Alimatou

A death in West Africa involves an American expat in local corruption.

ALIMATOU

Copyright 1993 by Terrence Whitson

 

Will was careening the Pegasus at Oyster Creek the day Alimatou’s sister died.  It was mid-morning when the driver from the USAID office drove up to Ceesay’s shack.  The driver spoke to Ceesay and Ceesay brought him over.

Will and Ceesay’s crew had scraped the sailboat’s hull clean and were dousing it with fresh water when Will saw Ceesay coming toward them with that swinging stride of his.  It was a warrior’s stride--a hunter’s stride.  That’s what Ceesay’s people had been before the slavers and colonizers showed up.  Ceesay was Mandinka.

Momadou, the Mission driver, was Fula.   He had the soft features and mocha skin of his tribe and picked his way carefully along in Ceesay’s wake.  He’d removed his shoes and socks and rolled up his pant legs, and his feet were soft--the feet of a driver.  The black mud bank was still wet and bristled with bits of broken shell and rock.

Momadou stopped several meters short of the boat and called out, “Hello, Mister Will!”

Will nodded, handing his bucket to Ceesay’s nephew Ibrahim.  “Jama rek, Momadou.  What’s up?”

Momodou shaded his eyes from the glare off the water and smiled.  “Miss Gwen sent me to tell you.  Your maid has died.”

“Alimatou?”  Will had seen her a few hours ago, right before he’d taken the kids to school.

“Yes, sir. That’s the one.  Miss Gwen says for you to go home.”

Will turned to Ceesay.  “I’ll have to go.  The anti-fouling is all mixed.  Make sure they don’t waste it.”

Ceesay grinned and stroked his goatee.  The anti-fouling compound was premium stuff that Will had brought down from Dakar.  Ceesay was going to use what was left on his own boat.  “Not a drop,” he said.

“Okay.”  Will started up the bank.  “You can head back to the office, Momadou.  I’ll take my rig home.”

He expected to find an official vehicle at the compound; something from the police or the embassy.  The sand road was empty.  He pulled up in front, rather than into the driveway.  Lazar, his guard/gardener, was waiting at the front gate. 

Lazar nodded.  “Bonjour, Monsieur.”  Lazar was a Dioula.  He’d come north to The Gambia from the Casamance to escape the fighting and he spoke French as his colonial tongue.  He’d been an embassy guard for a time and still wore the faded blue uniform.

“Bonjour, Lazar.  Que c’est que les nouvelles de Alimatou?”

Lazar continued nodding.  He always nodded when he spoke.  “Ella a departee pour sa mason.  Deja deux heures.”

“Departee?”  Will mulled this over for a moment.  Did departee here mean ‘died,’ or ‘left?’  He sought clarification.  “Alimatou es bien?”

“Oui, bien.  Mais triste.  Elle cria.”

“Elle es triste debout que?”

“Sa sourre.  La femme qui es morte.”

The mist lifted.  It was Alimatou’s sister who had died.  Alimatou had phoned the Mission to tell Gwen.  The message had been received and passed on through several people, each of whom had English as a second (or third) language.

Lazar pulled a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket.  “Une billet d'Alimatou.”

It was lined notebook paper, carefully folded.  In her shock and grief, she had taken the time to tear it cleanly from the pad and to write in large block letters.

I GO TO MY HOUSE.  THEY SAY MY SISTER IS DEAD.  THEY SAY POLICE ARE THERE.  PLEASE MISS GWEN YOU COME AND HELP ME WITH POLICE.

ALIMATOU

She lived in Latacunga, a large town off the road to the airport.  Will knew the way.  He’d taken her home from babysitting several times.  That had been at night though, when the rutted streets were empty and lighted shop signs could be used as landmarks.  Latacunga at noon was alive with people and animals.  Will drove slowly, grateful that it wasn’t the rainy season and mindful of street soccer stars and panicked baby goats.  He tried luck and pluck for a while, then stopped to ask for directions.

There were no street names in Latacunga, but Alimatou and her sister owned a popular seamstress shop they’d named Pretty Lady.   Two attempts got Will headed the right way and he was soon on familiar ground.  As he neared her lane the pattern about him changed.  There were no children or animals, only men and women clustered about in small groups.  They stared as he passed, but that was usual.  The police car blocking Alimatou’s lane wasn’t.

