“But aren’t you going to—”
Bachir was already upon us. Up close, I saw he was wearing a headset, consisting of earpiece and microphone, not unlike the kind Aimee wore on stage, and in his arms carried a laptop, a tablet and a very large phone.
“Gotta find a place to put all this stuff!” But he sat down with us still clasping it all to his chest. “Lamin! Little brother! Long time!”
Lamin nodded at his lunch. Fern and I introduced ourselves and received firm, painful, damp handshakes.
“Me and him grew up together, man! Village life!” Bachir grabbed Lamin’s head and put him in a sweaty headlock. “But then I had to go to the city, baby, know what I’m saying? I was chasing the money, baby! Working with the big banks. Show me the money! Babylon for real! But I’m still a village boy at heart.” He kissed Lamin and released him.
“You sound American,” I said, but that was only one thread of the rich tapestry of his voice. Many different movies and adverts were in there, and a lot of hip-hop, Esmeralda and As the World Turns, the BBC news, CNN, Al Jazeera and something of the reggae that you heard all over the city, from every taxi, market stall, hairdresser. An old Yellowman tune was playing right now, from the tinny speakers above our heads.
“For real, for real . . .” He rested his very large, square head on his fist in a thoughtful pose. “You know, I’ve not actually been to the US as yet, not as yet. Got a lot going on. It’s all happening. Talking, talking, gotta keep up with technology, gotta keep relevant. Look at this girl: she is ringing my number, baby, night and day, day and night!” He flashed me an image on his tablet, of a beautiful woman with a glossy weave and dramatic lips painted a deep purple. It looked to me to be a commercial image. “These big-city girls, they’re too crazy! Oh, little brother, I need an upriver girl, I want to start a nice family. But these girls don’t even want a family any more! They’re crazy! How old are you, though?”
I told him.
“And no babies? Not even married? No? OK! OK, OK . . . I feel you, sister, I feel you: Miss Independent, is it? That’s your way, OK. But for us, a woman without children is like a tree without fruit. Like a tree”—he raised his muscular backside half out of his chair in a squat, stretched his arms like branches and his fingers like twigs—“without fruit.” He sat back down and closed his hands back into fists. “Without fruit,” he repeated.
For the first time in many weeks Fern managed a half-smile in my direction.
“I think what he is saying is that you are like a tree—”
“Yes, Fern, I got it, thank you.”
Bachir spotted my flip-phone, my personal phone. He picked it up and turned it over in his palm with exaggerated wonder. His hands were so big it looked a child’s toy.
“This is not yours. Serious? This is yours?! This is what they are using in London? HA HA HA. Oh man, we more fresh over here! Oh, man! Funny, funny. I would not have expected this. Globalization, right? Strange times, strange times!”
“Which bank did you say you work for?” asked Fern.
“Oh, I got a lot going on, man. Development, development. Land here, land there. Building. But I work for the bank here, yes, trading, trading. You know how it is, brother! Government makes life hard sometimes. But show me the money, right? You like Rihanna? You know her? She got her money! Illuminati, right? Living the dream, baby.”
“We must go now to the ferry,” whispered Lamin.
“Yeah, I guess I got a lot of trades these days—complicated business, man—gotta make those moves, moves, moves.” He demonstrated by moving his fingers over his three devices as if primed to use any one of them at any moment for something terrifically urgent. I noticed the screen on the laptop was black and cracked in several places. “See, some people gotta get to that farm life every day, shell those groundnuts, right? But I gotta make my moves. This is the new work?life balance right here. You know about that? Yes, man! That’s the latest thing! But in this country we have our old-world mindset, right? A lot of people around here are behind the damn times. It takes these people a little while, OK? To get it into their minds.” With his fingers he drew a rectangle in the air: “The Future. Gotta get it into your mind. But listen: for you? Any time! I like your face, man, it’s beautiful, so clear and light. And I could come to London, we could talk business for real! Oh, you’re not in business? Charity? NGO? Missionary? I like the missionaries, man! I had a good friend, he was from South Bend, Indiana—Mikey. We spent a lot of time together. Mikey was cool, man, he was really cool, he was a Seventh-Day Adventist, but we’re all God’s children for sure, for sure . . .”
“They are here doing some educational work, with our girls,” said Lamin, turning his back on us, trying to get the waitress’s attention.
“Oh, sure, I hear about the changes up there. Big times, big times. Good for the village, right? Development.”
“We hope so,” said Fern.
“But little brother: are you getting a piece of that? Did you guys know little brother here is too good for money? He’s all about the next life. Me, no: I want this life! HA HA HA HA. Money, money, rolling. Ain’t that the truth. Oh man, oh man . . .”
Lamin stood up: “Good-bye, Bachir.”
“So serious, this one. But he loves me. You would love me, too. My oh my, you’re gonna be thirty-three, girl! We should talk! Time flies. Gotta live your life, right? Next time, in London, girl, in Babylon—let’s talk!”
Walking back to the car, I heard Fern chuckling to himself, cheered by the episode.
“This is what people call ‘a character,’” he said, and when we reached our waiting taxi and turned to get in we found Bachir the character standing in the doorway, still with his earpiece on, holding all his various technologies and waving at us. Seen standing up, his suit looked especially peculiar, the trousers too short at the ankles, like a mashala in pinstripes.
“Bachir lost his job three months ago,” said Lamin quietly, as we got back into the car. “He is in that café every day.”
? ? ?
Yes, everything about that trip felt wrong from the start. Instead of my previous glorious competency, I couldn’t rid myself of a nagging sense of error, of having misread everything, beginning with Hawa, who opened the door of her compound wearing a new scarf, black, that covered her head and stopped halfway down her torso, and a long, shapeless shirt, the kind she had always ridiculed when we saw them in the market. She hugged me as firmly as ever, would only nod at Fern, and seemed annoyed by his presence. We all stood in the yard for a while, Hawa making polite, grating small talk—none of it addressed to Fern—and me hoping for some mention of dinner, which, I soon understood, would not come until Fern left. Finally he got the message: he was tired and would head back to the pink house. And as soon as the door closed behind him the old Hawa returned, grabbed my hand, kissed my face and cried: “Oh, sister—good news—I’m getting married!” I hugged her but felt the familiar smile fasten itself on my face, the same one I wore in London and New York in the face of similar news, and I experienced the same acute sense of betrayal. I was ashamed to feel that way but couldn’t help it, a piece of my heart closed against her. She took my hand and led me into the house.