visit me and my parents in Logan Town. Ol’ Ma liked him because he was as brave as Ol’ Pa had been, direct with his intentions, yet soft when he looked at me. The ocean had eavesdropped when he proposed.
I had been unable to sleep the night before. I lay awake in Marta’s guest bed for hours anticipating my journey. Now these distant beaches ushered me to sleep, applauding my return after what felt like a lifetime away. Every time I dozed off, I woke up suddenly, surveying my surroundings with my purse close to my breasts. The suitcase remained underneath the seat.
The man laughed beside me.
“Do not worry,” he said. “It is still there. I am watching it for you.” I moved uncomfortably in the stiff bus seat.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. I leaned my head against the seat.
“Besides, it is not thieves we must worry about. Everybody is too nervous going this way to steal,” he chuckled. He looked out of the bus window and I finally smiled. His voice was warm and familiar.
“Thank you,” I said again, making sure he heard me.
“Ah, no worry, no worry.”
“What was your name again?” I asked after a moment. He turned to face me, noticeably pleased.
“Jallah,” he said. “Yours?”
“My family calls me Mam,” I answered. “I’m Vai.”
“Oh! You are Vai?” he asked, holding out his hand. I shook it.
“Yes. It’s nice to meet you,” I said.
“I knew it,” he said in Vai. “Our women are the most beautiful. That’s what I say.”
I laughed with him and blushed.
“Bie-kah. Thank you,” I responded in Vai.
“You have been away, yes?”
Just as Facia had told me, my time in America was emanating from me, even with the plain clothes and hair.
“No worry, I will not hurt you. Anyway, you are clever to be so quiet, but you are safe. By my word,” Jallah said, holding up his right hand. “I knew that too,” Jallah said, joyfully slapping his thigh. “You should be careful traveling when you reach the border towns. I hear that not too long ago they kidnapped a woman they thought was an American nurse. They still looking for her.”
I looked out the window.
“But no worry, no worry. You Vai girl and Vai people they not humbugging much, they say. You going to market?”
“No, to Bo Waterside. I need to find a room,” I said.
“There are plenty rooms there but not all of them good,” Jallah said. “You have family there?”
“I have family in Cape Mount,” I said. “On the other side.”
“Yes, me too,” Jallah said. “Plenty family in Cape Mount.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“I have many many brothers and sisters. Many of them. Nobody die in war yet. One cousin we can’t find but nobody die yet,” he said.
“That’s good to hear,” I said, my body now cold. “What do you do?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Me, I am a trader. I go to Freetown for things you can only find in America and London and I sell and trade with the boys at the border,” he said.
“That’s good,” I said.
“People want American things plenty. Perfume and jeans, jewelry, anything they buy if it’s from America.”
“That is something. People in school in America ask me where they can find African masks and fabric. They pay plenty money for it,” I said.
“Yes, I know, I know. People want American thing. American want African thing,” Jallah said. “Nobody just happy with what they have.”
“Yeh,” I agreed.
“You will see the market at Bo Waterside. American thing there too,” Jallah said.
“I’m sure,” I said. “But the first thing I have to do is find a room.”
“I have rooms and I would let you rent one but my wives will get jealous.” He laughed again until he coughed. I laughed too. I couldn’t help it.
“The two of them are hard women—my wives. The people them ask why I choose them, but the heart wants what it wants,” Jallah said. “How many wives did your father marry?” he asked.
“One,” I said.
“Oh! And your grandfather?”
“One,” I said.
“Both of them?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. And still wealthy enough to have daughter in America? They are great men,” Jallah said, waving his pointer finger.
“They were great women,” I replied.
Jallah looked at the golden band hugging my slender finger.
“And how long have you been married?”
“Eight years. Our anniversary was last week. December 12.”
“Happy anniversary,” Jallah said. “You are beautiful woman. I am sure he will buy you plenty fine gifts.”
I touched my ring.
“He is alive?” Jallah asked.
“Yes. I was told he is living.”
“That’s good! You never know, my sister,” he continued in Vai. “I met a woman in Freetown who was selling at a market to feed her daughters. She said her husband and brother were killed and she cannot find her son.”
“God bless her,” I said.
“Yes-oh.”
“And is he at Bo Waterside?” Jallah asked.
“No, he is in a village on the other side. I am going to try to get him and my daughters out,” I said, each word heavier than the last.
Jallah raised his eyebrow and turned to the window. When he looked at me again, his eyebrows were still creased, unable to filter his doubtful thoughts.
“And … and how will you do that, sister?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Jallah,” I said. “Not sure yet. I hope to get answers once I reach the border.”
“Ah,” he said with warmth in his eyes. “You women are mighty. God bless you, sister.”
He turned away from me again to face the window. I appreciated his company and goodwill. I fell asleep again and when I woke, the bus had stopped. Surprisingly, Jallah was not beside me, but outside facing the field peeing, the shortest in a line of men. I glanced down the aisle and the driver was outside stretching. My luggage was still under my seat where I left it and my purse was in my lap. After twenty minutes or so, Jallah and the others boarded the bus. I stood up to let him in.
