round, happy eyes
.
“Everything will be fine from now on,” Salieu said, standing up with Abdul in his arms. “Don’t blame yourself again for Abdul’s death.”
It was the last time I ever saw Salieu.
I wish I could have taken comfort from Salieu’s words. But I couldn’t. I hated him for what he had done to me, and I missed Abdul. Nonetheless, the morning after my dream, I did feel a lightness I hadn’t experienced in a while. I woke early, washed my face, changed into a clean T-shirt and wrap skirt, brushed my teeth with a chewing stick, and went down to the clock tower with Adamsay. I didn’t say much to her, though she tried to talk to me. When a businessman dropped some leones into her bag, she ran off immediately to the market to buy mea mango. She held it up, but I shook my head. “You eat it,” I sighed. I didn’t feel I deserved her kindness.
I trudged along the streets, my black plastic shopping bag held low by my side. I didn’t make any money that day. But the next day I lifted my bag a little higher. And by the day after that, I was talking to Adamsay again.
“I got accepted into a program,” she confided as we walked home one afternoon. “I might be going to Germany.”
I was excited for her. I was happy for all the children at the camp who were taking part in programs with foreign nonprofit groups. The camp official had been right when he said that people in the West were becoming interested in Sierra Leone.
“It isn’t an adoption program,” Adamsay continued, sighing a little. “I’ll only be going to Germany for a little while, to go to school.”
“Where is Germany?” I asked her.
“Germany is in Europe,” she replied, pointing north, as if this place called Germany was just beyond Freetown’s mountains. “It’s supposed to be green.”
“Oh,” I said, looking down. I’d suddenly realized what her leaving would mean to me.
“Don’t worry,” Adamsay said. She stopped and wrapped her big arms around me. She was about to let go when I found myself pulling her in tight. I held on to her for a long time, burrowing my face into her soft, fleshy shoulder. She smelled like grass, and that reminded me of Magborou. I wanted to go back there, back to the time when Adamsay, Mariatu, and I would play with stilts and make mud pies that we’d try to get Marie to eat.
The following Saturday, another girl named Mariatu who lived at the camp popped by to see me. Mariatu was the same age as me. She looked like me, too, and she had no hands. Rebels had attacked her when they invaded Freetown.
We didn’t go begging on the weekends, since the businesspeople didn’t work then. The people who filled Freetown’s bustling streets on Saturdays and Sundays were mostly poor villagers from the countryside escaping the war. They would ask
us
for money, so it was pointless to go to the city. Weekends were spent hanging around the camp, cleaning the few clothes we owned, grinding cassava, and hearing about the war from others.
I knew this other Mariatu quite well, because she often joined Adamsay and me for begging. Now she sat down beside me as I finished breakfast.
“Victor thinks it would lift your spirits if you came out to the theater troupe,” she announced.
Mariatu had tried to get me to join the camp’s theater troupe before I gave birth to Abdul. She’d even taken me to one of their rehearsals when I was about eight months pregnant.
The troupe had about 25 members, all of them war amputees. They met every Saturday and Sunday in the center of the camp. Some of the members had lost a foot, others had no hands. Most of the members were around my age, but there were some older men and women too. When I saw them rehearse that first time, they were doing a play about the war. Mariatu played herself, a young girl from a small village in northwestern Sierra Leone who’d come to Freetown with her mother in the hope of avoiding the rebels. Two boys played the parts of the child
.
“Everything will be fine from now on,” Salieu said, standing up with Abdul in his arms. “Don’t blame yourself again for Abdul’s death.”
It was the last time I ever saw Salieu.
I wish I could have taken comfort from Salieu’s words. But I couldn’t. I hated him for what he had done to me, and I missed Abdul. Nonetheless, the morning after my dream, I did feel a lightness I hadn’t experienced in a while. I woke early, washed my face, changed into a clean T-shirt and wrap skirt, brushed my teeth with a chewing stick, and went down to the clock tower with Adamsay. I didn’t say much to her, though she tried to talk to me. When a businessman dropped some leones into her bag, she ran off immediately to the market to buy mea mango. She held it up, but I shook my head. “You eat it,” I sighed. I didn’t feel I deserved her kindness.
I trudged along the streets, my black plastic shopping bag held low by my side. I didn’t make any money that day. But the next day I lifted my bag a little higher. And by the day after that, I was talking to Adamsay again.
“I got accepted into a program,” she confided as we walked home one afternoon. “I might be going to Germany.”
I was excited for her. I was happy for all the children at the camp who were taking part in programs with foreign nonprofit groups. The camp official had been right when he said that people in the West were becoming interested in Sierra Leone.
“It isn’t an adoption program,” Adamsay continued, sighing a little. “I’ll only be going to Germany for a little while, to go to school.”
“Where is Germany?” I asked her.
“Germany is in Europe,” she replied, pointing north, as if this place called Germany was just beyond Freetown’s mountains. “It’s supposed to be green.”
“Oh,” I said, looking down. I’d suddenly realized what her leaving would mean to me.
“Don’t worry,” Adamsay said. She stopped and wrapped her big arms around me. She was about to let go when I found myself pulling her in tight. I held on to her for a long time, burrowing my face into her soft, fleshy shoulder. She smelled like grass, and that reminded me of Magborou. I wanted to go back there, back to the time when Adamsay, Mariatu, and I would play with stilts and make mud pies that we’d try to get Marie to eat.
The following Saturday, another girl named Mariatu who lived at the camp popped by to see me. Mariatu was the same age as me. She looked like me, too, and she had no hands. Rebels had attacked her when they invaded Freetown.
We didn’t go begging on the weekends, since the businesspeople didn’t work then. The people who filled Freetown’s bustling streets on Saturdays and Sundays were mostly poor villagers from the countryside escaping the war. They would ask
us
for money, so it was pointless to go to the city. Weekends were spent hanging around the camp, cleaning the few clothes we owned, grinding cassava, and hearing about the war from others.
I knew this other Mariatu quite well, because she often joined Adamsay and me for begging. Now she sat down beside me as I finished breakfast.
“Victor thinks it would lift your spirits if you came out to the theater troupe,” she announced.
Mariatu had tried to get me to join the camp’s theater troupe before I gave birth to Abdul. She’d even taken me to one of their rehearsals when I was about eight months pregnant.
The troupe had about 25 members, all of them war amputees. They met every Saturday and Sunday in the center of the camp. Some of the members had lost a foot, others had no hands. Most of the members were around my age, but there were some older men and women too. When I saw them rehearse that first time, they were doing a play about the war. Mariatu played herself, a young girl from a small village in northwestern Sierra Leone who’d come to Freetown with her mother in the hope of avoiding the rebels. Two boys played the parts of the child
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