“Good gal. Gbòjé poun, everyting go dey fine fine.”
“Fofo, I am relaxed,” Yewa said.
“And make you no forget to tank dem for school fees when you see dem. Even God dey like grateful creatures.”
“We won’t forget, Fofo,” I said.
“I’m hungry,” Yewa said. “Are we going to eat tonight?”
“Hungry?” He turned and glared at her. “I told you dem go bring food! Like picnic. Just be patient, ole. Look at your long mout. You want drink garri now? You and your broder, you no dey listen to me for dis place. Remember wetin your fader talk de day I bring you come here? Remember wetin your grandparents talk? One more wahala from any of you, I go cancel my plan wid your godparents. . . . I go even return you to Braffe!”
Yewa said, “I’m sorry, Fofo Kpee.”
“Shut up, you onu ylankan . . . ugly ting. I no know where your mama carry you bastards from come my broder’s house! One more word from you den . . .”
We sat in silence until dark. Fofo became more and more anxious, sucking his lips in and out. He sat erect, his back flat against the wall, his head against the closed window.
The fishermen at sea spangled the water with their lanterns, like stars. Yet there was no sea, no sky, no land, only points of light dangling in a black chasm. The night had eaten the coconut vistas too, except when the canoe lanterns, moving, were periodically blotted out behind the trees. The sea blew a strong kiss of breeze, warm and unrelenting, through our neighborhood. In the distance, we could hear the hum from the no-man’s-land market fizzling out for the night. We could also hear the semitrailers and trucks coming and going from the border, backing up or parking. Sometimes, from where we sat, we saw the beams of their headlights sweeping the skies of neighboring villages, like searchlights. Fofo had told us the trucks carried assorted goods from one part of West Africa to another.
Suddenly, we heard the sound of a vehicle coming down our dirt road. As soon as it turned into our compound, the engine and the lights died out. The car swished silently toward our house, checked by our sandy pathway. A woman was the first to come down. She ran toward us on the veranda, squatted, and quietly swept us into a hug, as if the moment were too tender for words. “I’m Mama!” she said softly. Yewa seemed indifferent to her presence, her attention focused on the vehicle, but I wanted to hold her forever.
“Mama . . . welcome, M-mama,” I stammered.
“Thank you, good children,” she said, pulling us even closer. “How sweet of you!”
After a while, she brought the lantern nearer to see our faces. She was a tall, beautiful black woman, with deep gentle eyes and full lips and a smooth face. She was in a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes, her hair gathered in a sun hat of many colors, as if she were going on a picnic. She was gracious, and her perfume was sweet, like the smell of fresh frangipani flowers. When she held us, she made sure her long painted nails didn’t dig into our skin. She smiled as easily as she breathed.
“Big Guy!” Yewa shouted, the scream cutting into the gathering silence of the neighborhood. She tapped me on the shoulder, then struggled to break free from Mama, pointing to the profile of a man who had just stepped out of the driver’s seat. “Look . . . Big Guy.”
“Big Guy?” I mumbled. “No. Where? He’s not the one.”
“It’s him!” Yewa insisted, still trying to break free. “He’s the driver of the car . . .”
“Shh . . . shh . . . quiet, quiet!” Mama said, holding on to us tightly.
When she had calmed us, Mama broke into a beautiful smile again that softened her hug. Then she let go of me and lifted up Yewa—whose eyes were still set on the vehicle and the man by it—and brought their cheeks together. She kissed her and rubbed her head.
“There’s no need to shout, honey,” she whispered. “Forget Big Guy for now. You’ll get a chance to greet him, OK?”
“Yes, Mama,” Yewa said, her attention slowly turning to the woman.
“My daughter, I have looked forward to seeing you. I have heard so many good things about you two. Big Guy told me you’re a great dancer. Do you want to dance with Big Guy later?”
“Yes, Mama,” Yewa said, her eyes lit up.
“And I want to see your beautiful baseball cap too.”
My sister nodded. I thought the fact that Mama knew Big Guy had taught us how to dance had a profound effect on Yewa. She began to pay the woman more attention and seemed to feel more comfortable with her.
“Good then, dear. We’ll arrange that. I dance well too.” She turned to Fofo Kpee, who had been watching us with fear. “Such lovely angels. . . . You go and bring the others into the house. Everything is OK.”
“Merci, madame,” he said, and bowed slightly. “Merci beaucoup.”
He walked over to the car. Big Guy opened the back door for Papa and two children while Mama herded the two of us into the house, carrying in the lantern as well. After closing the door, she sat on our bed, with Yewa on her lap, leaning against her breasts. It was as if she were our real mother. She had won Yewa over in no time. I began to feel relaxed, knowing that my sister wasn’t going to spoil the evening for everybody by being stubborn.
I was also touched by Mama’s gentleness. I began to think of how kind she must be to her own children, if she could be so motherly to us on our first meeting. Though she looked far richer than our mother, she acted every bit like her, and, though by now we knew her house must have been more beautiful, she appeared comfortable in our place. She looked around as if she knew what was in the next room. She was the first visitor to come into our house without my feeling embarrassed or out of place.
She was my first contact with an NGO. Her presence confirmed for me what Fofo had said: they were a group of smiling, caring people going around the world helping children like us. I couldn’t stop thanking God in my heart for bringing such a woman to us. I watched her closely, the way she doted on my sister, the way she held her and spoke softly in her ears, the way she threw her head back when she paused in her speech, the way she gestured with her right hand, bejeweled with bracelets, when she spoke. I was so comfortable around her that I no longer smelled the camphor on my clothes; her perfume took over the room the way the scent of the Nanfang had when it arrived.
“I heard you danced so well in church,” she said to Yewa in particular, which made me jealous.
“Yes, Mama,” she said, nestling closer to her.
“I dance too,” I said.
“Nice,” Mama said, and returned to my sister. “You like church then?”
“Yes.”
“Me too,” the woman said. “I like to sing and dance and pray with others. You know, I and my husband feel God has been good to us, and we should be good to others, especially children.”
Mama simply held on to my sister and closed her eyes, as if in gratitude to God. I wanted her to hold me too, but I didn’t know what to say or do. I stopped watching them and kept my gaze on the floor.
THE PEOPLE OUTSIDE FINALLY came to the veranda, but they didn’t come in. I couldn’t tell how many were there, but I knew the voices of Big Guy and Fofo Kpee. And I suspected that the third voice, a deep voice, belonged to Papa.
“Nice kids, very nice kids . . . Kpee’s children,” Big Guy said, as if he were looking at chickens in Badagry open market. “Monsieur Ahouagnivo, you go see when you go inside.”
“Beautiful,” Papa said.
“We tank God,” our uncle said.
“Unfortunately, Monsieur Ahouagnivo, as I come explain to you de oder day, Kpee no deliver completely,” Big Guy said. “Where de oders, Kpee?”