Ancestor Stones - Aminatta Forna [122]
When I reached there I listened carefully to the answers people ahead of me gave. My turn came, I bowed my head, I muttered the name of the same town in the South. The soldier demanded the name of the headman, he narrowed his eyes: yellow eyes, dark at the core. I supplied it, giving the name I had just overheard, and passed through. My son is a soldier, I wanted to tell him. He’s in the Army. Perhaps you know him. But I dared not, I kept my head down and carried on walking.
There were no lorries. But there were more checkpoints, each time we passed through another the risk grew. So we left the road and walked through the trees, standing in the shadows whenever we heard people on the path. We were close enough to hear them, to smell them. It was impossible to tell one side from the other, soldiers from rebels, they all looked the same.
Once, a long time later, in the displacement camp, a consignment of food had arrived. All the women gathered around holding their plastic cups and measures, waiting to be given their own share. We had waited a long time for this food. But when the crates were opened there was none. A mix-up. The boxes were full of lipsticks, hundreds of them, in their gold coloured cases. The men in blue helmets immediately surrounded the vehicle and prepared for a riot. All of us had such hunger in our bellies. But a moment later they pushed back their helmets and lowered their sunglasses, to make sure what they were seeing was really true. The women rushed forward, myself among them, to snatch up these shining lipsticks. The many miles between us and our lost homes, our rotting feet, the grass and leaves with which we had tried to line our stomachs, the emptiness of the future: for a short while all was forgotten. We stood in the sun, laughing and ribbing each other, painting our mouths in vivid colours.
But all that was yet to come. For a few moments more I lifted my head up and savoured the sensation of riding on the bicycle, of people watching me from the sides of the street. We freewheeled down the main road, swerving to avoid the potholes, which somehow made it all the more enjoyable. And once we were around the corner and out of sight I tapped the fellow on the shoulder and got off the bicycle. Told him I had changed my mind and walked the rest of the way home.
When I reached the house the girl was there waiting for me, leaning against the door frame with her arms crossed. She smiled at me, lips closed — and did not stir herself to come help with my packages, but watched me as I walked towards her. She didn’t move even when I was inches from her, practically nose to nose. She was grinning openly by that time. Turning my body slightly sideways, I was forced to squeeze past her.
As I did so I reached for the box of sugar cubes in my bag. I dropped it into her hand. And watched the smile fall off her face.
Some people say he is living in America, that lots of soldier boys went there. To the land that created the blue jeans and trainers and rapper singers they love so much. I must confess though, I have a daydream about him, a new one. That perhaps one day he will read my story, there will be a knock on the door and there he will be, in his uniform, with white gloves and shining buttons as smart as the day I went to see him on parade. His eyes will glow with happiness, not glitter with the unfathomable anger that seemed to possess him towards the end. And I will hold out my arms: ‘Lansana,’ I will say. Perhaps I will cry, I won’t be able to help myself, it has been so long. And he will hug me and say