“Now, that is pure comedy,” Bockarie said.
“I had a feeling you would like it, man. That is why I watch this so-called news show. You really see what is going on in this country in the background of the news itself.”
Bockarie wanted to mention that that was just half of what was going on, there were worse things that most people in the city would probably never know about—they had their own worries and desperation. But the match between Manchester United and Arsenal came on after the president’s speech, and gradually the house was filled with men and boys who had come to watch.
15
THE NEXT MORNING
, Bockarie left before Kula; his meeting was earlier. They decided to meet at Lumley Beach near Aberdeen after Kula’s appointment with Pascal.
“Say good morning to the children for me, and I will see you later, my dear.” He kissed her hand as he walked out of the room.
“That is all? Come back.” She threw her arms around him and whispered that it was better now. “Now my luck and yours have mixed,” she said when she released him. He turned to wave before disappearing behind the house to join the street that led to the main road.
Bockarie stood in the long queue to take a transport vehicle to Aberdeen. He was standing next to a young fellow who wore an ID card for Fourah Bay College, the best school in the country, around his neck even though it was a holiday. The teacher in Bockarie came out.
“Is college still on?” he asked the young man, who at first pretended not to hear him.
“No, sir. We are on holiday.”
“So why are you wearing your badge?”
“This is authentic—you see the insignia on the lanyard. That is how you know it is not fake.” He showed the writing to Bockarie.
“I have no doubt that you are a student, but why wear the badge on a holiday? Why wear the badge at all when you’re off campus?”
“It is a sign of prestige. With this badge on, I can enter many places without anyone second-guessing me.” And he moved closer to whisper to Bockarie, “I also attract a lot of girls.” He laughed.
Bockarie liked the intelligence of this young man and his humor. “Do the young women also wear it the same way?” he asked.
“Yes and no. They have to be careful because an educated woman can be a threat to a lot of men, you know.” His face got serious.
Bockarie and the fellow, who later introduced himself as Albert, had a spirited conversation about college life in Lion Mountain. Albert spoke about his frustrations with the way the university was structured. He referred to something called “legacy.” It meant that the professors—most of them, not all—taught the same lectures over and over for years. If you were to take someone else’s book who had attended college before you and read the notes, you would pass the exam. What really agitated Albert was that if a student asked questions beyond the scope of the professor’s knowledge, it was looked upon as a challenge, as an act of disobedience and disrespect. You would be vilified and failed in that class even if you did well. “Educational blackmail,” Albert called it. “As a result,” he said, “you have to keep your questions and curiosities to yourself so you can graduate. And of course you would like to graduate after all the money you’ve paid. That’s why this country doesn’t move forward.” He motioned for Bockarie to follow. They pushed their way into a packed vehicle, managing to get seats near each other.
“I am sure there are other reasons why this country is the way it is,” Bockarie said, stretching his elbows to have the space he needed before someone else squeezed in.
“I agree, but the one I am speaking of is the one I am faced with.” Albert lowered his head a bit to avoid another passenger’s bag as it came swinging near him.
The vehicle started moving with no space left for even an ant, and half an hour into the journey, which was mostly spent in traffic, it was pulled over at a temporary checkpoint flooded with policemen. They asked everyone to step out of the vehicle.
“Oh, great, the tax collectors,” Albert grumbled and searched through his pockets for something.
“What are you looking for?” Bockarie asked.
“My tax receipt. I don’t have it.” He cursed under his breath.
The police lined everyone up, including the driver, and demanded general state taxes to be paid on the spot. “Five thousand leones each.”
People complained. Some said they didn’t have jobs; some said they were students with no income; others said they had paid but no one told them to carry their receipts at all times. It didn’t matter. Everyone was made to pay. Receipts were provided, but you couldn’t tell which of them were real.
“Why are there so many different kinds of receipt?” a passenger asked.
“We have the old and the newly printed ones mixed. I ask the questions here, so keep quiet,” the police commander responded.
