“And what would you like to eat, Paul?” Papa asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Nothing? Nothing at all?” Papa begged.
“I want to go home,” Paul said.
“My son, it’s OK to miss home,” Papa said. “You’ll get used to the coast. All our children miss home for a while. But this is for your good. We’ll do everything to help you.”
“Hey, honey, you must eat something,” Mama said, handing Mary over to Papa and moving to Paul’s side. “You need the energy, please. We know it’s been difficult for you, but everything will be OK. Dear, what would you like to eat?”
The boy pointed to beans and dodo, and Mama served him and started feeding him. Paul began to cry even though he was older than me. Mama put the food aside, held him close, and caressed and rocked him.
Antoinette looked this way, that way, edged nearer, and whispered into my ear, “They brought many of them in a fish truck from northern Nigeria . . . desert, six days ago. I don’t like him. I wish he wouldn’t come to Gabon with us! I came four days ago. I’m better than him—”
“Shut up, Antoinette!” Papa said, and gave her a stern look. “Don’t be rude. In Gabon, we don’t whisper about people in their presence.”
Antoinette sat up immediately, afraid for the first time. “I’m sorry, Papa.”
“You better be!” the man said. “Good behavior is important, very important.”
“It’s OK, darling,” Mama told Papa, handing him a bottle of La Place beer and a bowl of pepper soup. “Just relax. Don’t you think you are overreacting? You, eat something too, otherwise these children will drive you nuts. Children are like that. They’ll get along eventually. . . . Kpee, eat something, please. Big Guy, come on. Everybody, please, feel at home.”
Our uncle began with the pepper soup and rice, but the movement of his jaws was very deliberate, as if he expected to bite into a pellet. Big Guy unwrapped two mounds of akasa onto a plate, poured crab soup over them, and paused to suck at a bottle of Gulder beer as if on a feeding bottle. I went for Maltina and a mixture of beans and rice and stew. Everybody was laughing at Antoinette, who had mixed pineapple juice with Maltina and Coke and was asking Papa now whether he could pour a bit of his beer into the mix. Yewa was nibbling on a chicken breast in a way that suggested she was already full. She looked tired from eating but wasn’t able to say no to anything that was pushed her way.
SUDDENLY, A GUST OF wind rolled in off the sea, and we could hear it press on the door. It smashed the windows shut. Paul, who was now sitting alone, retched, bent over, and vomited. Papa rushed forward and grabbed him. Mama and the men gathered around him.
“Oh, seasickness again,” Mama grumbled, and looked helplessly at Papa.
“I hope it’s not as bad as yesterday,” Papa said. “We didn’t bring any spirits, darling, or did we?”
“I’m afraid I forgot,” she said, looking beaten for the first time that evening.
“No worry,” Fofo Kpee said, and exchanged a telling glance with Big Guy. “No wahala, no wahala.”
He quickly produced a bottle of payó from under the bed, opened it, and poured it into a bowl. He soaked a piece of cloth in the gin, wrung it out, and placed it on Paul’s face. Mama, who by now was already carrying the boy, held it in place. Fofo cleaned up the vomit. Paul was so weak that no matter what Mama did to hold him, he unwrapped and sprawled, their bodies in an easy tangle, mother snake sand-bathing with her baby.
“You see what I said about Paul?” Antoinette whispered to me.
“He’ll be OK,” I said, to keep her quiet.
“He’s such a baby . . . ,” she began, but stopped when Big Guy lashed her with an angry stare.
Everybody returned to their seats, and in the uneasy quiet that followed, Big Guy turned on our boom box at a low volume, and Alpha Blondy began to croon in the background. Antoinette left her food, giggled, and started dancing near Fofo’s wardrobe. Her hands kept thrashing into the clothes because there wasn’t much space. Then she pulled me up and asked me for a dance, and everybody cheered us on. Yewa joined us at Mama’s suggestion. She stood there unable to wriggle her small waist as Big Guy taught us, because of too much food. Mama said she would have come to dance with us if not for Paul, who was still lying down. Big Guy sat there, following the heavy rhythm with his head, as if our place was too small to contain his height and dance wizardry. Fofo just watched quietly, still not comfortable with this crowd.
Later, against the lantern light, Papa checked our exercise books and praised us for being bright students. Fofo had never looked at our exercise books, so we were excited.
“You two should be given the best education possible in this world!” Papa concluded, embracing Yewa and giving me a rigorous handshake.
“We’re intelligent too!” Antoinette announced to everybody, pouting.
“Yes, I should say you two are as bright as Paul and Antoinette. Right, Paul?”
Paul was still staring at the floor and didn’t say anything, the cloth covering half his face like a medical mask.
When he finished looking at our books, I said, “Thank you, Monsieur Ahouagnivo!”
“No, no . . . Papa, just Papa!” Big Guy said suddenly, shaking his head and sighing and giving Fofo a bad look. “If you no remember well, just be quiet like dis aje-butter boy.” He pointed at Paul.
“Thank you, Papa,” I corrected myself. “I’m sorry, Papa.”
“It’s OK, Pascal,” the man said.
“N ma plón wé ya?” Fofo Kpee fumed at me. “How come ta soeur dey behave better dan you egbé, Kotchikpa . . . ?”
“Oh, no, his name is Pascal,” Mama corrected Fofo, who stiffened up like someone who has touched a live wire. “Pascal,” she said again. “See how easy it is to make these mistakes? Do we expect too much from these children in one night?”
“Sorry, madame, je voulais dire Pascal,” Fofo Kpee said, a hangdog smile straining his face.
Papa and Mama began to show us pictures of Gabon and some of their property in that land and in Nigeria and Benin and Côte d’Ivoire. They showed us pictures of the inside of some of the ships we saw crossing the water and pumping smoke into the horizon every day. They were all very beautiful. They showed us pictures of some of the children they had helped, doing different things—studying, playing, eating, singing, even sleeping. Some were as young as Yewa. These pictures were shown hurriedly, and Antoinette commented on each of them excitedly, as if she had already been to Gabon and knew all these children. She seemed to know many of them by name.
“And, by the way,” Mama said, “make sure the children remain in good health for the trip, OK?”
“Sure, madame,” Fofo Kpee said.
“Make you buy mosquito net for dem, you hear? I mean prepare de children well well o.”
“No worry, madame. Everyting go dey fine fine.”
“And Big Guy no go worry you again about de oder children, OK,” Papa said, standing up to leave.
“Tank you, monsieur!” our uncle said, and bowed.
“We no go take back anyting from you,” Papa continued. “Just dey do your best. But if someting bad happen to dese two children, we go hold you responsible o.”
Everybody laughed. Fofo gave him his assurances and winked at me and rubbed Yewa’s head. He cracked a few jokes and pulled at his lip, and everybody laughed, even Paul. It seemed to me that for the first time during that long night he had come into his usual confident self. He must have sensed the visit he had dreaded was coming to an end on a good note.