When I finished, my headache was gone. But I wasn’t satisfied, and my mouth was parched. I was tempted to take some of Yewa’s portion, but as I put down my empty container, I discovered other containers. My heart jumped. There were two more containers of food and two bottles of water. I knew immediately that the guard had come into the room while we were sleeping. I drank quickly, holding up the bottle so the water gurgled into my mouth.
“Who dey drink water like dat?” the guard said from the parlor. “You want choke? Is dat you, boy?”
I paused and said, “Yes, monsieur.”
“Why you ask your sister to sleep for water container?”
“I didn’t put her there.”
“Who put her dere? No mess wid me o!”
“I swear I did not put her there.”
“Ecoutez, tomorrow morning, we want take your fofo go hospital. He get high fever. And make you warn dat gal say make she no sleep for dat container again. We no want anoder high fever patient o. . . . How come you no eat your breakfast? Dis night you get notting.”
“I have eaten it. . . . The food is nice. Thanks.”
“Just finish your breakfast and lunch. And make sure your sister follow eat. Oderwise, I go come put de fear of Gabon into her.”
“Yes, monsieur.”
It dawned on me that it was night and that it was the guard who brought Yewa to our bed. In one gulp, I finished off the bottle of water, then I sorted out the food and shook her awake.
She climbed out of bed and disappeared into the darkness, stumbled and fell down hard. Her scream shredded the silence. It seemed like a flash of light because it let me know precisely where she was. The guard came in, quick and furious, sweeping the room with his huge flashlight. Yewa lost her voice and tried to run back to me for refuge, but the man seized her by her dress.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” he asked, dragging her toward the bed. “Sit and tait-toi! Comprends? Shut up.”
“Yes, monsieur,” Yewa said, sitting down.
“Eat de food din din!” he commanded her.
The light was close to Yewa’s face. She shut her eyes and shielded her head, as if she expected to be hit. There was a dash of dried blood on her elbow, I guessed because of the crash.
“I say manger . . . begin,” the man shouted.
“Yewa, please, eat,” I said, opening up the lunch of spaghetti and stew for her.
“No feed her o!” the man warned me, and turned to her: “Did your broder tell you no sleep for dat container, huh?” My sister nodded yes. “Respond-moi!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Ajuka vi, you want sleep for container, you no want chop food, I go kill you today.”
“Please, no kill her,” Fofo said suddenly from the parlor, his voice weak and his speech slurred. My heart skipped on hearing Fofo’s voice.
“Silence, silence, yeye man!” the guard scolded him. “Never talk to dem . . . jamais.”
Yewa was shaken and ate her food hurriedly between sobs. She ate with both hands and slurped and sucked the dripping stew. She didn’t pause to chew but swallowed as soon as she could. The lower part of her face was gleaming with oil, and the front of her dress was soiled. The man, looking satisfied, nodded and left the room.
While Yewa ate, I used some of the water from her bottle to wash off the blood from her elbow and wiped it with the bedsheet. When she finished the food, she asked for more. I handed her my container of spaghetti and stew, and she ate without slowing down. Afraid the food would choke her, I told her to take it easy, to no avail. I couldn’t tell whether she was afraid the guard might be watching her, or whether his tyranny had awakened in her an insatiable hunger.
Immediately after she finished, she said she needed to use the toilet. I guided her to the pail, and soon the stink of her shit thickened the stuffiness in the room. When she finished, I tore a large piece of newspaper, crumpled it, and gave it to her to clean up with.
I offered her her portion of akara and ogi, but she said she was full, so I quickly ate it.
“REVEILLEZ, REVEILLEZ!” the guard screamed into our ears the following morning. “You too dey sleep.”
I blocked the glare of the flashlight with my hands and stood up. He told us Fofo had been hospitalized and then put the jug of water he was carrying on the floor. He set down the flashlight so its beam poured up into the roof in a wide V. He wore a native long-sleeve shirt, blue with bright red flowers. A hulk of a man, he was as tall as Big Guy but heavier. His hair was big and as black as our godfather’s. His tight trousers accentuated his bulk because his thighs looked swollen, like those of local wrestlers. He moved away from the light and came toward our bed to lean on the roofing sheets.
Lit, the room looked much smaller than I remembered, and the silver padlocks on the windows and door gleamed.
“You container rat, núdùdú lo˙ yón na wé ya?” he taunted Yewa.
“Yes, I like the food,” she said.
“Wetin be your Gabon name?”
“Me?” my sister said, and looked at me as if for direction.
“Mary,” I said. “I am Pascal, she’s Mary.”
“E yón. You be good children. I no promise I go dey nice to you if you behave well well?”
“You did,” I said.
By now he was sweating profusely. He started unbuttoning his beautiful shirt and blew twice at his chest and kept wiping his brow with his hands. I thought he was going to drink the water he had brought, to cool himself. But he didn’t touch the jug. Instead he stood up and moved around the room like a teacher pacing in front of his class. I exchanged glances with my sister and braced for another orientation session.
My eyes, already used to the extremes of total darkness and bright flashes of light, hovered over the flowers on his shirt like butterflies dancing around bougainvilleas. In the dark part of the room, where he moved, the flowers on his shirt weren’t as bright, and I wished he would walk back into the light.
“Fofo and Big Guy give you lessons?” he said, turning around.
“Yes, monsieur,” we said.
“D’accord, Mary, how many fofos et tantines Gabonaises as tu?”
“I have three uncles and two aunties,” she said.
“Names?”
“Vincent, Marcus, and Pierre, and Cecile and Michelle.”
“Good, good gal . . . Pascal, talk about your grandfader, din din.”
“My grandpa Matthew died two years ago,” I said. “Auntie Cecile cried for two days. Grandma Martha refused to talk to anyone. . . .”
“Excellent, boy, excellent,” he said. “Now I go teach you nouvelles leçons?”
He paused and looked expectantly at us.
“Yes, monsieur,” we said.
“We dey almost ready for de voyage,” he said, “and Fofo done prepare you well well. Pour example, I dey sweat like hell here, but you done adjust to de heat finish. Na only God know why your yeye uncle come fear and want abscond.” He brought out a piece of paper from his pocket and studied the content carefully and said, “No wahala . . . repetez après moi: ‘We were rescued from the water by a caring crew. . . . ’”