An old man handed one of the policemen a receipt. The young officer started laughing and called his superior over.
“Sir, is this your tax receipt?” the superior asked.
“Yes, sir,” the old man said.
“So your name is Kadiatu Kamara?” the policeman went on, chuckling.
“Yes, sir.” The whole place burst into laughter. The old man couldn’t read or write and didn’t know that he had taken his daughter’s receipt, not his son’s, to show as his. So he decided to answer to whatever name was on the one he carried. Many people did such things, so the government began asking people to take passport photos and staple them to their tax receipts, an additional cost to the already struggling majority of the populace. Before the vehicle departed, the passengers watched the policemen share most of the tax money they had just collected among themselves. Bockarie and Albert shook their heads and laughed—the policemen stood under a sign that read
SAY NO TO CORRUPTION! CORRUPTION IS A PUNISHABLE CRIME!
Bockarie exchanged mobile numbers with Albert before he got off the vehicle by the beach to wait at a Lebanese café for his appointment. He walked around the café a few times, hoping that whoever he was meeting this time would arrive before he entered this place. He didn’t want to buy anything and was embarrassed to sit down and wait without even a bottle of water. But he could go around the place only so many times.
When he walked in, the waiters looked suspiciously at him, assuming that he couldn’t afford anything. But whenever anyone white or with the aura of someplace abroad entered, the waiters rushed to serve that person. Bockarie sat himself down with a view of the ocean, and out of nowhere came the man who had called himself the representative of Mr. Kaifala. He still didn’t introduce himself, but he greeted Bockarie with a firm handshake as though they were old friends, saying nothing. His mood was different from the first meeting, and Bockarie took this as a good sign. They sat quietly watching the cars drive along the beach road. There were young women and girls clearly hanging about the road to sell their bodies in broad daylight. Some looked younger than Miata. They wore next to nothing and some of their skirts were so short that if you walked by you saw everything. They had see-through shirts and red lips. On the other side of the road were some young men and boys who had come by the beach to relax, play some football, and dream about being able to sit on the restaurants’ decks and eat whatever they wanted.
Sirens got everyone’s attention. Two police motorcycles were coming down the road, clearing traffic. A 4
×
4 was behind them in the distance, speeding so much that everyone knew it was a government vehicle. The young women began to stand in ways that allowed them to open their legs even more, laying their hands on their breasts. The black car rolled into view and its license plate was a ministerial one. It pulled up next to some of the girls. A minister rolled down the window and called on two of them; they climbed into the air-conditioned vehicle. The tinted windows rolled up, consuming them. The motorcycles had stopped ahead and they resumed their horns. As the vehicle passed by, the young men who had seen what just happened high-fived one another, wishing they could be ministers or have some power.
“Wonderful example for the youth, eh?” The mysterious man looked at Bockarie.
“All the boys think that that’s how you’re supposed to use your power. They admire that sort of behavior. If the minister does it, especially in broad daylight, then it must be good.” A well-dressed young man who had been sitting nearby pulled up a chair next to Bockarie and the mysterious man. He wore a brown linen suit that fit him very well and a white shirt with cuff links but no tie. “Don’t tell me this is the first time you have seen such a thing, gentlemen,” he said.
“It is for me. I am not from here and don’t come by this way often,” Bockarie said, staring at the confident and well-spoken fellow and wondering what he did for a living.
“You are very spiffy, our new friend,” the mysterious man said. They went on about politics and world affairs and you name it. The young man was better informed than the two of them.
“What is your name, young man?” the mysterious man asked.
“Sylvester.” He extended his hand to both of them. But as the vibrancy of the conversation waned, he asked, “Could you kind gentlemen help me with some money for food?”
The mysterious man and Bockarie looked at each other, perplexed.
“You look like you have money, not like someone who needs to beg for food,” Bockarie said.
“I am actually on the zero-zero-one plan these days. If I am lucky, that will continue today.”
