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Wake Up!

Benjamin Card

One: Frank

    “Mr. Harkins.”
    There’s a steady pounding somewhere nearby.
    “Mr. Harkins!”
    And then I wake up. I’m in my office in New York.
    “Coming,” I say. I swipe at the drool on my chin and rub it off on my black pants. In a matter of seconds, I manage to compose myself, tucking in my shirt. I open the door.
    My subordinate, the finance director, Darryl, hands me a thick green folder. “Damn it, Franky. It’s twelve twenty. The meeting started at twelve, remember? How long do you think they’ll be willing to wait for you?”
    I wiggle my tie into place. “All day. All day, if they have to.” I’m half-kidding, but it’s true. I’m the CFO and it’s a finance meeting.
    “You’re wrong, Frank. Let’s get going, please.”
    We exit the room and turn into the conference room down the hall. A small crowd of faces stares me down. Among them is the company’s owner, Kenny Dodge.
    We shake hands. “Frank,” he says in greeting. His painful grip makes me wince.
    “Kenny,” I say, smiling forcibly. “Sorry for the wait.”
    “Nonsense.” We all sit and a few of us shuffle through our files.
    Kenny Dodge speaks first. We discuss our dwindling stock value and the decline of our profits over the last six months. Our sub-Saharan African laborers, Mr. Dodge explains, are the main cause of this. The medical attention they require far outweighs their productivity. In short, Dodge suggests we stop supporting them like mother geese and—he sugar-coats this, of course—suck them dry.
    I cringe in discomfort. Nobody seems to notice.
    Darryl looks at me for permission to speak.
    I shake my head, no. “Is this the only solution?” I ask.
    Kenny chuckles, drumming on the table lightly with his finger. “You remind me of my boy, Charlie. Always going against the grain.”
    He avoids my question and, before long, everyone has left.
    I go home late into the evening and kiss my wife, walk up the stairs of my luxurious home, and seclude myself in the master bedroom of my mansion. The canopy bed calls me, as always, to silent reclusion. It seems to be smiling a grin of purpose and death. It shows its teeth in the contours of the bronze railing. I sigh and sag into the bed sheets, my soul slinking away. My being drifting away.

#
Two: Mwamuila

    I awaken in Africa. My dark skin is hardly visible in the windowless room. The only light I see is coming from some hole in the roof. My name is Mwamuila now. The next time I wake up, it will be Frank Harkins again. My life has been this way ever since I can remember.
    Frank’s father was a CFO in New York, and when he died from cancer four years ago, Frank was promoted to take his place. His father had been grooming him for the position for years.
    I wasn’t so lucky. The only thing my Baba owned was the skin glued to his bones, and with that he did more good in a day than Frank’s father ever did in his lifetime. My Baba died of a disease I’ve never heard of. Maybe it was cancer as well. Who knows? And aside from Mama and my sister and me, who cares? People die here every day.
    I walk out into the searing sunlight, shielding my eyes with rigid, crusty fingers. Looking over, I see what I expect: my neighbors’ feet shuffling across the poorly-paved ground, sandals making the sound of sandpaper on a chalkboard.
    I walk across to where Mama is with my younger sister at the school. I find them both on the porch. I wave and smile in the sun.
    “Did you just wake up?” Mama says to me in Swahili.
    “Yes, can you believe it?” I respond.
    She purses her lips to indicate that she can.
    My sister, Adilah, hides behind Mama’s leg. She is already eight, but still a shy little girl in almost every way. Mama sees that Adilah is sucking her thumb again and slaps her shoulder like a paddle slaps water. Adilah doesn’t cry. She rarely does. Her thumb only slips like a wet cork from her mouth.
    Mama knows about my Frank Harkins dreams. She’s known since I was a small boy. I would often—practically daily—crawl into her cot and tell her about the boy who took over my life every night. “He possesses me,” I would say, weeping. I would tell her about his white skin and the large home he lives in.
    In the beginning, she dismissed my stories as nightmares or cries of neglect. But as I got older, I was able to describe to her things that she had never known as a poor African—descriptions of a home that I couldn’t have invented in my mind, toys that I couldn’t have ever owned or even heard of—and when one morning I recited to her a speech in English that Frank had memorized earlier that week, I could see Mama’s jaw drop and her eyes sink back in horror.
    For months, she invited spiritual leaders from our village to puzzle out what demon was holding my mind captive. They chanted prayers over my head and made vain attempts to cast out evil spirits. But I knew that this was my life from the beginning. I knew it wouldn’t work.

