The stars were out, and a full moon hung low and bright, shining through a spray of dirty clouds. It was so bright that the mango tree and the bushes grew blurry shadows around them, and we could see as far as the sea, the coconut trees looking like an endless sheer dress. When Fofo rolled the Nanfang outside, the moon cast a dull shine on the gas tank. Though I had come to hate all our Gabon riches, that night I hoped that bike would take us to safety.
There was a lot of wind. It hurled the hoots of an owl against the night, an unmistakable refrain amid a cacophony of insects and the sough of coconut foliage. Suddenly the wind choked and broke off, the trees, which had been pushed in one direction, jerking back past their normal postures. A coconut trunk snapped and crashed, and the night creatures hushed for a while.
Fofo locked the door with a chain and a big padlock. He didn’t allow Yewa to sit in her usual place, on the tank, since she wasn’t fully awake. Instead she was sandwiched between us. I guided my sister’s feet with mine so they would stay on the footrests. There wasn’t much room. Fofo didn’t rev the bike as he normally did. Like the escapees from Sodom and Gomorrah, I didn’t look back but straight ahead. Our headlight was dim, and we traveled very slowly because of all the potholes. The soft whir of the Nanfang broke up the silent night, steady and consoling. Fofo knew the road well, since he used it every day, and went from one side to the other, effortlessly avoiding the potholes. The road took us away from the ocean, toward the cluster of homes nearest our place. The houses looked deserted in the moonlight, and in front of them, the long empty tables and stalls where villagers sold their wares during the day looked like the skeletons of prehistoric animals.
After a while, I glanced back and saw two bright dots of light behind us. They were very far away and seemed to be moving all over the road, as if two children were playing with flashlights. Fofo looked into the side mirror, then back, and the bike wobbled. When he steadied the Nanfang, he sped up a bit.
“Let’s go fast,” said my sister, who was now wide-awake.
“Road no good,” Fofo said. “You get eyes? Soit patient till we reach Cotonou-Ouidah Road.”
“Where are we going?” my sister said.
“Home,” I said.
“Braffe?” she said, giggling. She tried to see my face but couldn’t, because our sitting arrangement was tight.
We rode through a small town. Some shops were still open and solitary silhouettes of people darted here and there. There was a smell of burned flesh in the air. At the far end of the town, a bonfire blazed by the roadside, lacerating the moonlight’s beauty. On reaching it, I noticed that the flames were billowing from a pile of tires in front of an eatery. Three goats or sheep were being roasted over the flames, and two men, all muscles and sweat, clad only in underwear, stoked and turned the animals with long stakes.
“Pascal, did you bring my things?” Yewa shouted to be heard. “I want to show my books to our parents and grandparents. . . .”
“Your books dey here,” shouted Fofo, tapping on the bag. “I go buy you new dress for Braffe.”
“You will?”
“Mówe, yes.”
I looked back again. The two lights were closer, and from the way the beams jumped up and down, it became clear that those riders didn’t care about the bad road. Though Fofo tried to speed up, they kept gaining on us.
Now, they split up, one to either side. I became afraid and pressed closer to my sister. I looked back often, and each time my sight was gouged by the lights. My stomach swelled with the urge to pee. The thought of many Big Guys coming after us overwhelmed me.
Fofo didn’t stop or say anything. The bike on the right was now running neck and neck with us. Fofo sped up, but the other rider was more aggressive. He tried to overtake us and cut in front us, but Fofo dodged to the left. The bike on the other side almost hit our number plate and was forced to slow down. Each rider had one passenger.
One bike passed us and forced Fofo off the smooth track of the bad road, and now we were heaving into one pothole after another.
“Stop, quick quick . . . arretez,” the passenger said.
We slowed down.
“D’accord, I dey stop,” Fofo said, putting one foot on the ground and rolling to the edge of the road; he kept the engine idling. “Abeg, no harm us,” he pleaded.
“Shame on you!” the passenger yelled from across the road, getting off the bike, slowly and confidently, while the rider sat there with the engine running. “Why you dey run?” the passenger snarled, then pulled a cell phone from his pocket and started assuring the person at the other end that things were under control. Then he said to Fofo, “You no know say we dey watch you? You no know you done reach point of no return for dis deal?”
“I dey sorry,” Fofo said.
“Sorry? Turn off your lights, stupid man!” someone on the other bike commanded him, and Fofo obeyed. I turned quickly because I thought the voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t see his face.
This straight stretch of road was canyoned by tall lush bushes, an outcrop of jungle on the seacoast. The bushes on the left blocked the light of the moon and cast a gloomy shadow on the lower reaches of the road’s right side, while above all was bathed in moonlight.
Fofo whispered to us, “No come down, you hear?”
“Yes,” we whispered back.
“Hold de machine well well.”
It was as if the people on the other two bikes were so desperate to manhandle us that they forgot to ride up to where we were. Instead they jumped off their machines and bounded toward us. My eyes still smarted from the headlights as the giant silhouettes hurtled in our direction. Suddenly, Fofo kicked his Nanfang into gear, and we took off. I felt someone’s eager hand on my back and ducked before he could grab my shirt. Fofo hit his high beam and accelerated.
They were right behind us. The gap between us was as narrow as the space between our beds back home. I resented the fact that my back was their closest target and kept pressing into my sister and holding tighter to the machine. I stiffened my body; the gusts of wind lapping my clothes felt like hundreds of fingers trying to grab me. Yet my back was getting warm, as if their headlights would roast me.
We pulled away from them, Fofo crouching a bit, his head pushed forward like that of a dog in flight. And, since our bike was still new, whenever it hit a pothole, the impact was like the muffled sound of two cymbals clashing. My sister had her right cheek pressed firmly against Fofo’s back as if to listen to his heart. I leaned forward beyond Yewa and tied my hands around Fofo’s stomach so we wouldn’t fall off, even if the bike got into the deepest pothole or jumped the highest bump.
“Hold tight!” Fofo shouted, his voice shredded by the wind, just before the Nanfang hit a big pothole. The machine went up, then landed hard and heaved, but we hung on. “You dey OK?” Fofo said.
“Yes,” I said, though my right foot had just lost its flip-flop.
I repositioned myself and my sister. My bare foot felt better on the rest; it had more grip. My fingers were sweaty, so I retied my hands around Fofo’s stomach and put my chin on Yewa’s head. It felt better to have the glare of the headlights a bit farther from my back. But when I tried to discard the other flip-flop, I lost my footing. My left leg dangled, and I fought to regain my balance but couldn’t. The effort pulled the bike to one side. Fofo threw his body the other way to compensate and held it there momentarily.