The Girl in the Road by Monica Byrne Page B

what all these things were, Yemaya—a sirius and ear buds—but at the time, it was so new to me. You had amazing treasures in every pocket of your bag. I was sorely tempted to go rooting through it when you weren’t looking, just to see what else was in there.
    It took me one day to recite the English alphabet without making a mistake. But it took me three days to recite the Amharic alphabet. We had plenty of time because in addition to our load-ins and load-offs, the trucks kept having things wrong with them. There were many breakdowns and necessary repairs. Sometimes we were stuck in the desert for hours while Muhammed or one of his other helpers flagged down a utility vehicle headed for the nearest town to bring back a mechanic in case we couldn’t fix something ourselves. And then there was the bureaucracy! Once we stopped at a checkpoint and some men came to tally our cargo, and they looked so strange I screamed. You told me to be quiet, but one of the men indicated it was all right. He said something to you, and you translated to me: He’s asking if you’ve ever seen a Chinese man before. I said no, I hadn’t. He smiled and waved at me. He pointed to himself and said, Soon. I pointed to myself and said, Mariama. He was trying to be friendly and I was friendly back. But secretly I felt terrible for him, having to go around looking like that.
    Francis told me not to worry about all the stopping, but I could see he was frustrated. That made me frustrated too, and the kreen stirred in my chest. I asked Francis why the police kept stopping us, and he told me that Malians were always scared about attacks from Azawad, to the north.
    Why do they attack?
    Because they’re angry.
    Why are they angry?
    Mali’s not letting them go.
    Why don’t they let them go?
    I don’t know. I say cut the bastards loose and let them have their own country, but what do I know? Ethiopia let Eritrea go thirty years ago and we still hate each other.
    Then you spoke, Yemaya. You said, It’s because of energy.
    What’s because of energy? said Francis.
    Why they won’t let them go. The Malian government knows about the oil fields in the north, but they can’t tell anyone about it because the Chinese won’t let them.
    Francis looked hard at you. How do you know that? he asked.
    You looked down at your lap and said, I have connections, overarticulating the word as if making a mockery of it.
    Well, said Francis, making light again after the silence, You can sell that information to the Indian government when you get to Ethiopia! No doubt they’ll be very glad to have it and you’ll be a rich woman.
    I don’t want to be rich, you said.
    I thought of Doctor Moctar Brahim’s gold teeth and jumped in and said, Me neither. Rich people have to get chips, and I didn’t get one, and that’s how I got away.
    You said, Lucky you.
    But I couldn’t tell whether you were joking or not.

    At the next town we reached, you told me to stay on the truck and you’d come back with my surprise. I sat in the exact same place you left me in with my hands folded in my lap. You came back a half hour later, this time holding a pink plastic bag.
    Indian sweets, you said. I didn’t know whether they’d have them or not, but they did. Would you like to try one?
    I nodded.
    You handed me something that looked like a ball of desert sand.
    What is this?
    A ladoo, you said. They’re best when they’re fresh, but these are the prepackaged kind you find in the Sahel.
    I took a tiny bite. The dusty-honey taste was overpowering.
    Too much, huh? you said. Keep it. You’ll get used to it and I bet you’ll be wanting more in about five minutes.
    You were right. I ate the whole rest of it and then wanted more. You gave me another one, and watched me eat it.
    So. You’re from Nouakchott? you asked.
    I nodded.
    What do you know about Ethiopia?
    That they speak Amharic there.