“More money?” Big Guy replied. “You go accept a used Nanfang?”
“You want give us a Nanfang?” the man said, his voice rising in excitement.
“Excellent!” the other man said, tapping on the metal of his tool, as if to honor the moment.
“La Nanfang, c’est very very decent,” Big Guy said softly, as the diggers got back to work, tearing the earth apart with gusto. “But if you tell anyone, I go kill you.”
“We understand,” one digger said. “How deep you want dis?”
“Deep enough to bury Smiley Kpee complétement,” Big Guy said.
My heart skipped a beat. I became weak and dropped to my knees. The stuffy air now felt like fumes in my nostrils. I tried to stand up, but my legs wouldn’t support me. I sat down, my back against the door, my knees hoisted up to support my bowed head, my arms wrapped around my shins. I closed my eyes, clenched my fists, and pressed my mouth against my knees to keep from wailing. I stiffened my toes and wanted to be numb. I held my breath until I became dizzy and couldn’t do it anymore.
My mind started racing: did he die in the hospital, or did they kill him? Even if he died in the hospital, I thought, they still killed him, because if they hadn’t beaten him he’d be alive. I felt betrayed now because I had promised them that my sister and I would go to Gabon anyway, to protect Fofo. What would I tell my grandparents back home? What would I say to fofos and aunts in Braffe? What would I say to my parents?
Guilt filled my heart. I held myself responsible for his death, although I didn’t know what I could have done to stop it. Maybe I should have been the one who was beaten, instead of Fofo. I hated myself and began to consider myself as bad as Big Guy and our godparents and our games master. I felt I had learned evil from them. I had learned to smile and be angry at the same time. My little pretenses before the guard worried me, and I felt my uncle would still be alive if I hadn’t encouraged him to flee that night.
Tears rolled down my face, hot and fast. I heaved my weight off the door, because I was trembling and was afraid the vibration might draw attention. My heartbeat seemed louder than the thuds of the shovels outside, and after a while I couldn’t even hear the digging.
My anger grew until I felt choked. I reached out and grabbed the wickers of the cutlery basket so hard that one of them snapped, and Yewa turned in her sleep. I wanted to break Big Guy’s neck like that wicker for trying to bury Fofo somewhere on the road.
I took a knife from the basket and kept it by my side in case I needed to defend myself. As bad as the digging was, I wished it could have lasted forever, to delay Fofo’s interment. Each time the diggers paused to catch their breath, a wave of panic crashed over me and I balled my fists.
“Ç A SUFFIT,” BIG GUY said. “Dat’s enough for dat cheat!”
Something in his voice, the callousness, I think, emboldened me, and I felt I needed to confront Big Guy. I quickly wiped my tears and willed that he would not make me cry anymore. I tried to stand up but was still too weak, so I knelt and again put my ear to the door.
“Stop,” Big Guy said. “Come out! I done promise you de Nanfang. Wetin you want again, huh? A new Nanfang?”
“Thank you, sir,” they said, scrambling out of the grave. I heard brisk footsteps going toward the front of the house. When they returned, they were slower and shuffling, I think because of Fofo’s weight. I tried to figure out how they were carrying him but couldn’t. When they dropped him into the grave with a thud, I pressed against the door—and decided then that I would rather die than go to Gabon. I thought it would be better to be killed by Big Guy than to be sold over Fofo’s dead body. I would drown before they hauled me onto that ship.
As they filled the grave, I heard my sister get up. I rushed over to her and covered her mouth with my hand. I whispered that we needed to lie down again, that day hadn’t yet broken, and went with her back to bed. I put the knife under the mattress, right under the pillow. I lay there and thought about how best to flee from Big Guy and his people, until the guard came in the morning.
After the guard had cleared the toilet pail, he set down his big flashlight and gave us some food and a jug of salt water. My sister ate heartily.
“So how you dey, mes enfants?” he said, full of false pity, inspecting our faces. “Bien dormi?”
“Yes, we slept well,” Yewa said, her mouth stuffed with yam and beans.
“You dream?”
“No dream,” she said.
“You dey too quiet, Pascal. . . . Your eyes dey red, your face dey swollen. You no sleep?”
“I did,” I said quietly.
“And you no want chop?” He came to the bed, lifted the pillow, and sat down beside me. He sat close to the knife. “Eat someting, abeg, boy, chop o.”
I managed a smile and poured a bit of the salt water from the jug and sipped. “I’ve no appetite now. I’ll eat later.”
“A ma sé nude din we˙ ya?” the guard said suddenly.
Yewa shrugged. “No, I didn’t hear anything last night.”
“And you, big boy? No look so sad, abeg.”
The word big cut into my disguise, and the picture of Big Guy loomed in my mind. I wanted to tell the guard that, yes, I knew they had killed Fofo Kpee and buried him behind the house last night. I wanted to tell him to go to hell. I thought about pulling out the knife and stabbing him. But I wasn’t sure I could kill him instantly. And if I didn’t kill him with the first blow, he would overpower me.
I decided to abandon the knife option and exploit his sympathy. Maybe if I begged him he would let us go into the parlor. And if we got there, I might be able to get the keys from the pocket of Fofo’s olive-green corduroy coat.
“You no hear anyting?” he asked again, seeing, I guessed, my hesitation.
“No, nothing,” I denied. “Did something happen, monsieur?”
“Oh, no, no, notting. Just Big Guy messing around for night.”
“No!” Yewa said.
“Calm down,” the man said. “I just de ask weder he disturb you.”
“Please, how is Fofo Kpee,” I said, looking down, hiding my pain.
“Well, he dey make progress for hospital. Dem go keep am for hospital for a while.”
“How long?” I asked.
“He go come home small time. . . . I visit him last night.”
Yewa stopped eating, looked up, and said, “You did?”
“He say make I greet vous deux . . . and, Pascal, he get message for you.”
“Message? What message?” I said.
“Na you be family head while he dey hospital. . . . Take care of dis small gal.”
He reached around me and patted my sister on the shoulder.
“Did you bring his clothes to him?” I said, hoping against hope that he hadn’t touched anything in the next room, especially that olive-green coat.
“L’hospital always get dress for de patients. No need to bring dem from house.”
I was happy that things were going my way. It was important that I keep my composure; it was important that I court the guard’s sympathy. With Fofo dead, I felt I needed to beat them at their own game. I felt I had the right to be an even worse human being than Big Guy.
“Thanks for the message from Fofo Kpee,” I said.
“C’est rien,” he answered. “Kpee be good man . . . only dat he come misbehave.”
“And thanks for the food, water, toilet . . . everything. God has brought you to us.”
“But what am I?” Yewa suddenly asked in a tiny whiny voice.