“Sorry-oh,” he said. “I did not want to wake you so I jumped over your legs. I thought sure I would disturb you but you were in a deep sleep.”
“Oh yes. I am tired. I have not gotten sleep lately but it is hard to stay awake with the ocean so close. Even on a bumpy road,” I said, still high with slumber. “How much longer?”
“Nani,” he said. Four hours.
“Oh, good,” I said. The noon sun made the bus even hotter than it had been that morning. I took my handkerchief from my purse and wiped the sweat from my forehead.
“You know, I was thinking,” Jallah said. “I want to help you.”
“Oh?” I asked.
He leaned in toward my seat and looked over his shoulder and across the aisle to see if anyone was listening. I was startled by this and I pulled away.
“No, no,” he said. “Listen.” He began to speak in Vai again.
“I did not want to seem too anxious before, and you can never be sure who you are talking to. But I have been thinking, I know of a woman. A rebel,” Jallah said quietly. “She is a Vai woman like yourself but she grew up in the city and she joined Taylor’s army.” My heart beat quickly and I sunk like stone in my seat. “Don’t be afraid,” Jallah continued. “Listen to what I am saying. I will tell you what I learned, what everybody learns during wartime. Not all fighters are bad. They all look bad. There is blood on their clothes. They high. Most fighters, they will do bad things, but not all of them are bad. Do you understand? Some of these rebels them they get forced to fight, they have no choice, but they stay good. You understand what I saying?”
“No,” I whispered, my heart still racing. I thought for a moment that perhaps Jallah was a rebel in disguise. If I screamed, the driver would stop the bus and it would lengthen my trip to Bo Waterside. And who knew if the people on the bus would turn against me if I prolonged their trip?
“Let me explain,” Jallah said. “They go to villages and to some poor towns near the cities, the rebel leaders them, and they tell the young people to come join their army for money. They say, ‘I will make you rich, come fight for me. I will make you commander. Make you king. Make you chief.’ They promise them their family will be safe during the war and they will make money to send to them, so many of them, they say yes. Then the others who say no, they force them. They beat the boys, rape the girls them until they agree to join their army. So many still trying to be right with God even with all the bad bad things they now do, you understand?”
“What are you saying? I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head.
“I know this woman, this girl her name is Satta. She is Vai and she is with Taylor army but but—” he leaned in again, so close to my ear. “If you pay her enough money, she will go and get your family for you.”
“What?!” I asked loudly.
“Not too loud,” Jallah said as the bus passengers looked our way. I gestured my apologies to them and looked at Jallah.
“When the rebels see her passing with people, they do not humbug her, and she learned this while saving some neighbors of hers who were Krahn,” he said. “And you know what is happening to Krahn people.”
“I know, I know,” I said, desperately wanting him to continue.
“So she has made a business from this,” Jallah said. “You pay her and you tell her where to find your family and she will go find them and walk them across checkpoints.”
“And what do you get from this?” I asked.
“Mostly just a comfortable bed in paradise. But she gives me small small change for finding people for her,” he laughed.
“Of course.”
“Nothing is free, sister. She can bring them to you in Bo Waterside. If you want.”
“Yes, yes,” I said, with hope that I could finally see a shape to. “But is it safe?” I asked in English. “Is it safe?” I asked again in Vai, quieter.
“It has been so far,” Jallah said.
“Can I meet people she has helped? Just to be sure?” I asked.
Jallah shook his head, waving his finger.
“They are all gone. Those who can afford her usually run far far away from this place once they get out of Liberia,” he said.
So far his proposal was my only option but I did not know this man. I thought of what Gus would do and say, or Ol’ Pa or Ol’ Ma. But none of them were there. Fear orbited. This man could have been a killer—a rebel himself. My husband would call me foolish for entertaining the suggestion, or for even conversing with him in the way that I had during their trip. But the griots and djelis would say that perhaps this was another sign.
“I want to meet her,” I said. “Please, if I can.”
“Good,” Jallah said, delighted by my decision.
We arrived in Bo Waterside late that afternoon. I was happy to stretch my arms and legs. I kept Jallah in sight, now my only lead in finding my husband, my girls. Bo Waterside was twice as crowded and busy as Freetown. There were some who were running down the road, some who walked with buckets of water, bundles of belongings or other goods on their glowing black heads. Market vendors shouted to pedestrians. “Plum, plum, plum, plum” or “Rice here. Rice! Rice!” or “Who want buy salt? Salt! Salt for you!” The smell of fresh fruit mingled with the fumes of rotten and deceased things. I waved my handkerchief over my nose in the heat.
“It takes some getting used to,” Jallah said, walking up behind me. “You will need a hotel first, yes?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, following him.
There was a busy road that intersected with the bustling market. Jallah pointed at the intersection. Vendors waved their goods across my face as I proceeded.
“Move from here, we are fine,” Jallah said, driving them away. “You look American so they will try to sell you anything.”
“How?” I asked.
“We know our people,” Jallah said. “We can always tell when someone has been away.”
Some trucks approached and people moved out of the road. I stepped aside as the trucks sped by. A few hundred yards in the distance, along a dusty road, I vaguely made out the checkpoint. There was Liberia, so close.