“What is this plan you are speaking of?” Bockarie tuned his full attention to Sylvester, whose strength and dignity didn’t reveal a slight bit of suffering. Sylvester smiled, revealing his dry lips and mouth—a sign of someone who hadn’t had any food or water for a while.
“It is how my friends and I refer to those who are fortunate and can have one, two, or three meals a day.” Sylvester paused and looked at the faces of the two men.
“There are those on zero-zero-zero, which means they have nothing to eat all day and go hungry. For example, you see that fellow over there. See how he walks. He is so hungry that you have to get out of his way. It is only the wind that walks him, as he has no more strength.” Sylvester was distracted by the plates of food that a waiter was carrying to another table.
“Let’s order you some food, Sylvester. Waiter, come here,” the mysterious man called. Sylvester’s voice became tainted with some excitement as he continued.
“So, there are those on one-zero-one, and we consider them lucky. Two meals a day! And for a good number of us, we work hard to either be on one-zero-zero or zero-zero-one meal plans. I prefer the latter, so I will take my food with me. For now, I will drink lots of water so that I will feel full.”
Sylvester seemed happy to have educated these men. He told them that he and many others had to do all sorts of odd jobs to buy a few nice clothes and shoes, soap to wash, and sometimes a small bottle of perfume. People would think that they were not prioritizing their needs, but they were. A well-dressed and presentable young person wouldn’t be mistaken for a thief or looked down upon. Most important, it provided him the opportunity to have an audience with someone in order to be able to ask for food or money to buy food.
“I wouldn’t have been able to sit here if I had tattered clothes. You wouldn’t have made my zero-zero-one possible today!” he said. His food came and he asked for a carry-away container.
The mysterious man ordered water for himself and Sylvester and mango juice for Bockarie. They sat together looking at the ocean, the persistence of the long body of water curling and breaking on the shore.
“I will leave you, gentlemen, and may our paths cross again. I won’t have to explain myself another time around. It isn’t always easy to ask for help like this, you know.” Sylvester lowered his voice and left the men to their quiet moment. He adjusted his cuff links, picked up his food and water, and walked down the road toward the city center. The mysterious man got up and said he would be back in a few minutes. Bockarie watched him get into a vehicle that was parked in the sand, almost on the beach.
Bockarie began thinking this might not have been the best place to bring his family—or perhaps he was too hasty. He would wait to meet this Mr. Kaifala; maybe something good would come of it. Where could he and his family live, if not here? This was the capital city, after all, the pinnacle of opportunity, or so he had believed. He sighed.
The mysterious man returned and they waited.
* * *
Kula was wearing a beautiful white lace dress with an elegant matching head tie. Even her children were impressed—they told her she looked beautiful and wished her luck. She walked slowly to the junction to get a transport vehicle, rehearsing possible interview questions in her head. What makes you think you can do this job? Are you qualified? How? On her way, the van she was in was pulled over and she, too, was asked to pay a tax to the policemen. She demanded the precinct, badge number, and name of the captain, so that if her receipt were fraudulent, she would know where to find him. They saw from her stare that she was a woman they didn’t want to offend; rather than answer her questions, they just asked her to pay next time.
The van departed shortly afterward and she got off at a roundabout in Aberdeen, as Mr. Saquee had suggested. She walked the small hill to the Inamutnib Hotel, but she thought for a moment that she must be in the wrong place—the hotel sign was almost entirely in Chinese.
“Excuse me, sir. Is this the right hotel?” She showed the guard the piece of paper that she had written the hotel’s name on.
“Yes, this is it indeed, but the Chinese are in charge now, which is why all their writings are everywhere.” The guard motioned for her to enter and pointed her in the right direction up the hill.
At the reception desk, she asked for Pascal and they told her to wait. Thirst was spreading itself through her throat. She looked at the price for water and immediately put the menu back down. She didn’t know water could cost that much. People came and went. The young lady at reception received several scolding remarks from a Chinese man who said a bunch of things in some sort of English that Kula had never heard.