next to her, resting a hand on her arm, and they slept there together all night, like sisters or old friends.
12
IT IS THE MORNING AFTER the interview. Diomande and the Moroccan man are in the living room drinking their new favourite beverage: tea with milk. They must have heard me get up, because there is a steaming mug on the dining table waiting for me. I join them, as Afra is still asleep.
With the tea warm in my hands I step up to the glass doors to look outside. Today the courtyard is glowing with sunlight. The cherry tree in the middle with the twisted roots is full of birds, there must be about thirty in there, all chirping and chattering. The landlady’s garden behind is spilling over the wooden fence, red and purple flowers, fallen petals on the flagstones. I find the key behind the curtains and open the doors to let in the air and the distant smell of the sea.
Diomande is telling the Moroccan man about the interview.
‘I think it go very well,’ he says, his smile so wide it fills his whole face.
The Moroccan man high-fives him.
‘I told them what you said. Mother, sister, difficult life. But they ask me some very strange questions.’
‘Like what?’
‘What the national anthem is. They ask me to sing it.’
‘And did you?’
Diomande stands up and with his hand on his chest he begins to sing, still with that same broad smile on his face:
‘We salute you, O land of hope,
Country of hospitality;
Thy full gallant legions
Have restored thy dignity.
‘Beloved Ivory Coast, thy sons,
Proud builders of thy greatness,
All not mustered together for thy glory,
In joy will we construct thee.
‘Proud citizens of the Ivory Coast, the country calls us.
If we have brought back liberty peacefully,
It will be our duty to be an example
Of the hope promised to humanity,
Forging unitedly in new faith
The fatherland of true brotherhood.’
‘You know it in English?’
Diomande nods.
‘Did you sing in English for them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? What’s the problem?’ I say.
‘The words paint a very positive picture!’
Diomande sits down again, dejected. ‘But I tell them. I tell them life so hard. I tell them about Libya and prison and being beaten till I think I will die. I tell them my sister and mum’s life difficult because of civil war. I have no job and my mum she sent me to find better life. I tell them all this. I tell them that here there is hope. Here maybe I will find work. I can clean, I can cook, I can teach, I have many skill.’
The birds have silenced now and Diomande’s back is so hunched over that the wings under his T-shirt look as if they are opening up. ‘I also tell them how beautiful it is there, my country, how much I love being there.’
The Moroccan man is thoughtful, staring out into the courtyard, sometimes glancing over at me with a question in his eyes, but whatever it is he doesn’t ask.
Diomande decides that he wants to go to the fair. ‘I can hear it,’ he says, ‘this crazy music all the time and see the lights over sea. Can we go?’
The Moroccan man gets excited at the prospect of having company. ‘Geezer,’ he says, ‘let’s go! When we see the lights and the sea and hear the music, all our troubles and worries will be like a small grain of sand.’
They insist that I go with them. They drag me, one hand each, to the stairs so that I can go upstairs and get ready.
When I go to our room I see that Afra is already dressed and sitting again on the edge of the bed, but this time she is crying. I kneel down in front of her. The tears are streaming out of her eyes like dark rivers. ‘What’s wrong, Afra?’ I say.
She wipes her face with the back of her hand but the tears keep coming.
‘Since I told the doctor about the bomb, it’s all I can think of. I can see Sami’s face. I can see his eyes looking up at the sky. I wonder what he felt. Was he in pain? What did he feel when he looked up at the sky? Did he know I was there?’
I take her hand in mine but I can’t hold on to it for too long because I feel heat rising up through my spine and along my neck and into my head. I let go and stand away from her.
‘I’m going to go for a walk with