Under the Lemon Tree (Index)

Under the Lemon Tree
Ali calls me to the phone and translates. "It's Red Ahmadu. He says they are shooting people in town and the street kids are very frightened. They want to know if they can come here."

Four hours later they begin to arrive in groups of three or four, having struggled through the twelve kilometres of mangrove swamps that lie between my house and the city. I've been worrying because rumour has it that many young student demonstrators have been shot. Military trucks bristling with armed soldiers are roaring aggressively up and down the streets. So when the kids come in I am more than pleased to see them.

Red Ahmadu arrives first, with two others. Red Ahmadu is called that to distinguish him from the other Ahmadus (3) who visit us. He's 15 but, like the other street kids here, looks about 2 years younger than he is. He's very intelligent, good and sensible and is the acknowledged leader of the street kids.

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He's not red but a beautiful cafe au lait shade and he seems to radiate light. With his typical thoughtfulness, Ahmadu has brought two of the youngest street kids with him - Ebu, who is 9, slender and graceful as a fawn and just as emotionally delicate, and Alieu, also 9, wiry, intense, very intelligent, tough and funny. When they've washed the mud off their legs under the outside pump, I give them some bread and butter and coffee - the way they like it with lots of condensed milk and sugar and not much coffee.

By late afternoon twenty more have arrived, equally muddy, tired and hungry, average age 11. Bala has a large cut on his cheek from falling down when running away from soldiers. Aside from that, none of the others are hurt. One of the last to arrive is Black Ahmadu. I am especially happy to see him because he is a such a good story-teller.

Ebu and Alieu help me prepare supper by cutting up onions and green peppers. They have a theory that if you put a slice of onion on your head while you cut onions, you will not cry, so both have white onion rings balanced on the tops of their heads like haloes. Little Umaru comes into the kitchen to talk, stays to wash the rice and entertains us by singing selections from the score of his favourite Indian Musical. He is very accurate and even includes a rendition of the sound track dialogue (in Hindi) that occurs between the songs. Boys are scattered around the house in little groups, sharing the day's adventures, or out in the compound finding wood to make fire in the stove under the lemon tree.

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By seven, rice and stew are ready. We eat under the lemon tree, almost everyone sitting on the bantaba - a large bamboo platform resting on blocks of wood that raise it about a half metre above the ground. I cooked for 35 (and we are only 26), but it all disappears down to the last grain of rice. Red Ahmadu and Ali organize the dishwashing after supper while I run a mini-clinic to tend the normal wounds these kids have.

It seems the coup has failed. At least the government assures us on the radio that everything is under control and that the plotters are being rounded up. I would feel more assured were it not for the audible cracks of gunfire coming from the direction of Kabau, about two kilometres further along the beach.

After dark we all gather under the lemon tree. Ali lights some candles and puts them in the branches so we have a little light in addition to the light from the fire. Lying on my back on the bantaba I can see the stars twinkling through the branches. The boys ask Black Ahmadu to tell some stories and he obliges. His stories are always about animals - they are traditional stories he must have learned around the fire in his village and he seems to have an inexhaustible store of them. I can't understand Black Ahmadu's tales because he, like most of the other boys here, speaks only Fula. But I can tell that they are very funny stories because of the waves of chuckling and giggling that rise during his slow and measured recitals. And his stories are interactive - while he tells the story the other boys make remarks and ask him questions about what is happening in the story. In response he generates details and often, long digressions.

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Sometimes the boys become so interested in these digressions that the story-telling stops and everyone just talks for awhile before asking him to take up the tale again.

During one of these breaks in the story-telling Ebu leans over and whispers shyly in my ear, "Wassumbee?" This is special. Ebu is so shy that he almost never speaks and he doesn't know any English. I signal that he should repeat what he said. The second "Wassumbee?" is just as incomprehensible as the first. I ask Ali for help. He explains that Ebu had earlier asked him to teach him the English phrase, "Do you want some beer?" so that he could bring me a bottle of beer. I don't want any beer but when he ventures to whisper once again, "Wassumbee?" I nod vigorously. He fetches one beer and pours it with intense concentration. When I look at him about ten minutes later, he is curled up fast asleep with the empty bottle still in his hand, his face glowing golden in the candlelight.

One by one the candles burn down and gutter until only the stars are visible through the black branches. The bubbles of conversation become fewer and quieter. We wake the smaller boys and find places for everyone to lie down. By eleven the house is fast alseep. Only an occasional gunshot disturbs the peace of the night.

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Under The Lemon Tree, Copyright Brian Horne, 2001.
Please do not reproduce the whole or any part of these writings elsewhere without permission.