and when he saw that I had calmed down he released my shorts. He picked up Yewa, brought her into the parlor, and carried and nursed her as Mama had done that night.
“I don’t want to go back to the market,” I said quietly. “Why didn’t this monkey say this when I was going to the market?”
“Who want send you back to market
sef?
” Fofo said. “Make you no scold your sister again. You know de gal
dey
too light. We must fatten her for de trip. Oderwise, she go embarrass Mama and Papa. And, Pascal, you suppose be glad de gal done begin like Gabon food before you reach de place.”
“She has to be more considerate, Fofo Kpee,” I said, and went outside to sit on the mound and sulk.
“Anyway, no
wahala,
” Fofo said. “I
dey
go market myself, den.”
He carried Yewa on his back, went into the inner room, and wheeled out the Nanfang. He set it outside, smiled at it. In those difficult months, it seemed the machine was a source of stability for him, something he could always be proud of, something he would still have when we left for Gabon. He looked at himself many times in the side mirrors, smiling and mumbling to the machine, as if it could hear and answer him. Now, he swung Yewa from his back onto the gas tank, sat on the bike, and rode out to the market. He didn’t come back as soon as he should have, because, as he said later on, he wanted to give Yewa a longer ride. When he came back, he put the Nanfang back as majestically as he had brought it out. We were going to eat and drink inside as usual, but Yewa complained that the smell of the wet mix was nauseating. We went outside and ate under the mango tree, like we were having a picnic.
Later that afternoon, we went back to work, this time trying to seal off the inner room. It was more difficult to work in there because it was crowded with things. Fofo wasn’t in the business of letting the Nanfang stand in the sun or even in the parlor. So now he took his time and moved the Nanfang to the center of the room and covered it with our bedspread and tarp. It was as if he were dressing up a big pet. I wanted to take the other things out of the room or push them out of the way.
“Where you want put dese tings?” he asked me.
“Outside,” I said.
“No . . . you no get head, boy? You want expose my riches to everybody?”
“What about the parlor?” I asked, bending down to close the pots of soup in the corner and drape old newspapers over them.
“And if person
dey
come,
wetin
we go do? You see me invite anybody to help me in dis work? No move anyting
o,
” he said, pushing the mortar away from the wall to make room for the chair on which he would stand to do the job.
WE WORKED HARD AND fast. Fofo wasn’t talking or whistling or humming, as he had when we worked in the parlor. He left no holes in the walls here. He seemed so focused on the job that in some ways it felt as if he was uncomfortable with what he was doing now. He had no time for finesse anymore. Even though the cement fell on all the signs of the better life we had come into, he didn’t care. And when I wanted to stop to wipe off the mix, he glared at me.
“Fofo, you are leaving no holes in this room?” I asked, offering him the cement mix.
“So what?” he said.
“We need air in here.”
“
Dis moi,
you sleep in dis room before?”
“No.”
“Your sister
nko?
”
“No.”
“You
dey
cry for de Nanfang,
abi?
Just
dey
work and stop interrogating me.”
As we filled in the space at the top of the walls, the room became darker and darker because he wouldn’t even open a window. I could only see his profile. Down where I stood, since we didn’t move anything out of the room, it wasn’t only dark but crowded. It was afternoon outside but night in our home. I wanted to light the lantern, but Fofo warned me that if his Nanfang caught fire, we would lose everything. We started sweating, and Yewa refused to come inside, saying it was getting too hot. With the lack of
“I don’t want to go back to the market,” I said quietly. “Why didn’t this monkey say this when I was going to the market?”
“Who want send you back to market
sef?
” Fofo said. “Make you no scold your sister again. You know de gal
dey
too light. We must fatten her for de trip. Oderwise, she go embarrass Mama and Papa. And, Pascal, you suppose be glad de gal done begin like Gabon food before you reach de place.”
“She has to be more considerate, Fofo Kpee,” I said, and went outside to sit on the mound and sulk.
“Anyway, no
wahala,
” Fofo said. “I
dey
go market myself, den.”
He carried Yewa on his back, went into the inner room, and wheeled out the Nanfang. He set it outside, smiled at it. In those difficult months, it seemed the machine was a source of stability for him, something he could always be proud of, something he would still have when we left for Gabon. He looked at himself many times in the side mirrors, smiling and mumbling to the machine, as if it could hear and answer him. Now, he swung Yewa from his back onto the gas tank, sat on the bike, and rode out to the market. He didn’t come back as soon as he should have, because, as he said later on, he wanted to give Yewa a longer ride. When he came back, he put the Nanfang back as majestically as he had brought it out. We were going to eat and drink inside as usual, but Yewa complained that the smell of the wet mix was nauseating. We went outside and ate under the mango tree, like we were having a picnic.
Later that afternoon, we went back to work, this time trying to seal off the inner room. It was more difficult to work in there because it was crowded with things. Fofo wasn’t in the business of letting the Nanfang stand in the sun or even in the parlor. So now he took his time and moved the Nanfang to the center of the room and covered it with our bedspread and tarp. It was as if he were dressing up a big pet. I wanted to take the other things out of the room or push them out of the way.
“Where you want put dese tings?” he asked me.
“Outside,” I said.
“No . . . you no get head, boy? You want expose my riches to everybody?”
“What about the parlor?” I asked, bending down to close the pots of soup in the corner and drape old newspapers over them.
“And if person
dey
come,
wetin
we go do? You see me invite anybody to help me in dis work? No move anyting
o,
” he said, pushing the mortar away from the wall to make room for the chair on which he would stand to do the job.
WE WORKED HARD AND fast. Fofo wasn’t talking or whistling or humming, as he had when we worked in the parlor. He left no holes in the walls here. He seemed so focused on the job that in some ways it felt as if he was uncomfortable with what he was doing now. He had no time for finesse anymore. Even though the cement fell on all the signs of the better life we had come into, he didn’t care. And when I wanted to stop to wipe off the mix, he glared at me.
“Fofo, you are leaving no holes in this room?” I asked, offering him the cement mix.
“So what?” he said.
“We need air in here.”
“
Dis moi,
you sleep in dis room before?”
“No.”
“Your sister
nko?
”
“No.”
“You
dey
cry for de Nanfang,
abi?
Just
dey
work and stop interrogating me.”
As we filled in the space at the top of the walls, the room became darker and darker because he wouldn’t even open a window. I could only see his profile. Down where I stood, since we didn’t move anything out of the room, it wasn’t only dark but crowded. It was afternoon outside but night in our home. I wanted to light the lantern, but Fofo warned me that if his Nanfang caught fire, we would lose everything. We started sweating, and Yewa refused to come inside, saying it was getting too hot. With the lack of
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