#
Three: Frank

    The next morning at the office, I call Darryl into the room. He comes through the door and shuts it. I look up at him. “We can’t let them abuse those people anymore,” I say.
    Darryl coughs a laugh. “What can we do?”
    “I’m still working on that. I just need you to back me up.”
    I can already tell he isn’t pleased with my request.
    “Frank,” he starts, “Frank, this is a business. A failing one at that. You gotta let them do their job. You can dish out that it’s immoral—evil, even—but nobody’s blaming you. No one is pointing fingers and saying it’s your fault.”
    I’d known he wouldn’t understand; I was prepared for his response. Not prepared with a comeback, but enough so that I don’t lash out in anger.
    “Just say you’ll support me.” My hands shake as I light a cigarette.
    He sighs and shrugs just enough to let me know that he’ll try. I nod and he leaves the room.

#
Four: Mwamuila

    When Baba died a few years ago, I was forced to take up a job that could support Mama and Adilah. Frank saw this and researched the nearest location where his company had low-paid laborers, and I began my work there. It hasn’t solved all of our problems, but like a Band-Aid on a bleeding war wound, it suffices for the time being.
    One of the bigger problems is the distance. I have to walk six miles every day. The heat is impressive; it took its toll on me long ago, but though my mind rebels, my feet keep me going.
    Now, unsure whether Frank can change his boss’ mind, I begin to worry. I don’t tell Mama, because she is too old to spend her last years in constant anxiety for our future. If it gets bad, I will simply tell her that relocating is a good option.
    Of course, finding another job will be close to impossible in this season of the year, when our people are all in great need of help.
    This season? Who am I kidding?
    The sun is going down. In our small, dirty room, Mama serves us oatmeal in small bowls. We’ve split a single apple three ways. Mama smiles at me and, after we pray, she begins to eat the oatmeal feverishly. All the while, Adilah is looking at me with sad eyes. I smile at her and she turns away. A chill crawls up my shoulders, and I take a bite from my apple slice.

#
Five: Frank

    I catch Kenny Dodge just as he’s packing up to leave. He smiles and tosses his leather messenger bag over his shoulder. “What can I do you for?” he says.
    “I wanted to speak with you about what you said earlier. About our African laborers.”
    He frowns, because this isn’t the first time I’ve brought it up.
    “It’s important.”
    He raises an eyebrow. “Is it now?”
    “Yes. Very.”
    “That doesn’t strike me as surprising. What I do fail to understand, however, is why the hell you care about our laborers in Africa so much. We give them work—isn’t that enough?”
    Why do I care about them? His question resounds in my mind, even as he continues to speak. I don’t have a reasonable answer except, of course, that I’ve spent half of my life in Africa. What other choice do I have than to care? It’s the dread of tomorrow that fills me with sorrow today. Inescapable, looming dread that threatens a chronic existence if I don’t act soon.
    When Mr. Dodge chuckles, it calls back my attention. “Anyway,” he says, “it damn well better be. It has to be. We’re not responsible for their health.”
    “They work overtime, Kenny. If they lived in America, their health would be our responsibility. Why should it make a difference?”
    “Dammit, Frank! I’m sick of this. It’s a no, you got it? A no. Please just drop it before this gets out of hand.”
    I feel my heart pump faster and my cheeks get red hot. “I have family there,” I blurt out. It’s a mistake, but I am angry and I run with it.
    “Excuse me?”
    “That’s right,” I say, hoping to God he doesn’t catch me in my lie.
    His face pales behind growing eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?” he says. “Your parents were both from Jersey. And both were white.”
    I blink. “It’s hard to explain,” I mutter.
    He looks disappointed in me. I can feel it like a boy about to be sent to his room without supper, only the consequences for my actions will be more severe.
    “There’s nothing I can do, Harkins,” he says finally. “Listen, I have a family to worry about, too. My wife. My son, Charlie.” He pulls out his wallet to show me a picture. A young, freckle-faced blond boy smiles through the plastic insert. “This is my family, Frank. This is my boy, my son. I have to think about him first, don’t I?”
    When I see that he expects an answer, I nod.
    “Damn right,” he says, then he lowers his head. “Look, buddy. Between you and me, my family is going through some financial problems, too. Don’t let the fancy suit fool you. This is work attire, and I have to dress the part, you know? Charlie, though . . . he isn’t doing so great right now. I just have a lot on my mind, so I’m sorry if I’m being blunt with you. I just hope there’s a mutual respect in the end. Our business needs this, though.” Kenny pats my shoulder. “I just can’t change my decision for your distant relatives.” He gives me a look of pity before walking away.
    Distant relatives, I think distastefully, bitterly. Distant. Oh, that’s rich. That’s a laugh.
    That’s real rich.

