was weak, like a toy whose battery was running down. The light was dim, but the heat in the room made it feel as if that flame were the source of our hell.
Fofo Kpee opened the door to go out for fresh air, and a breath of it washed over us before he closed the door and locked it from outside. I picked up his towel and started dabbing Yewa and myself, but suddenly Fofo came back in as if a demon were pursuing him. He was a restless man: he couldn’t be inside; he couldn’t be outside. He took the towel from me and started to dab himself, as if the cool air had made him even hotter.
“SCHOOL TIME,” FOFO KPEE announced suddenly, like a headmaster, and went to adjust the lantern wick, making it burn brighter. He was unclad except for the piece of wrappa tied around his waist. Against the light, his sweaty torso glistened. He was no longer the smallish man we knew. He had gained weight, and his stomach muscles were weakening, allowing his belly to bulge like that of a newly pregnant woman. I doubted he would still be able to climb coconut trees. “We must learn someting, mes enfants. . . . Sit up!” he said, opening a neatly folded piece of paper.
“What are we learning?” my sister asked.
“You see, if person want go America, for example, he go need tips for de owhèntiton . . . ”
“Ah, Fofo, do you want to teach us about Gabon?” I said hurriedly.
“Mówe . . . you must learn certain tings in case l’immigration or navy people worry your ship, you know. Our government is corrupt. We no want make dem spoil tings for us.” Then he lowered his voice to an eerie whisper and pointed a frightening finger at us, saying, “Dese bad people can steal children like you for high sea!”
“They can?” we whispered.
“Yes, but, mes enfants, no fear. You go defeat dem . . . you get luck say Big Guy na your friend. Dat’s why I give am de keys. He na good immigration man. He know his people.”
At the mention of Big Guy we began to relax again. My sister nodded and smiled to herself.
“Is he coming with us, then?” I asked.
“Yeah, Big Guy will teach us all their tricks,” my sister said confidently.
We no longer thought about the heat. Fofo was silent for a while, with the towel draped around his neck. “So ready?”
“Yes,” we said, sitting up and watching his mouth attentively.
“Well, repeat after me,” he said, his eyes squinting in the low light as he stammered to read: “ ‘Mama is younger than Papa because Papa married late.’”
“Mama is younger than Papa because Papa married late,” we said.
“D’accord . . . one by one . . . Mary?”
“Mama is younger than Papa because Papa married late,” she said.
“Bon . . . Pascal?”
“Mama is younger than Papa because he married late,” I said.
“No change anyting, stupid boy!”
“Mama is younger than Papa because Papa married late,” I said.
“Not good enough. You suppose dey smile as you dey talk dese tings . . . just like Mary dey do.” He went to Yewa and wiped off the sweat from her forehead and fanned her a bit with the towel before going back to the lantern. “Good gal, good gal,” he praised her.
“Just do like me,” Yewa said, and tapped my shoulder. I repeated the lines and smiled, to the satisfaction of both of them. Fofo fidgeted with the wick of the lantern, trying to boost the failing flame. I went into the inner room and brought out our jerrican of kerosene.
“Ah, merci beaucoup, my son,” he said. “Who go show us how to forget poverty?” He was referring to those days, before our Nanfang, when we used to ration our kerosene from a Lucozade bottle and rushed through our homework before the flame died on us. Now, he poured the fuel into the lantern tank until the flame began to twinkle, sputtered, and grew to a good size. As he poured the kerosene, Yewa and I held our hands under the lantern, catching a few drops, their momentary coolness a balm against the heat.
“OK, make we continue school,” Fofo Kpee said. “ ‘We live at Rue de Franceville, nombre douze, Port-Gentil, Gabon.’”
“We live at Rue de Franceville, nombre douze, Port-Gentil, Gabon,” we said, then repeated one after the other.