Chapter 7

Among the second group to arrive at the smugglers’ hideout was a young man named Malouk, the great Liberian storyteller who was to become my dear friend. He was tall and thin and never to be seen without a khaki cap on his head. He slept on the floor, his small bag wedged beneath his head. Next to him, a long guitar was ensconced in a dark leather case marked by faint footprints. As rays of sunlight filtered through the windows, he stirred, stretching his long limbs before jumping to his feet, pushing his glasses up his nose and propping his guitar against the wall. The bathroom had a long queue in front of it.

‘Morning Malouk! Sleep well?’ someone called to him.

‘Good morning sir! Good morning, ladies and gentlemen! If anyone here slept well, please share your secret and I’ll be eternally grateful!’

‘No one sleeps well around here. I spent the whole night counting stars,’ someone called out.

‘You too? Dear God, I was doing the same – and I slept terribly. I dreamt of beautiful birds filling the sky. They rose from the sea, flew high into the air and never returned.’

When he eventually left the bathroom, Malouk collected his bag and guitar and disappeared into one of the rooms.

‘Hey!’ I followed him in, extending my hand in greeting, ‘I’m Abdar, from Eritrea.’

‘Sawaniq Malouk Sawaniq, from Liberia,’ he replied, shaking my hand.

‘What a beautiful name,’ I said.

‘One of my ancestors sixteen generations back was called Malouk. My father named me after him to seek his blessings. He was quite a hero in his day. Hard to believe now. The stories go that he dedicated his life to building a great ship so he could sail the seas and rescue his wife who had been captured and abducted by local pirates. At the top of the ship he built perches for firing poisoned arrows from, and he prepared a special berth to carry his wife home in. But all his efforts were wasted. Malouk never managed to set sail nor rescue the wife he worshipped. He died before the ship was finished.’

‘That’s an unhappy tale.’

‘Just like yours and mine. That was a tragedy back then, and we’re living our own tragedy right now.’

‘Worried about the journey?’

‘Who isn’t? We’re in the hands of fate. Did you hear about the boat that sank with a hundred and seventy on board?’

‘One of my best friends was on it. They found his body with the others that washed up on the Tunisian coast.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss. That’s a terrible thing,’ he said, placing his hand on my shoulder.

‘I still haven’t fully grasped it. I haven’t shed enough tears for him.’

‘How terrible when we can no longer weep for loved ones.’ We remained in silence for some minutes.

‘When did you leave Liberia, Malouk?’

‘I love Liberia and never truly left her. How could I leave her when she lives forever in my heart?’ His voice broke with sorrow as he spoke. He appeared like an accused man before a judge, bitterly defending his innocence. I attempted to steer the conversation to what I hoped would be a happier topic. My attempt, however, was like throwing petrol on a flame.

‘Have you ever been in love?’

‘I have.’

‘How was it?’

‘Wonderful.’

‘And where is she now?’ There was a long silence. Malouk’s eyes filled with tears and his lips trembled.

‘I lost her,’ he eventually replied in a strangled voice, ‘It was the same criminals who butchered all of Liberia … They killed my beautiful Waninabanda.’ He broke into bitter sobs, tears running down his cheeks. I tried to console him, sorely regretting the pain I had caused him and not daring to press him for more details. I did not want to stir up more buried memories. Such atrocious events can never be erased. They glow dully like lava within you, ready to erupt at any moment into endless flows of agony. At that moment, the sound of birdsong reached our ears and Malouk instantly responded to it:

‘Alas …

If this song would leave untouched

Sorrow’s sanctuaries

And if these birds

Would speak no more

And death

At sea’

‘Was that a poem?’ I asked, repeating the words in my head.

‘Let’s just say an outburst of emotion,’ he replied. I smiled, running my fingers across the strings of his guitar. ‘I bet you won’t believe that that guitar was once taller than me!’ he continued, ‘I won it in a talent competition when I was fourteen. I take it wherever I go. It helps me remember where I come from. Once, my house was burgled – and all I could think about was begging the thieves to spare my guitar. One of them, dead serious, told me they would leave it as they had no use for it!’

‘I suppose modest thieves must occasionally turn up,’ I smiled.

‘I don’t think the bastards were even proper thieves,’ Malouk laughed, ‘As they left with the rest of their loot, I remember thinking they’d have dropped it and fled straightaway if I’d shown even the slightest resistance. I’ve often beaten myself up for giving in so easily.’

