Writing for Fun
April 2018
Immigrant - Jan Norman
Tamba watched with a rising sense of dread as his mother Kumba, just ahead of him on the dusty track, stopped and, dropping her bundle of produce from its perch on her head, vomited into the undergrowth. Weakly she grabbed a handful of dry grass and wiped away the blood and spittle from her mouth.
Straightening up with great effort she squared her shoulders as if she had made a monumental decision and turned to face her son, the wide smile on her face belying the fear in eyes.
‘I do not think I can walk any further today, Tamba my stomach is upset. I will rest here and then make my way home. You must take these vegetables to sell in the market. We have no more money.’
Her son shook his head, tears of love and defiance streaking down his cheeks. Both knew that Ebola was raging in Guinea and had been for over a year now and that people were still dying on a daily basis.
‘Non, Maman. At fifteen I am a man now and head of the household since Papa died in the mine and I will make the decisions. You and I both know that you are very sick. I am going to take you to the Medicine San Frontiers hospital in Conakry. It cannot be more than five miles away. Sit down under this tree whilst I find something to carry you in.’
With no more words he spun on his heels and headed back to the village. On the outskirts he neared the bauxite mine where his father had worked. Of course they would have barrows and the suchlike. As luck would have it just inside the gates was a small handcart, a bit dilapidated but usable. He gave a scared glance around. No one was to be seen. He picked up the handles and pushed it back to where he had left his mother. She was by now semiconscious. He had to move fast. Lining the cart with dry grass to make a soft bed he cajoled, pulled and eventually heaved her over the tail gate onto the cart.
Throwing in the market produce and the jerry can of water he had been carrying he grabbed the handles and strained to set the cart in motion. Grindingly slow the cart rumbled forwards. Loaded it was a lot heavier than he imagined. It was going to be a long, hard journey.
The sun was relentless, burning the top of his head and neck, rivulets of sweat coursing down his body. He was forced to stop many times to slake his thirst and trickle tiny amounts of water into his Mother’s slack jawed mouth but she was too far gone to swallow any and most dribbled down into the straw.
Hour after hour he trudged along the dusty road to town passing few pedestrians. None offered to help.
Suddenly, ahead was a parked, white pickup truck, driver’s door open.
Tambu, exhausted and unable to go any further, pulled up his cart alongside and on wobbly legs tottered over to the cab. Outside on the ground was a stale mess of vomit. Inside the driver was slumped over the steering wheel, sweating profusely and in no state to drive but still conscious and lucid.
‘Hey, man I need to get my Mother to the hospital and it looks as though you need to be there too. Help me get my Mother aboard and I will drive you both.’
The big man nodded, too ill to argue and between them, with great effort, bedded down Kumbu in the trailer.
An hour later Tambu pulled up in front of the medical centre. He shouted and staff rushed to help.
Feeling wearier than he had ever felt before and with a pounding headache he jumped down from the cab only to collapse at the feet of a very pretty nurse. In the few seconds of lucid thought before he passed out he felt the frisson of fear as he realised he too had contracted Ebola. Would he ever see that beautiful face again?
The next few weeks passed in a painful, nightmarish, haze until one day he awoke to see that face; the one that had haunted his dreams and scared away his nightmares. He was alive; he had made it!
Sadly he learned that his Mother had not survived but the truck driver had. What he did not know was that this guy Emile owned a mining company based in neighbouring Sierra Leone.
Profoundly grateful to Tambu for saving his life and finding out the young man’s sad circumstances he offered him lodgings and a job on his estate back home.
Two weeks later Tambu found himself again sitting beside Emile in his truck but this time Emile was driving. Feeling very important in his new clothes he puffed up with pride as his new immigration documents were passed back to him from the border crossing guard and given a salute. Emile grinned and winked at the immigration officer; they were old friends.