Finally, I wore myself out from excitement and I told Yewa I needed to sleep. I wanted to rest and prepare for the flight at night. First, I lay with the keys against the mattress. Then I turned so they faced up. Then I put my hand into the pocket and held on to the keys. Then I took them out of my pocket.
That night, when Yewa’s and the guard’s breathing had steadied in sleep, I got up and sneaked toward the back door. But when I remembered that the door always squeaked, I made for the window.
I climbed onto the bags of cement, and with shaky hands, I pulled one of the keys out of my pocket and grabbed the padlock. I trembled and fidgeted until I was able to find the keyhole. But it was the wrong key. I pulled it out and left it atop the cement bag. When the second key didn’t work either, I set it aside. I was shaking, afraid that the third might not work, so I paused and tried to calm myself. The guard sneezed and his bed squeaked. I leaned against the window frame and wrestled with a sinking feeling that we might not escape after all. I waited a few minutes, to give the guard a chance to fall back into a deep sleep.
Finally, I thrust in the third key and turned it. There was a snap as the lock was released. When I was sure nobody had heard me, I removed the padlock and put both it and the key in my pocket. I nudged the window slowly until it opened and freshness washed over my face.
It was a cold, beautiful night, and dull moonlight poured into the room. Everything was quiet and peaceful. I closed the window and crept back to the bed. I tapped Yewa on the shoulder, gently, until she sat up, scratching herself. “Kotchikpa,” she said dreamily.
“Yes,” I whispered. “No noise.”
“Are we going to the parlor again? Where’s the guard?”
“We’re running away . . . lower your voice!”
“Voice?”
I gave her a firm shake.
“We’re going to visit Fofo Kpee in the hospital,” I lied, leading her gently away from the bed.
“Now?”
I lifted her onto the cement bags, opened the window, and asked her to climb, hoping to go after her. I pushed her head through the open window. When the wind whipped her face, a scream escaped from her mouth. She was wide-awake now and got down from the bags and retreated to the bed. I dragged her toward the window, but she fought me.
“You dey fight for night?” the guard said, already struggling with the door.
“Yewa . . . use the window, jump!” I screamed. “He’s going to kill us!”
“Stop, stop!” the guard shouted, bursting into the room.
I pushed Yewa out of the way, toward the cutlery basket, and dove headlong through the window, breaking the fall with my hands. I ran toward Fofo Kpee’s grave, but my mind was so full of Yewa’s keening and its echo from the sea that I forgot to look at it.
I ran into the bush, blades of elephant grass slashing my body, thorns and rough earth piercing my feet. I took the key and padlock from my pocket and flung them into the bush. I ran and I ran, though I knew I would never outrun my sister’s wailing.
What Language Is That?
Best Friend said she liked your little eyes and lean face and walk and the way you spoke your English. Her name was Selam. You said you liked her dimples and long legs and handwriting. You both liked to eat Smiling Cow toffees. She was the last child in her family; you were an only child. The world was only big enough for the two of you, and your secret language was an endless giggle, which made the other kids jealous. Selam lived in a flat in a red two-story building in Bahminya. You lived in a brown two-story building across the street.
Some days, after school, you and Selam stood together on the balcony of one of the buildings and watched Selam’s two brothers and their friends on the hilly streets with their homemade kites, running and screaming until their heels kicked up puffs of Ethiopian dust. The boys ran into traders hawking CDs they carried in wide metal trays on their heads, or into horse-drawn buggies and donkeys burdened by goods, slowing down traffic. They avoided the next street, which had a mosque, because the imam would curse them if the kites entangled the minaret. He had already made it known to their parents that flying kites was foreign, blaming them for exposing their children to strange ways. But Best Friend’s parents told your parents that they had told the imam that he should not try to tell them how to raise their children in a free Ethiopia. So, many afternoons, you watched the kites rising against the distant coffee fields, then the beautiful hills, and then cupped your hands over your eyes as the kites climbed into the wide, low blue skies.
Some days, there was no need to go to one or the other’s house to be together. No, you and Best Friend stood on your own balconies and screamed your kindergarten rhymes to each other across the street, over the brown birds sitting on the electric and phone wires. The wires were cluttered with dead kites, trapped like butterflies in giant cobwebs. Your mommy didn’t mind your loud recitations because she said you were only children. Your daddy was OK with it but didn’t want you to shout when he was taking his siesta, after which he would sometimes drive you around in his white car. Selam’s parents weren’t very OK with the shouts, but what could they do?
Some Saturdays, your mommy or Emaye Selam would walk both of you two streets down, behind the church, for your hair to be braided. Like twins, you always chose the same style. Some days, you went to her place and watched the Disney channel, and sometimes she came over to your place and you played Snakes and Ladders and ate doro wot and spaghetti.
One Sunday, after church, which Selam attended with your family because her parents traveled, Daddy drove you two to Hoteela Federalawi to eat. You read out all the billboards on the long, beautiful Haile Selassie Arada: Selam the ones on the right, you the ones on the left. In Hoteela Federalawi, Daddy picked a table outside, under a big canopy, and you sat down. You read to each other from the menu while he looked on proudly. You both ordered pizza, while Daddy got a big dish of mahberawi.
“Is hamburger pork?” Selam asked, and tossed a piece of mushroom into her mouth.
“Hey, who said so?” Daddy said.
“Hadiya,” she said.
“I told you not to talk to Hadiya!” you said, dropping your fork. “She’s not our friend.”
“I didn’t talk to her.”
“I won’t talk to you again.”
“I’m sorry.”
You stood up and moved your chair away from hers.
“Oh no, ai,” Daddy said, pushing your chair back toward Best Friend’s. “Come on, ai, ladies. Best friends don’t quarrel, eshie?”
“Yes, Daddy,” you said. “But she spoke to Hadiya. She promised me never to speak to Hadiya, Daddy.”
“I did not speak to her. She just came up to me and said I follow Christians and eat pork at Hoteela Federalawi, and ran away. I say I’m sorry. I am sorry, OK?” Tears came into her eyes. “I won’t talk to you again either!” Selam shouted at you. “And I won’t even hug you.”
“Oh no, Selam,” Daddy said, coming in between the two of you. “She’s kidding. She’ll talk with you, she’ll sit with you.” He turned to you: “Sweetheart, don’t be mean to Best Friend.”
Other people stared at you, and children celebrating someone’s birthday under a canopy giggled. Selam heaved with sobs. Daddy loosened his tie and held her and dabbed her tears with a handkerchief. Your waitress, a lady with a silver nose ring, came over and taunted you, saying that such sweet sisters should not be quarreling and embarrassing their dad in public, after church.
Daddy said to you, “You must make up with Selam or we go home now . . . tolo!”