#
Six: Mwamuila

    Mama is dying. For months, her heart has been getting weaker at a noticeable rate. And now, I don’t need doctors to tell me she doesn’t have long.
    I kneel beside her bed, refilling her cup of water and humming the melody of a song I learned when I was a boy. A song Frank taught me.
    Mama can’t hear me. Her eyes are fixed to a point in the ceiling as her stomach swells with every inhale and exhale.
    “Drink,” I whisper.
    She does so after a few seconds; her shaky hands rising up to grab the cup like a fragile stem growing from the dirt.
    I love Mama. I don’t want her to die.
    Adilah peeks into the room, and I tell her to go back outside. When she goes, I follow her, slowly closing the door behind me.
    “Is she going to die?” Adilah asks.
    “No,” I say.
    Adilah nods and looks at her fingers. “I had a new vision.”
    For years, Adilah has been getting visions. In just about all of them, an evil person was holding a rope and tugging it with dark power while Baba and Mama tried to hold on. The evil man wore shadows for a face and his body was eating away all the light around him.
    Baba was always holding the other end of the rope, his bare feet sinking deeper into the dirt with each forceful pull. Behind him was Mama, chucking up sand with her feet as she tried to find stability. They didn’t have the power to pull back, only to hold on for their lives.
    The evil man would laugh, Adilah said, and he would laugh even harder when Mama would trip and stumble to the ground, until Baba screamed for his life and was absorbed into the darkness of the evil man’s body.
    Baba died shortly after this was recounted to me. I never mentioned it to anyone. If the visions were more than mere coincidences, it meant that Mama was only a few feet behind, still clutching the rope.
    “What was the vision this time?” I ask Adilah, fearing the answer I somehow know.
    She begins to cry in dreadful sobs, shielding her face with her hands. Her fingers slip over her wet face.
    “You were behind Mama,” she says between sobs. “And I was behind you.”
    When I go back to the room to check on Mama that evening, she is dead.

#
Seven: Frank

    I wake up sick at heart. I am sick of this. May God forgive me, but I am sick of it. What’s the use of being successful when, half your life, you suffer the same fate as a poor man? My whole life has been this paradox: that no matter how rich or successful I become, my fortune is like jewelry adorning a dead man. I am plagued by this curse, and it’s making it impossible to enjoy the fruits of my real life.
    For the next couple of weeks, I try to set up a plan where I can send money to Mwamuila and Adilah. The plan fails sooner than I expect. The border issues, the customs, the currency changes, the remoteness of Mwamuila’s village, the lack of financial infrastructure—it seems impossible.
    In any case, I realize that supplying money to his family was never a solution, even if it were possible. The current grief of Mwamuila’s life is only the symptom of a disease. There is no point in treating the symptoms when the disease lives on.
    I tell myself that I’ve tried. I’ve really tried.
    But now my dwindling options leave me with no other choice.
    I have asked for a week of vacation. I pack my things, among them my .50 caliber Desert Eagle, and purchase my ticket to Africa. I don’t expect to be gone long, but I pack some extra clothes just in case.
    The airport is crowded when I arrive. Airport security looks over my gun closely, but I have packed it properly. On the other side, I am sure I will have to pay a bribe to leave the airport with it. Not an issue.
    I board the plane. Breathing is an effort.
    God forgive me, but I am sick of it.

#
Eight: Mwamuila

    I wake with a violent gasp and find Adilah watching me. Frank must have fallen asleep on the plane. He will come for me soon.
    Last night Adilah and I buried Mama at the cemetery. It was nice to see some of her old friends show up. I know she was smiling down from heaven. Felt it in the way the stars shone.
    That peace is gone now. I must stay awake long enough to hide myself and Adilah. But even if I do, won’t Frank just know where we are and come looking for me? Of course he will. Anyway, I must try. At least for Adilah’s sake. She can’t survive on her own. I know it.
    I come up with a plan as I am putting Adilah’s things in a bag to leave. Frank won’t know where we’re hiding because I myself won’t know. If I blindfold myself and let Adilah guide me, he won’t know which way she’s leading me. It will work!
    I tell Adilah and she nods bravely.
    “I’ll do as you say, Mwamuila,” she says.
    I smile at her and take her tiny hand after I tie a shirt over my face. I feel Adilah’s hand jerk mine slightly and I follow. Soon, the only giveaway that I’m outside is the sun heating my shoulders. I smile again in satisfaction. My plan is a good one.
    “Spin me,” I tell Adilah. “I know you’re going east. Remember to make sure you take me somewhere we’ve never been.”
    I begin to spin and she flaps her hands rapidly against my waist to help turn me. I laugh aloud for the first time in weeks, and I hear her high-pitched giggle move around me. Even under the shade of the wrapped shirt, I notice the light change from absolute black to bright black as I spin. When she stops me, I stumble before regaining my balance.
    “Okay,” I say, exhausted. “Continue.”
    She leads me in a blind, winding path for about an hour. When I am too tired to go on, we stop.
    “Ready,” she says.
    “You sure?”
    She hesitates. Then, “Yes!”
    I undo the knot of my shirt and slip it over my thick hair. The light is blinding, and at first I can’t even make out Adilah’s sun-lit face. Her sweaty black skin looks golden in the sunlight.
    She did a good job of hiding us; I have no idea where we are. I spin again and see only scrub trees, sparse grass, and sand. Good.
    Scary, but good.
    Adilah and I set up camp as the sun hides under the earth’s shell. Frank must be on our trail by now. Once I’m asleep, I’ll know for sure.
    We cook and eat a dead bird we find; it was dead when we found it, but it looks fresh. As I’m finishing, I can feel my eyelids begin to sag.
    Once the fire is safely out, I collapse heavily to the ground.

