Ancestor Stones - Aminatta Forna [80]
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Janneh. ‘Actually, it’s a fine thing. Helps spread the word. More people than ever get to hear our name.’
I asked Janneh why people said his candidate, whose name was in fact Sulaiman Bio, would not win.
‘Says who?’ he asked, pushing his eyebrows together.
I told him about the man at the post office.
‘The decision is in the hands of the people. They know what they want. They know what is right for them. And they know their rights.’ It was something I had heard him say before. When Janneh spoke he always sounded impressive. And yet, it seemed to me, talking to him felt like chasing butterflies. The words were beautiful, but their meaning was sometimes hard to catch.
Another day Janneh asked me if I wanted to be a returning officer. I was so flattered I said yes straight away, with no idea what I was being asked to do.
My post was a rice-weighing station in a town I had never been to before. I was given a seat behind a desk upon which were heaped piles of voting papers and a long list of names. At my feet, a metal ballot box. Two more boxes, wooden this time, were placed at one end of the room next to each other. A thin curtain suspended on a wire hung between them. The officer in charge gave me the key to the metal box and said he would be back to collect it at the end of the day.
Polling started at seven-thirty sharp! I pushed at the door of the station, which was really a shed, and the sunlight streamed in, lighting up the rice dust suspended in the air. I picked up a pile of papers and stood there in readiness.
An hour later I went back to the desk and sat down on the chair. I straightened the papers, arranging them into two neat stacks. The list of names and the pen I placed in front of me. I strolled back to the door and looked out. Two men were coming down the lane. I turned and hurried back to the desk. I watched them as they strolled past the open door without turning once. I got up and stared down the road after them.
Outside the station posters fluttered faintly in the breeze. It had rained in the night. Damp patches of ground steamed gently in the sun. The leaves on the trees shone bright as jewels. Tiny black midges danced across the puddles. A man with a rolled umbrella appeared before me. I stepped aside.
‘Are you here to vote?’
‘How much for a bushel?’
I smiled. I explained who I was. I was the returning officer for the elections. The rice station would be operating again tomorrow. In the meantime he could come in and vote.
‘Now?’ he asked.
‘Today. The elections are being held today, to decide who should head the Government.’ I gestured with my hand towards the polling booths. The man hesitated and then stepped inside. I continued: ‘What’s your name? I have to mark it on the list to say you’ve voted.’
The man told me his name: ‘Abu.’
‘Abu?’
‘Yes.’
‘Abu what? What is your father’s name?’
‘Abu Kamara.’
I traced my finger down the list. There were a lot of Kamaras. Dozens, in fact. Oddly no Abu. I checked. ‘Abu, yes?’ Yes. ‘Do you have another name that you use? A middle name?’ He said he did not. Alfred Kamara. Alhaji Kamara. Maybe this man had been to Mecca. ‘Are you a Muslim?’
‘I am a Muslim.’
That seemed to me to be good enough. He had a vote, I just couldn’t find it. I did not want to disappoint him or lose my first client. I placed a tick next to the name Alhaji Kamara and handed him a voting form. I told him to go into the booth and select his candidate, and then to press his thumb into the purple ink pad to sign and again on to the bottom of the form, unless, that is, he knew how to write his name.
He had one question.