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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 something, anything, in the teasing way he did whenever he wanted to make me smile. And there I’ll be, laughing and crying at the same time, as I step aside to let him in.

15 Serah, 1996: The Storm

Once I stood thousands of feet up on the edge of an escarpment, side by side with Janneh watching a storm race across the plain below. In the distance tiny figures ran ahead of the dust, dark clouds bearing down upon them. They were huddled over, clutching at their clothing, holding on to children, trying to shield themselves from the fury of the storm. In between us and those terrified souls, I could see more people, just beginning to sense the growing tempest, hurrying along, not yet caught up in its violent swirls, gazing up at the sky in an attempt to read the signs. Directly below were others still, oblivious to what was happening only a few miles away, tending their animals, watching their children at play, sitting outdoors in the sunshine.

I remember how we wanted to shout and wave and jump up and down. But instead we did nothing. We were too far away. And even if they had heard nobody would have believed us, for where they stood they could not see the omens in the sky.

Sometimes I think this is what happened in our country. Nobody heeded the warnings, nobody smelled the rain coming, or saw the lights in the sky or heard the roar of thunder, until we were all engulfed by it.

In Italy before the war in Europe, Benito Mussolini made the trains run on time. I read that once in a history book. He also wore a white uniform and a helmet with a plume on the top, and knew how to talk to people in a way that made them want to believe him.

We had a new President. A young man, who might have been a Benito Mussolini, who was handsome and finely attired in his uniform and who wore mirror sunglasses and swaggered in front of other heads of state, men in their sixties and seventies whom he appeared to despise, perhaps because they reminded him of the President he had just chased from our country. Nobody wanted to be ruled by the old, fat President and his corrupt cronies and because the new, young President cleaned up the streets and emptied the gutters of filth and spoke about democratic elections and looked so fine, the people were happy. Women sewed dresses printed with his delightful features, young men copied his mode of dress and eyewear, everyone joined in the campaign to clean up the streets. Clean up the Government. Clean up the country. People turned over their mattresses, bleached the steps in front of their houses and hosed down the walls, swept the dirt from their yards into the street from where it was miraculously removed. We were putting our house in order.

It felt good.

Some of the fat men who had financed the old President feared reprisals and left. Good riddance. Others, less high profile, stayed quiet and bided their time. Overnight it became impossible to find a single person who would admit to ever having supported the former President. The shopkeeper on the corner of the street who had voted for the party all his life gave his store a lick of paint and stencilled the new regime’s slogan on his shutters. Ambrose printed up business cards and boldly offered his services to the new leaders.

The President’s face in his mirror shades appeared on the front of international magazines. ‘The youngest leader in the world,’ said the headline. He had not even celebrated his thirtieth birthday. We were so proud of our baby-faced leader: so slim and strong, not bloated on bribes and flattery. So proud we handed him our anguish and hopes and fears to carry on those broad shoulders of his. The rest of the world looked on, smiling fondly. Or so we thought. We could not see they were really laughing at our foolishness.

In their neat and shining homes, people settled down to wait. And waited. And waited. And just as they were beginning to wonder how much longer we might have to wait, to fear our leader was just a pretty face with a silver tongue, he was toppled by another young man with equally babyish features though he was not quite as silver-tongued. So that when, in a tarnished voice, he announced we were to have elections for the first time in many years few believed it, and many didn’t hear at all because they had given up listening a long, long time ago.

A Monday. The year, 1996. I was in my late fifties.

I stood before my reflection in the mirror on my wardrobe, watching my own movements in the half-light. No electricity for three days running. The clothes I had put out the night before hung from the door: a trouser suit in pale blue linen. I discarded it and instead chose an orange-gold gown embroidered at the sleeves and around the neck. In the dimness of the morning I made up my face, applying the brushstrokes from memory: foundation, powder, lipstick, mascara. Then I slipped the gown over my head. From the shoe rack on the back of the door I chose a pair of gold shoes to match the gown, with open toes and high heels and a strap that encircled my ankle, bought from Bally of Bond Street. I slipped gold bangles on to my wrists, clasped a necklace around my neck and hooked earrings in the lobes of my ears.