“Come, come,” Jallah said and continued walking.
We turned onto the street that intersected with the market and Jallah led me directly to a zinc door, painted blue, beside an alleyway with clothes hanging on either side. I was reluctant to follow and stood at the entry.
“No, please. Come,” Jallah said. “It is a good one. NGO people here,” he said.
I entered a foyer with tile floors, dark and redolent of dry rice and fish. A woman, very heavy and warm, entered the foyer waving.
“Allo-oh, Jallah,” she said. She went to the window and lifted the flimsy blinds so that the sunlight could make its way in. She turned around and the long, skinny braids that hung from her head followed.
“Hello, sister. This is Mam, my Vai sister,” Jallah said.
“Allo-sister,” the woman said loudly. She held out her hand and I shook it.
“You from America? I have room for you. I have one American man stay here. He preacher. He go to Liberia, he come back next week. You very beautiful. You stay here, I have room for you.”
“Okay,” I said, struggling to process everything the woman had said.
“Are there many other hotels in this area?” I asked in a low tone, peering out the window in hopes that I did not offend the woman.
“This is the best one, I tell you,” Jallah said.
“What wrong? This nice place, close to everything. Close to border, to market, to everything. What wrong? Plenty American people stay here. Where you from, Freetown? You from Liberia?” the woman rambled.
“Liberia, yes,” I said. “Can I see the room?”
“Yes, yes, come,” the woman said and opened a cabinet against the wall. There she retrieved a key and moved a curtain at the edge of the foyer.
“I will follow,” I said. Jallah and the woman laughed.
“That’s good. You are smart woman. Beautiful woman. I have room for you,” the woman said.
I followed them down a long and narrow hallway, lit by a skylight partially obstructed by orphaned leaves and garbage on the roof. The woman opened the third door and handed me the key.
“Here your room, sister,” she said and I saw clearly all of her small teeth.
The tile floors had been swept and the glass windows were barred from the outside. There was a metal bucket in the corner. The bed was made of dried mud, and cords of straw broke through a thin mattress.
“Straw mattress?” I asked.
“Yes, the very very best. Stay here. Bathroom down hall. We have running water. Your room.”
I gazed at the tiny room.
“Only ten dollar one night. American dollar,” the woman added.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll take it.”
“Good, good.”
“Come, come with me outside,” Jallah said. I was tired and hungry. I nodded and followed Jallah to the road outside.
“Here, take my number,” he said, writing his number on a sheet of paper. “She has phone inside. She is nice woman. The building has security. You will see.”
Down the dusty road, crowds continued to move throughout. I could tell those who had recently made it out of Liberia. Their clothes almost swallowed them whole and behind their eyes something had been taken.
“I will go call Satta and bring her here. Stay close by and I will call if there is trouble,” Jallah said. “I must go home now but please believe me you are safe, sister.”
“Okay,” I said confidently. “Bie-kah,” I said in Vai and hugged him.
Jallah disappeared into the crowd, his duffle bag dancing against his leg as he walked. I stared at the zinc door and instead of going back inside I strolled to the market road where dozens of vendors and traders were teeming, yelling above each other to ensure the last deal of the day. As I passed, women turned their heads in the direction I walked. There was one woman in particular who wore a lappa decorated with black traditional masks wrapped around her head. She was a heavyset woman who waddled as she moved intently toward me.
“You want me braid your hair?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” I answered and quickened my pace to a market table I had noticed while walking with Jallah, a table with metal silverware strewn across it. I approached the vendor and those who were standing before the table parted for me.
“Allo, Ol’ Ma,” the vendor said.
“You want salt, Ol’ Ma?” a vendor asked.
“No,” I said.
“Ma, T-shirt for you. Good price,” another said.
“No, no,” I said, more convincing.
“One knife and fork please,” I said with authority. The silverware clanged and screeched as the man found a pair for me.
“Butter good for you?” he asked.
“Steak,” I said. “Please.”
“Just one set?” he asked, and the others around the table glanced at me askance.
“No, a set of four,” I corrected myself.
“That will be one dollar American,” the man said and wrapped the metal in a sheet of newspaper. I paid him, and grabbing my purchase, I rushed to the next vendor, a woman selling kala.
“Kala, kala, kala, fresh kala bread,” the woman said.
“Yes, two bags please,” I said.
“For you one dollar American. Usually two dollar but I give it to my sister,” the woman said.
I paid her and put the bread in my purse.
Back at the hotel, the woman was sitting in the foyer against her locked cabinet.
“Allo-oh!” she said when she saw me. “There now, I tell you I’m the best one.”
I quickly paid the woman and went to my room, locking the door behind me. I sat on the bed and listened closely for threatening noises—signs to confirm that I was moving in the right direction—but nothing could be heard above my beating heart.
That night, I unfolded the silverware from its wrapping. I gripped the handle of a steak knife and took it to bed with me. The straw from the mattress poked at me from every angle. I closed my eyes but I knew I would not sleep well. The darkness was deep except for a dribble of moonlight that entered my window in streams. I held the knife close to me, waiting in the night, unsure of whether or not I slept.