“Village,” Fofo Kpee said curtly. “I go bring dem to you.”
“When . . . quand?” Big Guy asked. “You dey make my job difficult o. De agreement na for five children. Give us de children.”
“Soon, soon,” my uncle said. “I dey go Braffe soon. My oder nephews and niece dey village.”
“Just bring dem and stop wasting our time . . .”
“You’re distracting all of us in here!” Mama screamed to the men on the veranda.
“Gentlemen, stop, stop!” Papa said. “This is neither the place nor time for this conversation! We’re here to celebrate, not to harass Kpee and these children. . . . Kpee’s other children will have their chance to come to Gabon and enjoy the good things of life there, OK? And, Big Guy, always remember, you work for us, not the other way round. Give Kpee time to organize things carefully. Things will work out.”
“Monsieur, I dey sorry, monsieur,” Big Guy said, and they stopped arguing.
The images of Ezin, Esse, and Idossou flashed through my mind. The idea that they would come with us to Gabon excited me to no end. I was sure they were preparing in Braffe to come over to the border, to go with us. It became clear to me why Big Guy was angry the day they brought home the Nanfang, and what “five” meant when he received us in front of the church that Thanksgiving Sunday. From what Fofo had said about our godparents, I knew their generosity had already extended to other members of my family, like my parents. And, though I felt that someday they might help my older siblings back home, I never knew the help would come in this form. If only Big Guy would be patient so that we could go home and get my siblings. I didn’t like the fact that he had almost turned our godparents against Fofo.
I wanted to scream into Yewa’s ear what I had just pieced together about our siblings, but I checked myself. I was jealous that she had Mama’s full attention, so I resisted sharing anything with her.
A rush of confused feelings went through my heart. Mama’s presence was everywhere, yet I couldn’t get enough of it. I was grateful to Big Guy for bringing our godparents to our house but upset with him for trying to make Fofo look bad in front of Papa.
What did we do for the Lord that He brought the goodness of this NGO to us? We weren’t the poorest of children in that border village. Yet from all the children in our school and neighborhood, I felt that God had chosen us. I remembered the conversation Fofo had with Big Guy in front of Our Redeemer Pentecostal Church that happy Sunday, which Pastor Adeyemi later confirmed during his blessing. For them the issue was simple: you’re poor because your ways aren’t straight before the Lord; if you do good, then your Heavenly Father, who is rich, will make you rich.
Yet that night, sitting there across from this wonderful woman, I didn’t see what good I had done. Worse still, Yewa had actually become more stubborn and mischievous than she had been a year and a half ago in Braffe. I began to think that maybe what we children did or didn’t do didn’t count before the Lord. So I put my faith in Fofo Kpee: he must have done something big, something marvelous, for the Lord to bring this good luck to us. Maybe Fofo was no longer smuggling at the border; maybe he no longer duped strangers for their money. Maybe he was climbing coconut trees free for people. In my heart I began to sing “The Lord Will Bless Someone Today” as I watched Mama cuddle Yewa.
BEFORE LONG, YEWA FELL into a deep sleep on Mama. She hadn’t been able to do that since our mother fell very ill in the village. Even our grandparents knew Yewa was troublesome and allowed her to come with me only after Fofo had assured them he would do everything to take care of his niece.
“Hey, Pascal, how was school today?” said Mama, looking down on the sleeping Yewa like the Madonna on her Child.
The name startled me. I looked around the room for another person. There was nobody. Who was Pascal? The front door and windows were still closed.
In the silence, Mama lifted her face to me in a wide smile, and I felt at home again, though I didn’t know what to say. It sounded as if the question was directed to someone on the veranda. I could hear Big Guy and Fofo Kpee and Papa chuckling outside like people who had hit a jackpot. They seemed content to stay out there.
“Pascal . . . ?” she said again, and reached across the center table to hold my hand.
“I’m Kotchikpa,” I politely corrected her, looking down.
“Yes, that’s right, sweetie. Big Guy told us. . . . Kotchikpa?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Please, may we call you Pascal? With time, I’m sure we’ll be more conversant with Kotchikpa. You know, with all the children in our care, from different tribes and countries, it’s a bit difficult at first. Pascal is such a sweet name. Memorable. Please? Pascal?”
“Yes, Mama.”
I nodded.
“Sure?”
I nodded again. “Yes, yes. It’s fine.”
She was still looking at me. I felt I needed to say something more, but I didn’t know what. I felt better now because she had given me a bit of attention, and I hoped my sister would sleep all night.
“Thanks, Mama, for paying our fees,” I blurted out.
“Oh, you’re welcome, sweetie.” She blew me a kiss. “So understanding, so grateful. We hear you’re very bright in your school. You’re the best. Oh, come over, sit with us. Don’t be too far away.”
She reached out for me, her bracelets jangling. I held her hand and came around the table. She hooked me into a hug and kissed my head, all the while making endearing sounds as if I were her precious, vulnerable pet. When she noticed Yewa had begun to sweat, she pulled off her colorful hat and fanned her.
“BIG GUY, GOOD EVENING!” I said cheerfully, as he entered the house, bringing food from the car and bowing before Mama. But he didn’t answer. It was as if he didn’t even see me. Mama looked at him and then at me. She squeezed my hand in a way that made me feel I should ignore him.
This evening, he was a different man. This was the third time we’d seen him, and it seemed he had changed each time. Tonight, he wore an immigration officer’s outfit. In the glare of our lantern, the beret on his shaven head looked like a coxcomb haircut, and his long sleeves had stripes. He looked bigger than usual because his shirt was bloated, pumped up by cassava starch, and his trousers had two hard lines like sharp blades. His shoes glowed, and when he moved, the legs of his trousers rustled against each other with his military gait. He carried himself about with the stiffness of a bodyguard around foreign royalty.
When he came back in, Mama rebuked him. “Pascal dey greet you just now! Jamais, never ignore my children!”
He stopped and stood very erect, as if before a national flag. “Oh, I’m sorry, Madame Ahouagnivo. Je suis très desolé. . . .”
“Just dey answer the boy, jo o. It’s not about me.”
“My apologies. . . . Bon soir, Kotchikpa . . .”
“No, Pascal,” Mama corrected him.
He bowed and said, “Beautiful name, huh.”
“Good evening,” I greeted him again.
Before long, he had filled our table with all kinds of food: crab soup, mounds of akasa wrapped in fresh leaves, macaroni, couscous, and stew. A pot of pepper soup was studded with chunks of bushmeat, each held together with white string, some of the meat still carrying the pellets that had brought down the animal, which was the kind of stuff our people liked a lot. You eat it carefully and slowly, partly because of the pepper, partly because you could bite into a pellet.
Big Guy staggered in with two coolas, and a draft of cold, icy air stabbed the room when he opened them. He brought out Coke, Maltina, La Place beer, and Chivita orange juice and placed them on the table. Each time he came in from outside, I expected to see the car’s other passengers. From time to time, when my attention strayed from Mama and the food, I wondered what Fofo Kpee was doing with the others outside.