Will parked at the corner and walked up the lane.  It was empty, save for a few scratching chickens, and though in the heart of the town, eerily quiet.  He passed the Pretty Lady, noting its open door and vacant interior.  Further on, near Alimatou’s house, He met a policeman.

“Good day, Sir,” Will said.

“Good day to you, Sir,” the policeman replied.  “May I help you?”

“I’m a friend of Miss Alimatou.”

“The sister?”  He brought his hands up together, as if praying.  “It is sad.”

“Is she here?”

He inclined his steepled hands toward the compound across the lane.

Will thanked him and made his way through the opening in the rusty, corrugated metal sheets that formed the compound fence.  The yard was large and well kept, with several trees, two flourishing vegetable gardens and a large flowerbed.  Three policemen stood together in the shade of a large mango tree.  They watched Will walk across the yard to the small house that stood in the center. 

Two women were sitting on a bench at one side of the front door.

“Jama rek,” Will said.  Peace.  It was a Wolof phrase, but all the tribes knew it.

They nodded, eyes hooded, faces set.

“Is Alimatou inside?”

As if in reply, the door opened.  Alimatou stepped out, stumbling as she saw Will.  Her face was swollen from crying and her eyes seemed to be searching.

“Mister Will?”  She held a crimson scarf and as she spoke she squeezed and pulled on it.  “Where Miss Gwen?  The kids come home from school.  No one there.”

“Lazar is there.”  Will leaned forward, taking her hand.  “Are you all right?  What happened?”

She seemed to crumple inward.  “Latifah…” She began to slide sideways.  Will caught her and, along with one of the women, eased her onto the bench.  He’d always thought of Alimatou as a large woman, but now she seemed light.  She shuddered for a moment as she settled, then took a deep breath and sat up.  She kept hold of Will’s hand.

”Latifah, she sick with le paludisme.  I take her to British Council in morning.  I come to your home and they call.  She die, Mister Will.”  Her hold tightened on his hand.  “She die.”

Le paludisme--malaria.  ‘I’m sorry, Alimatou.”  He squeezed her hand.  Through the open door he could just make out the end of a table.  On it lay Latifah’s shrouded body.  He recognized the odor of groundnut stew.  Alimatou was cooking domoda for the mourners.

“This country bad luck.”  Alimatou wiped her eyes with her free hand and shook her head.  “Since we come here we get no luck.”

Alimatou and her sister were Dioula, like Lazar.  They had also fled north from the Casamance.  Alimatou had learned English and found well-paid work with embassy families.  She and her sister had bought land, built a house and opened a seamstress shop.   She had two lively children.  To Will, her luck had seemed extraordinarily good.  Now though, her sister was dead.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.

Alimatou’s gaze went toward the mango tree and she lowered her voice. “Police here when I come.  Them say I must show papers for Latifah--paper for coming here, paper for die.  Them say I must pay them to take papers to show.”

Will followed her gaze.  “How much do they want?”

“Five hundred Dalasi.”

Will did the calculation. Sixty dollars.  The scum suckers wanted sixty dollars from this poor, grieving woman.  He took a moment to breathe"to hold his temper, then he straightened up.  “I’ll talk to them.”

Alimatou held onto his hand.  “Mister Will?  You give them money?”

He tried to smile.  “I don’t think that will be necessary.  Wait here.”

He freed his hand and ignored the look of fear on her face.  As he walked to the mango tree, he forced the anger to subside.

“Good day, Gentlemen.”

The three men turned to face him.  The largest, whose sleeve bore the most stripes, smiled and touched his hat.  “Good day, Sir.”

“Miss Alimatou tells me that you’ve been kind enough to offer her your assistance.”

“Yes, that’s right.”  The big policeman had a deep, mellow voice.  “We have offered to take her sister’s immigration papers and death certificate to the Magistrate’s Office.”

“I see.” Will nodded and smiled.  “That’s very nice of you, but as Miss Alimatou is an employee of the American Embassy, we’ll be taking care of that for her.”

The big policeman digested this for a moment.  Then, “We had not heard she worked at the Embassy.”

