We visit the families of the other men. Mama goes to see her friend Cocody, the wife of Bissau, Papa’s best friend—their two husbands are in Bézam, they’re two anxious wives. Mama and Cocody talk in sad tones about their fruitless search for sleep every night. Another friend of Mama’s, Lulu, comes to visit us; her brother, Lobi, went with Papa. Mama tells Lulu she’s sorry for Papa’s role in her family’s pain, and Lulu asks Mama why is it that women feel they have to apologize for their men’s failings—when was the last time a woman was the source of her village’s suffering? Lulu’s voice is not as loud as it often is, but she still pushes her tongue through the gap between her front teeth every time she speaks, the same gap her brother has, which makes me wonder what happens to the gap between people’s teeth when they die. But no one has died. Has anyone died?
* * *
—
On the tenth day, I wake up early, sweep away the guava leaves in the front yard, and burn them at the back of the hut. I hurry home after school and dare not leave the veranda. I force myself to breathe. We all sit on the veranda, saying nothing to one another, our emotions warped and ineffable, our eyes dry from alertness. We wait till the darkness gets so thick we can scarcely see the torment on each other’s faces.
Papa does not return.
On the eleventh evening, Mama and Bongo take turns sleeping and sitting outside until the sun rises and the dew dries. The next night, I cry in the darkness, begging Papa not to leave me, to please hurry back home to me. In the morning, Mama rises up with bloodshot eyes. She walks to Gardens and takes the bus to Lokunja, to the big market. She returns with fresh produce and kills two of our chickens. She makes a meal of grilled chicken and boiled green plantains with eggplant and tomato sauce on the side, Papa’s favorite—she’d had a dream in which Papa returned and asked for something to eat. When Papa does not return, Mama offers the food to those who come to tell us that Papa is surely on his way back, shaking their heads sadly as they rip off meat from bones with their teeth and lick their fingers before asking for a cup of water to wash down the meal.
By the fifteenth morning, Yaya can barely climb out of bed. Mama wipes her down because getting to the bathroom is too long a walk—first age attacked her legs, now heartache is finishing the job. More neighbors and relatives arrive to comfort us in the following days. Bongo visits the families of the other men to assure them that, though hope might be frail, everyone has to do whatever they can to stay strong. At school I avoid all eyes. I sit alone during recess, having no need for hollow words of comfort.
Twenty days come and go, twenty nights of nightmares.
Worse than the waiting is the punishing nature of time, its ruthless inflexibility. Our appetites disappear before us. What sort of news should we prepare ourselves for?
* * *
—
Woja Beki’s son Gono arrives from Bézam on the thirtieth day.
I’m returning home from school when I see the car he hired in Lokunja dropping him off. I hurry home to alert everyone. We all run to Woja Beki’s house, Mama holding her belly, Juba on my back. Even Yaya, who has barely eaten in days, picks up her cane and hauls what little is left of her body. Because, surely, it has to be good news. Or not the worst of news, at the very least. Gono hasn’t returned with a carful of dead men, so it must be that Gono came to tell us why Papa’s return has been delayed.
But Gono does not know where Papa is.
The Six arrived safely in Bézam two days after they left the village, Gono tells us. He was expecting them, because his father had sent him a message through the district office, so he went to the bus stop to meet them. He hugged them and took them to his house, where his wife fed them her special cocoyam porridge with smoked porcupine, and gave them mats to sleep on in the living room. His wife served them potatoes and fried eggs for breakfast, and then the men got on a bus with him to go to the government office, their bellies filled, their eyes bright as they gaped at quick-walking, fast-talking crowds, cars as far as they could see, houses sitting atop other houses, some structures so high they had to lift up their heads to see the roofs.
“I left them in the children-affairs office to meet with two directors of health I’d arranged for them to talk to—I’d been thinking that if the government could send some medicine to Kosawa, that might help,” Gono says. “Then I went to my office, came back to get them two hours later, but they weren’t there.”
Our gazes upon him are cold as he speaks, standing in his father’s parlor, encircled by us, the fathers and mothers and wives and children and brothers and sisters of six most likely dead men. The rest of the village is outside, wondering about the fate of their cousins and nephews and friends and neighbors.