Unfortunately, his back had been very stiff lately, so he couldn’t manage the trip, and his counselors couldn’t go either, old as they were—wasn’t it a miracle they could still get out of their huts and walk around, one of them barely seeing, the other two half-deaf? But Papa could go on behalf of the village; Woja Beki’s son Gono lived in the capital, and he would take care of Papa as if Papa were his own brother.
Mama must have fallen asleep somewhere in the middle of the retelling, because when he’s done talking Papa says, “Sahel, Sahel, are you up?,” and Mama says nothing, and I thank her in silence for not listening to the lies of that deceitful, dirty-teeth buffoon.
* * *
—
Two evenings later, Woja Beki calls a meeting of the village’s able men and his three counselors. In his parlor, seated on the only sofa in Kosawa, his white-socked feet stroking the only rug in Kosawa, his head below a clock that sings whenever its long finger touches twelve, the rest of the men sitting on their wooden stools or on the bare cemented floor, Woja Beki asks his counselors if they think it a good idea for Papa to go to Bézam on behalf of Kosawa. The counselors either nod or shrug, and Woja Beki thanks them for their wisdom. Papa stands up and asks if he can get three men to go with him. No one puts up a hand. A man rises to say that leading a delegation to Bézam should be Woja Beki’s duty, not Papa’s. And besides, the man adds, Papa is not an elder, he’s not even in the generation directly below the elders; he has no right to be the one to speak on behalf of the village. Many grunt in agreement, but Papa is not dissuaded—after giving the assembly the same speech he’d given Woja Beki, he prevents a protracted argument by announcing that he’s not looking for anyone’s understanding or blessings, even though he’s doing this for their children too; he doesn’t even want their gratitude, he only needs three men to accompany him. Bissau, Papa’s best friend since childhood, is on his feet before Papa is done speaking. Four more men stand up. These are more men than Papa asked for, but he turns no one down—he knows that, like him, the men do not wish to travel to Bézam, but the salvation of their children compels them to.
My uncle Bongo is at the meeting, sitting next to Papa, but he doesn’t offer to join. The moment he and Papa return home, Bongo begins imploring his older brother to reconsider his plan. Bongo is convinced Woja Beki will set a trap for Papa and his team. Some of the men in the team were part of the group that had once conspired to kill Woja Beki for his treachery. Woja Beki knows how much the men detest him for living in a brick house and drinking bottled water from Bézam and wearing new shirts and trousers from America, clothes he claims his sons gave him in appreciation for being a great father, matching outfits he loves to wear as he stands over the coffins of children, spilling water out of his fishlike eyes. But Papa cares little about that—in his desperation to never see his only son breathe his last again, he forges an alliance with a man he despises.
* * *
—
“Think about it, Malabo,” Bongo says the morning of Papa’s departure. We’re all sitting on the veranda. Bongo is facing Papa, who’s staring straight ahead. “Think about who you’re trusting. Gono works for Pexton. His two brothers work for the government. They all work at jobs that supervisors at Pexton helped them get. Why would you trust them? You’ve never liked any of them since we were children. And their father—even the smallest child in Kosawa knows that a truthful word never escapes Woja Beki’s mouth; if he says good morning to you, you go outside and see if the sun is indeed out before you respond. The man is a snake, and you’re going to stay in his son’s house and hope that he’ll help you, even though we all know whose side they’re on?”
“If you have a better idea, why don’t you say it?” Papa says. “Do you know anyone who lives in Bézam? Someone who’ll be willing to take us in and feed us and arrange meetings between us and the—”
“You think you’ll go to Bézam and the government is going to shake your hand and say, ‘Welcome, how can we help you?’？” Bongo says.
“I’m not going there for a handshake.”
“You’re wasting your time. And causing your family great distress. For what?”
“Is the government a rock, a thing with neither brain nor heart?” Papa yells as he turns to face Bongo. “Is the government not humans like us—people who have children, mothers and fathers who know what it’s like to have a sick child? I sat here and watched my son die and come back to life right in my arms. Did you not see it happen with your very own eyes? If the Spirit had not felt sorry for Sahel and me, Juba would not be sitting here with us today. And what did he die from? From something the government can put an end to. He’s well now, but who can swear to me that he won’t get sick again if he continues drinking this water? What’s so crazy about me going to find someone in the government who I can talk to as father to father?”