Seven
The years passed as waiting.
Sometimes she wondered, but always fleetingly, if her future with Amadou could bear the weight of their past, the waiting in their past.
The forced embrace of loneliness.
The lack of touch, a relationship only of voice.
There was a year of unstoppable sadness, when she welcomed a man named Mamady into her life, because she was seized by a sudden wish to fill in the holes with a man’s presence, a father figure for Binta.
The desire mellowed and passed; she eased Mamady out of her life.
When she told Binta she wished there were a father figure for her, Binta looked surprised.
“Why, Mom?”
Sometimes she felt unworthy to have birthed Binta, a child so easy to satisfy.
Binta was waiting for Amadou, too.
She sent him photos and letters, saying she didn’t want him to be the inmate who never got any mail, and Amadou would tell , “Binta writes French and English so well!”
his tone gloating, like a proud father.
She thought often of his son, that smaller copy of Amadou, a discovered secret, living with his Malian mother in Texas.
Amadou always skimmed over talk of his son, wary of offending her, but she knew the Malian woman now refused to send even a photo of the child.
She did not blame the Malian woman, Amadou must have left her nursing wounds, but if Amadou had not earned knowing his son, at least his son deserved to know him.
She was willing to lend her voice to Amadou’s, to plead with the Malian woman, when he was finally out.
As Amadou’s release neared, they talked only of the future, and felt excited and expectant each day, a feeling like peeling sweet fruit.
Their calls felt more urgent with a heightened sense of time, even though for years they had talked with the same fifteen-minute limit, always aware that a stranger was listening in and recording their words.
“I will take you to Florida,”
he said, or “We will go on a nice honeymoon,”
and it felt to her like their very early years back home in Mariama’s Kitchen, when he had spoken of carrying her off in a big white car.
So many plans, each exquisitely wrapped in shiny paper, unwrapped to savor, and then saved again.
She was planning her djamougol, she wanted to have it in New York, closer to their people, especially Elhadji Ibrahima.
Amadou often told her, in his laughing voice, that he would present all the cows and all the land in Fouta Djallon for her taignai.
—
One day Omelogor asked her, “Kadi, where did you learn about sex?”
It was when Omelogor was staying with Chia, after she abandoned her studies, saying she had to recover, even though did not understand how a person recovered from studies they did not even finish.
Omelogor spent her days unwashed and barely eating; she would type in quick bursts on her laptop and then fall asleep on the couch throughout the day.
Each time saw her awake, Omelogor seemed to be pouring whiskey into a glass, or drinking whiskey from a glass.
gagged at the alcohol smell in the living room, glasses with the last few drops of hazel liquid left scattered around.
knew how worried Chia was.
But she thought it an indulgent weakness, turning to alcohol in the midst of distress, and felt disappointment rather than worry, until she one day found Omelogor’s phone inside the washing machine.
She had opened it to load some bedsheets, and there was a silver iPhone lying in an empty washing machine.
She retrieved it and gave it to Omelogor.
“My phone?”
Omelogor asked, looking befuddled.
The washing machine had not been used in a few days, so Omelogor had opened it and put her phone in there.
The strangeness frightened .
This was not mere self-indulgence, Omelogor was in the grip of something outside of herself.
She came by every day after work, to check on Omelogor, offering her food, making her bed, and she could not help herself, she opened and peered into the washing machine each day.
Omelogor always shook her head, saying she didn’t want any food; she ate cashew nuts and drank her whiskey.
Finally, Chia convinced her to eat something cooked.
“It’s like Nigerian swallow, just not as heavy as garri,”
Chia said.
“What is it?”
Omelogor asked, looking down at the plate placed in front of her.
“Fonio,” said.
“Ah.
So this is fonio.
Someone said it’s the latest American superfood.”
“Superfood,”
shook her head.
“My people eat fonio for long time and now they say superfood.”
Omelogor cackled with laughter.
She laughed and laughed, clapping her hands.
was bewildered because it was not that funny.
Later, Chia whispered, “I’m so happy you made her laugh, Kadi.”
Chia said the laughter, or the fonio, or both, energized Omelogor like a tonic, and the next day she showered, her face marginally brighter, the same day that she asked, “Kadi, where did you learn about sex?”
had come in to turn on the security lights, and Omelogor looked up from her laptop and asked, “Kadi, where did you learn about sex?”
kept her face free of expression.
“My sister, Binta.
She tell me what husband and wife is about.”
“Where is Binta?”
“She died.”
“Oh, sorry.
I am so sorry, .”
“Thank you,”
said.
She saw something of Binta’s spirit in Omelogor, in how unshackled by fear she was.
And they had the same way of looking at you, an unnerving stare, as if in search of something you would not willingly tell.
never spoke of Binta to anyone else but her daughter, Binta, but now she surprised herself, her jaws unlocked and she said, “My sister, Binta.
She’s not afraid, like you.”
Omelogor was silent.
“Like you, too,”
Omelogor finally said.
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
Omelogor said and turned back to her laptop.
felt a sudden flush of pleasure, the small, surprising awareness that Omelogor respected her.
Another time, Omelogor asked, “Kadi, what is your dream?”
“My dream?”
She was not sure she understood.
“Yes, what do you want to do with your life if you could choose anything?”
thought this question the kind of thing only idle people could conceive.
She shrugged.
“I love my job.
I’m so happy to come to this country, so Binta can have this country.”
“Don’t be so grateful!”
Omelogor snapped, with a vehemence that startled .
“America is not that wonderful.
And you are not here for free; you’re working and you’re part of what makes America America.”
said, “Yes,”
just to calm Omelogor down.
“I was reading about your country.
You know about Opération Persil?”
“Persil for cooking?”
“Oh, of course it’s parsley in French.
That’s interesting, the parallels of parsley.
The Parsley Massacre was when the Dominicans murdered Haitians in the 1930s.
They asked every Black person they saw to say the word ‘parsley,’ and if they said it in a French Haitian accent instead of a Spanish accent they were killed.”
said nothing.
It was not the first time Omelogor had said something whose head or tail she didn’t know, and it would not be the last.
She was making fonio for Omelogor, and it pleased her that Omelogor liked it so much.
Whatever had bedeviled Omelogor when she first abandoned her studies had slackened its grip, only one glass of whiskey lay around all day, and she had laundry in the basket, which meant she now changed her clothes.
“Opération Persil was a terrible thing France did to destabilize your country.
Your country was the only one in Francophone Africa to say no to de Gaulle’s constitution, and so de Gaulle ordered that everything the French had in Guinea should be destroyed, like a petty child breaking a toy just so that somebody else won’t use it.
And then they did Opération Persil, where they printed fake Guinean currency and flooded the country with it and the economy collapsed.”
“Okay,” said.
Omelogor laughed.
“Okay indeed.
Can you make me tea? English breakfast.”
“Okay.”
When came back with the tea, Omelogor held her gaze and said, “Kadi, you must dream of something.
What about when you retire? Your Guinea Fula people are like us Igbo people, good at trade and commerce, so do you dream of trading?”
paused.
It was true, she did dream.
“When I finish my job, I will open restaurant.
When Binta finish college.
Now I have to keep my job for money to come steady.
I braid sometimes.
For extra money.
Maybe one day I sell hair attachment.”
“You can do that now.”
“I save first.”
“Give me your account details.
There’s a special fund that my bank has for small businesses owned by women.
It’s a grant, not a loan.
The money just arrives in your account and that’s it.
But you must use it for your business.”
stared at her.
Omelogor was unstable and it was too good to be true, nothing in life was ever free, but she saw in Omelogor’s face that it was true.
“Thank you,”
she said.
“God bless you.”