“Right,” she said, gathering her wits. “Right. Night, then.” She turned before either had a chance to respond and made haste to her car. The two of them remained on the walkway until she was out of sight.
In two days, she’d do her job as planned. She had to, emotions and confusion and hesitation be damned. Once the dispatch was completed, Nena would never have to think about Cortland Baxter, or Georgia, again.
12
BEFORE
Blood saturates the ground, mingling with the fertile soil of my home. All around, people are screaming. The cacophony is so loud my hands clamp over my ears to drown it all out, but to no avail. With Paul’s words to Papa, he unleashes his men in full force upon us. Villagers, in last-ditch efforts to save their lives, attempt to flee up the mountain. They are gunned down like dogs. The rat-a-tat-tat permeates the air, followed by muted thuds of bodies falling to the ground. Mere hours ago, these people were laughing, believing themselves safe, believing all was right in the world.
The men are creative with their kills, chasing people down, shooting, hacking with dirty machetes as if my people are sticks of sugarcane. The intruders drag people I have known all my life away by their hair or clothing. They drag these people who have done no harm to death, to rape, to mutilation—whatever these monsters desire, and they desire all of it. I begin to believe my little village has somehow greatly offended God. This must be his wrath, this hell he has unleashed upon us. All because my father refused to be a participant in Paul’s illegal business? It all sounds unbelievable to me, transport routes and selling people.
Paul returns to his truck and throughout it all sits in the passenger seat. He observes the chaos while Attah Walrus and Bena bark orders about what to do with whom. They gorge themselves on the wealth and flesh of N’nkakuwe.
They snatch the women and children for their own perversions, taking them while they force husbands and fathers to watch, if they are still alive. Usually, the mountain is alive at night, the animals who inhabit it active and chattering. However, during the spurts when the men reload their weapons, the mountain is a silent witness to our eradication.
Meanwhile, Paul eats from a bowl of palm-nut soup and fufu. He smacks his lips, sucking the soup from his fingers and the marrow from a goat bone. Attah stands beside him, his eyes tallying the death count.
Attah asks, “Ah, but do you think our benefactors will approve? Did they intend for all of this?” His machete-filled hand sweeps before him.
Paul doesn’t look up from the bowl. “Do you think I give a damn? There is no benefactor here. There is just me.”
Paul does not even notice Attah’s embarrassment. He compliments the chef.
“She’s dead,” Attah says banally.
A small pout plays on Paul’s lips. “Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to kill her, no? We could have used her at the Compound. God knows the one we have now is for shit.” He runs his fingers along the inside of the bowl. “See if you can find another cook, and tell the men not to kill everybody. There must be some here we can use.”
After what feels like hours but is not, Paul climbs out of his truck and approaches us again. The screams have been whittled down to whimpers because there are so few of us left. The backs of his trucks fill with N’nkakuwe’s youth. Those not selected for the trucks are herded together, off to the side, awaiting their fate as we await ours. My brothers, my father, and I have come together in all of this. We hold on to each other. Papa, his voice gravelly from begging Paul to stop his madness, asks after Auntie. Who has seen her? None of us have, and the guilt I have been feeling for leaving her in the house calling my name gnaws at my bones.
Paul stands reflectively, a hand at his chin. Maybe he has tired of the misery he has inflicted. He casts a long, dissatisfied look at the lot of us.
“Paul.” Papa coughs, and a trail of bloody saliva drips from his swollen mouth. I use the hem of my dress to wipe it. He can barely get his words out now, his voice practically gone.
“The spoils here are disappointing, Big Man.” The honorific is usually spoken with reverence, to show a man’s importance, but from Paul’s lips it is a slur. “All I ever hear about in Ghana are the N’nkakuwe’s beauties. Have they all gone on holiday?” He chuckles. “Or maybe you make them work too hard in this backwater village, and these shriveled-up husks you call people are the result. And you say I do them a disservice.”
He trains his black orbs on me. “But your daughter, Aninyeh, she is a beauty, o. You must have spared her the hard work, eh? Raising a chieftain’s daughter.”