“When my broder and his wife and oder children come to see us,” Fofo Kpee continued, “you go even eat better better tings. . . . Alleluuu . . . !”
“Alleluuuia!” the people said, and he sat down.
That evening, the visitors danced to music coming from our recently bought, used Sony boom box. Big Guy stood up and took off his jacket to reveal an immaculate white shirt. He pulled his trousers up to his waist to give his long legs room and showed us how to dance makossa. He moved his arms and legs, as if his suit now gave him permission to do so. He rolled his hips and gyrated to the electric guitar and heavy drums. With his smooth moves, he was a spectacle to behold. We began to like him. He reminded Yewa that she was an intelligent girl. He picked her up and tossed her repeatedly into the air and caught her. Many kids gathered around him, asking him to toss them too. He got sweaty, his shirt got dirty, his loafers became covered with dust, but he didn’t care. We had so much fun that the next day we had diarrhea and a temperature. We didn’t go to school.
ONE WEEK LATER, FOFO Kpee came back early from work and sat on his bed, wringing his hands. He was so preoccupied with what he wanted to say that he didn’t change his work clothes or bathe for the night. Then he leaned forward and said, “You dey enjoy school dese days, wid your new book?”
“I like my books!” Yewa said.
“The teachers like us now,” I said. “We share our books with our friends.”
“Good,” he said, wriggling into the bed until his back touched the wall. Above his head was a big old 1994 World Cup calendar that featured pictures of the thirty-two national soccer teams that had made the finals. The lantern’s rays mapped out patches of light and shadow on it, because the wall was uneven.
He pulled Yewa in between his legs and tugged at her cheeks playfully. The bedspring squeaked, sending a wall gecko scrambling from under the calendar. It went up the wall and rested on the wide space between the wall and the roof, its tail on the bicycle chain that held them together.
“Your godparents go happy say you dey enjoy school,” Fofo said suddenly. “Be grateful to dem o. E je˙ do˙ mi ni d’ope na yé.”
“Godparents?” I asked, sitting up on our bed.
He looked at me carefully and nodded. “Oh yes, you two dey lucky to have godparents, you know.”
“From Braffe?” Yewa asked. “When did they come?”
“Non, pas comme ça,” Fofo giggled. “Ah, no, you no know dese ones.”
“Does Big Guy know them?” she asked. “I want to dance with Big Guy. He can go with us to Braffe and teach Ezin, Esse, and Idossou to dance makossa. You promised to take us to Braffe.”
“We go go dere . . . for sure. But I want introduce you to your godparents first. Dat man and woman done give us many many tings. Nanfang. Sony. Drugs for your parents. Uncountable tings. Onú lo˙pa lo˙pa lé. Your parents like dem beaucoup. Your godparents want help our whole family, beginning wid your education. . . . We be deir adoptees. Comprenez de meaning of adoptee?”
“No,” we said.
“When stranger come take a child like him own . . . Mais, listen o, we must tell people de godparents be our real relatives o.”
“Our relatives?” I asked.
“You lie, Fofo,” Yewa said. “You go go hell. You lie.”
“Oh, young people, you no dey understand de Bible!” he exclaimed. “I know say dis one go hard to explain. Dat’s why I no boder to shower or na yi changer nú se lé before talking to you. If you tell a good good lie, you no go enter hell. Only de bad lies go put you for hell, mes enfants. As your Sunday-school teacher dey teach una, in Genesis twelve, ten to sixteen, Abraham, de fader of faith meme-lui, come tell de Egyptians good lie dat his wife Sarah be his sister to spare his life. Also, Jacob and Rebekah come deceive Isaac to claim Esau’s inheritance in Genesis twenty-seven, one to tirty-tree, remember?”
“Please, Fofo, tell us that story again,” Yewa pleaded as we drew closer to him. “Tell us about Abraham . . .”
“Quiet! No distract me o,” he snapped. “Just dey listen now because I dey preach.”
“Yes, Fofo,” she said.
“And dans la Nouvelle Testament,” he continued with renewed fervor, “make you no forget how de tree wise men come trick Herod to save de Baby Jesus in Matthew two, tree to sixteen. So like dese Bible people, we must protect our fortune. We must say dat your godparents be our relatives; oderwise, people go start to bring deir own children to dem or start being jealous. . . . Vous comprenez un peu, oui?”
“Yes, we understand,” we said.
“In any case, your godparents want it like dat. You two go understand well well when you grow up. My children, dis world est dangereux. Make you no trust anybody o. No tell anybody about our blessings, d’accord? Or you want make armed robbers come visit us from Lagos? You want make dem spoil am for us?”
“No, no, Fofo.”
We shook our heads.
“Very good, den, my children. . . . Because of dis family meeting, I quick come from work. I want tell una de whole trud about everyting, d’accord?”
“OK.”
“Your godparents are NGO people.”
“NGO?” I asked.
“Yes, NGO people,” he repeated. “Nongovermental organization . . . repeat after me . . .”
“Nongovernmental organization,” we said.
“Encore?”
“Nongovernmental organization.”
“Bon! Très bien! C’est une groupe of people who dey help poor children all over de world. NGO are good people and travel partout.”
He smiled at us and looked as relieved as one who has broken a piece of difficult news. He stood up and took off his clothes, beginning with his cowboy boots, then his blue suit. He put on his shorts.
He was the best-dressed Nanfang motorcyclist I had ever met. Since we had become richer, he went to work in okrika suits and shoes from Europe, which he bought in the open market that surrounded the no-man’s-land. There was an unkempt look to him because the clothes were rumpled, and we had no iron or electricity yet. We had new school uniforms, and when he rode us to school in the morning, we looked smart and well fed. And our classmates wanted to hear about our “abroad” parents.
“Is that why you said during the party our parents sent you Nanfang?” I asked.
“Yes, my boy . . . ça c’est très correcte!”
“Now I understand.”
“You dey trop intelligent for ton âge. A no˙ flin nú ganji. You remember well. Ah non, you cannot just tell everybody about your plans, you know. De book of Jeremiah, chapter nine, verse four, say, No trust your friend o . . . every friend na slanderer. So make una no tell your schoolmates or your friends for church about dis, d’accord?”
“OK.”
I nodded alone.
“Yewa?” he asked.
“I know how to keep quiet,” she said.
He came and sat down, reached under his bed for his payó bottle, and poured himself a drink. He tossed the full content of the shot into his mouth, as if he were pouring it into a bucket. He had two more shots, cleared his throat, and stretched out on his bed. “Come, you know what to call your godparents?”