“She works at my house, but she is an embassy employee.”  It was a lie, but one that Will felt comfortable telling.

The big policeman shrugged.  “If that is the case, then…” He looked to the others.  “We have other duties to attend to.”

“I’m sure you do.”  Will walked with them to the gate, then returned to the house, rather pleased with his performance.

Alimatou was standing with the two women, shaking her head and fighting back tears.  “Mister Will?  You no give money?”

“It’s all right, Alimatou.”  He felt irritated that she didn’t appreciate his effort. 

“You don’t have to give them any money.  No one has to give them any money.”

Tears began to roll down her cheeks.  The red scarf was twisted into a small knot.  “Please, Mister Will.  Please give money.”

Will bit his lower lip.  “Alimatou.  It is not necessary.  They are leaving.”

“Them come back.  You leave, them come back.”  The women beside her sternly nodded their agreement.

“They won’t come back,” Will insisted.  “I told them you work for the Embassy.  They won’t bother you again.”

“Them come back.”  Alimatou looked past him out the open gate.  “I give money.”  She started forward.

“Now, wait a minute.”  Will caught her.  Again he was surprised at how light she was.  “Alimatou…I…” He looked around for a moment, then sighed.  “All right.  If you really want me to, I’ll give them the money.”

She bobbed her head, the tears spilling onto his arm.  “Please, Mister Will.”

“Stay here.”  He handed her off to the women and headed for the gate.  Out in the lane he saw the policemen strolling toward their car, no doubt discussing when to come back for their due.  As he started after them he began to rationalize.  He knew how little the police made here.  He knew all about “service charges.”  He had paid them at border crossings and on street corners around the world.  He and Gwen had handed over a fat envelope in Jakarta so that they could be married.  It was the way things worked.

But not when somebody dies.  As he closed on the group he felt his temper raising again.  Bakshish for a marriage certificate is one thing, but this is just plain wrong.  This is just too much.

The four had reached their car and were opening doors.

“Excuse me!”  Will trotted the last few yards.  “Excuse me, Officer!”

The big policeman stopped halfway down into the car and looked back, shielding his eyes from the sun.  “Yes, Sir?”

Will yanked at the flap of his cargo pocket.  “There’s one other thing I’d like to discuss with you.”

The big policeman came back up, smiling broadly.  “Yes, Sir.”

Will pulled out a receipt that he’d got from the market that morning.  “Do you have a pencil?”

The big policeman frowned.  “What you want…Yah, we got a pencil.”  He made a quick gesture and one of his colleagues produced a pen.

“Thank you,” Will accepted the pen and folded the receipt, so that he could write on the back.  “I’m sure you gentlemen know Malik Diallo.”

The big policeman nodded warily.  “Police Commissioner.”

“That’s him.”  Will ran the ball of the pen across the receipt, to make sure it had ink.  “I’ll be playing golf with him at the Fajara Club this Saturday.  I’d like to tell him what a great job you guys are doing.”

The big policeman crossed his arms.  “No need for that.”

“Are you sure?”  Will looked around at the others.  “I’d like to give him your names"get you some recognition.”

“I say no need.”  The big policeman reached over and took back the pen.  The others slid into the car without looking at Will.  The big policeman looked at him though, and Will realized that he was calculating the possible consequences of swift violence. 

Will tensed for it, but when the big policeman moved, it was into the car.

Will stepped back and waved as they pulled away.  He noticed that he was shaking.

By the time he got back to Alimatou’s yard he was calm.  He told her he had paid the money and that if the police came back she should call him immediately.  He added that he didn’t think they would come back.  He told her that she should take as much time off as she needed and that if she needed anything--anything at all--she should call.  He had a small bowl of domoda with them and then left, giving her a brief hug.  He knew that if the police did come back she would pay them and not tell him.

On the way back to Oyster Creek he stopped and bought some cold beer for Ceesay’s crew.  Then he drove north, on the shell road through the bolongs.  He passed an isolated baobab tree where a pack of red colobus monkeys perched, watching him with casual interest.  Their interest would remain casual--so long as he did not stop. 

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Reviews

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Such a sad write and sorrowful really. Love the imagery and detail. Like the last stanza and how you summed it up.....xo