Ancestor Stones - Aminatta Forna [72]
In the clay oven Small Boy’s bread made with palm wine and baking soda swelled and rose. Small Boy fashioned chicken cutlets and sweet potato croquettes and made a salad of cucumber and tomatoes, which he dressed with oil and vinegar from the store. A table was set up in the middle of the camp. The woman draped a cloth over it, and we collected together every cup, spoon, knife and plate in the place. Small Boy showed me the bottle of wine the visitors had brought and I watched as he pulled the cork out of the neck.
That morning the water pump had broken for the second time in a month, in the middle of the rainy season. The pits filled up with water and had to be bailed out by hand. There weren’t enough buckets. Half the men stood around idle, watching the other half work. Overnight the rain would come down and fill the pits again.
The night was cool, but Mr Blue was twitching and sweating. Later, when the evening was through, I would watch him as he slept, hear the words he shouted. Orders. Names. That’s how the words sounded, anyway. I would watch him as he tried to turn in his too-narrow bed, while outside the rain subsided only to accelerate again, revving like the truck engine or a piece of machinery.
The guests had been sitting for a long time, the canvas sagged beneath their buttocks. I had already cleared the empty salad plates. Small Boy was waiting to serve the main dish. Underneath the table Mr Blue’s knee jerked up and down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Above us dark clouds crowded together like a horde of crows under cover of the blackness. The candles on the table dipped in the breeze. Mr Blue shouted for Small Boy. Once. Twice. Small Boy was arranging and rearranging, with endless patience, a dish of cooling potatoes. Every time Mr Blue shouted he replied: ‘Yes, master. Coming, master.’ The third, or maybe it was the fourth time we heard Mr Blue’s voice, he waved at me to begin carrying the plates through.
‘At last.’
‘I could eat a horse.’
‘What is it about these people? Everything takes so long.’
‘Every day. Every damn day. Now you know what it’s like.’
Somebody cleared their throat. That was the last thing I heard before the thunder tore out of the blackness.
For me, I loved the night-time storms at the start of the rainy season. Always at the same time of night. I stood still and let the water soak my clothing until I felt it trickle down the backs of my legs. Mr Blue and the visitors scattered. Small Boy stayed with me and together we set about clearing up the remains of the meal.
I was watching a fly. Smaller than a bluebottle and silent, a sort of tawny-orange colour. It was flying back and forth in a tight square, as though it was trapped, bumping into four invisible walls. Bump. Turn. Bump. Turn. On and on. I flicked it with the end of the cloth and missed. Mr Blue came in to tell me he was leaving. A few matters to sort out with Head Office. I nodded. I thought Head Office was another white man. When I went outside I discovered that all of them were gone, including the one with the woman’s voice.
Life was easy. We did not worry about our chores. Mr Blue had left without giving us any instructions. Small Boy and I slept indoors taking turns on the bed. After a few days it was as though we had lived there for ever. In the corner of the room black and yellow mould grew on the soles of Mr Blue’s work boots and a greyish fur began to climb up the leather. Much later, when I picked them up to clean them, a shadow remained on the concrete floor that refused to wash away.
Mr Blue came back, his chin stubbled with white. Small Boy went to heat water and fetch the razor and brush, but Mr Blue waved him away. Instead he sat in front of the camp wireless with the headset on his ears for many hours into the night. Listening to the voices that