We walked over to the tap, where Malouk soaked a large towel and began sponging his chest. Next to us, Captain Attiah was dipping his head in and out of the water.

‘It seems they’ve forgotten us,’ Malouk shook his head, ‘They think we can survive off water alone. Our lives are nothing to them.’

‘I was here three weeks ago,’ Attiah broke in. I translated his words to Malouk.

‘Then why haven’t you left yet?’ he replied in surprise.

‘Didn’t have enough cash. But I do now. Last time, we went without food for ages. Dry bread and tomato puree for two days. That’s just the smugglers’ way. They won’t change. I’ll bet we don’t see them today. Maybe tomorrow night.’

Over the dull, listless evenings to come, Malouk would tell me many tales of his ancestor, Malouk the First. That first morning, he introduced me to some of the legends surrounding him.

‘He was a skilled and respected fisherman,’ he began. ‘After his death, many poems and songs were written about him and the ship he built to rescue his beloved from the pirates’ clutches. Some of the songs document the building of the ship, and others describe Malouk’s appearance in the most elaborate detail. Some of the poems are even believed to have been written by Malouk himself. In one of them, he addresses the sea:

“From my deepest being

Comes this ship

And I give it one fleeting chance

To return

My stolen soul”

A sudden commotion between some of the Moroccan and Egyptian travellers momentarily stalled Malouk’s train of thought but, after a few seconds’ silence, he delved back into his narrative.

‘Malouk’s death enraged the sea. According to the storytellers, it stretched its watery arms to where the ship was anchored and carried it off as tenderly as a father might cradle his newborn baby. The ship was borne away over the waters and Malouk’s deep, gentle voice rose from it, reciting poetry. To this day, fishermen and sailors still claim to see the ship far out at sea, with its ghostly sailors beneath their black sail.’ Malouk began to dust off his guitar with a small piece of soft leather.

‘I’d love to hear you play.’

‘As soon as I’m properly awake.’

‘You’re not awake now? We’ve been talking for ages.’

‘I’m never properly awake until I’ve had a few cups of coffee.’

‘I know what you mean. I complained about it and was told it’s a luxury only available in five star hotels.’

‘Well if that’s the case, I doubt you or I will ever smell coffee again!’ Malouk laughed.

As we spoke, Malkita, one of the travellers from Ethiopia, joined our conversation.

‘Don’t you wish you’d never left home?’ His beautiful eyes were full of sorrow as he spoke. ‘How I wish I was back in Ethiopia.’

‘I respect your honesty,’ Malouk replied, ‘But there will always be migration so long as there are human beings on earth. Show me a land that hasn’t been trodden by a migrant’s foot. And I personally wouldn’t be surprised if Africa became the next destination for lost souls, even as they leave it today.’

‘True,’ I added, ‘This land will be man’s final refuge just as it was his first cradle.’

‘How eloquently he speaks this morning,’ Malouk laughed, ‘Even though he hasn’t had coffee. His words are wise and wonderful because he is from good people. Long live Africa!’ he shouted jubilantly, then returned his attention to Malkita, ‘If only we were in your country, we wouldn’t have to beg for a cup of coffee.’

‘That’s true. I grew up in Kuma Kaffa, home of the coffee bean. I never thought I’d suffer such terrible withdrawals. My head’s splitting.’ He proceeded to describe to us in vivid terms his journey from Ethiopia into Sudan. He had crossed the border where the mighty Blue Nile, one of the sources of the Egyptian Nile, surges out of Ethiopia towards its union with the White Nile in Sudan, flowing ultimately towards the Mediterranean. The water was turbid and the current was swift, he said, and the waves had surged forward shoulder to shoulder and risen into monstrous shapes, reminding him of the houses, tents and temples he’d left behind in the Ethiopian Highlands. When the waves passed through the narrow straits, they’d smashed together like giant clay pots.

I was first drawn to Malkita by his calm demeanour, a result of all that he had experienced in his life. I watched the ease with which he made new friends, his joyful spirit always leading to bursts of laughter. But during the catastrophic sinking of the boat on which he was travelling with Malouk, an unexpected – and downright unbelievable – side of his radiant spirit was revealed. Inner demons suddenly awoke in him. He became a monster, transforming the boat’s narrow deck into a place for attack and assault. He plundered the dying, targeting the few individuals who hadn’t yet fallen unconscious. He hounded them, stealing whatever money they possessed and fighting fiercely until he had snatched everything he could find from his exhausted victims’ pockets.