#
Nine: Frank

    The plane has landed. It’s about damn time, too. I slept most of the way and it was still unbearable.
    I move to luggage claim and find my things. In order to keep my gun, I pay the expected bribe to a large African guard.
    From years of living in Mwamuila’s reality, I already know exactly where to find his home. It is in a small village near Merca in Somalia. I need only find my company’s facility where he works, then take the same six-mile walk he makes every day. Except I arrange for a taxi to get me to the place.
    When a white, weathered coupe rolls into the airport, I climb in. The seats feel like burnt slabs of meat, and the man behind the wheel knows little English. But he knows enough. At least enough to understand what left and right mean, or maybe he is only following my pointing finger.
    The muggy ride to Mwamuila’s town is bumpy and awkward. As we ride, I reach into my suitcase and finger the trigger of my gun. I’ve never shot a man before, but I won’t be shooting someone else, will I? No, I’ll be shooting myself. The “self” of me that is a cancer to my success and my happiness.
    Under the primitive circumstances, I survive the ride. I pay the man his fare and tip him fifty dollars. Till now, he hadn’t cracked a smile. Now he’s beaming hotter than the sun on my back. Money can’t buy happiness, my ass.
    When I reach the village—I know I’ve arrived because tin shack houses litter the sandy field and the air smells of festering skin—I try to remember what I can from my dreams. I find Adilah’s school soon enough, the poorly constructed house peeking over a brown hill. The sight brings an unexpected sense of nostalgia. I’m finally in that dream place. It feels like worlds colliding.
    I ignore my sentiments and focus on my mission. I can’t let emotions get in the way. This other life has plagued me for too long.
    There it is. Mwamuila’s hut.
    Of course it’s there. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I can’t stifle the smile on my face. Is it any wonder? I both love and hate this place. I love it for the dream-like sentiment it gives me now, and I hate it for other, obvious reasons.
    For a moment, I worry, as I have for days now, that if I kill Mwamuila, maybe I’ll die as well. That somehow our life lines are linked. It wouldn’t be too outrageous a notion, considering the circumstances. But I remember that when Mwamuila almost died of an immensely high fever—we were seven at the time—my own health wasn’t affected at all. Does that mean something? I’m not sure, but I won’t let that stop me.
    I can’t go on living with him.
    The hut is empty, as I expected, but I look at the dirt and find what I hoped to find.
    Footprints.
    Those fools didn’t think to hide them. Two sets of footprints mark a trail that leads into the scrub. I follow it. Even with the scrubby trees, the ground is mostly sand, and the trail remains clear. I follow it for nearly an hour until I see something interesting.
    Yes.
    I find their old fire.
    They’re here somewhere. They’re—

#
Ten: Mwamuila

    I awake to see Adilah crying, slouched by a tree. My heart quakes in fear when I see, like a doll lost in the dirt, Frank Harkins. Adilah is holding a large log and it drops to the ground. She cries harder.
    “What happened?” I say.
    “He was going to get you.”
    I look at the log. “And you . . . “
    Adilah nods.
    “You did the right thing,” I say.
    The sight of Frank on the ground makes me feel disoriented, like an out-of-body experience. There on the ground is half of my life. The half I wish I could experience all the time, with Adilah by my side.
    And then it hits me.
    I suddenly have it. The solution, the compromise. The way I can give Frank what he wants, and give Adilah what she needs. Of course! Now that I know it . . . Now that I know, it makes perfect sense. How to save Adilah. To save her from the shadow man in her visions.
    I approach Frank’s curled body slowly, knowing what must be done. Adilah hides behind me, digging her wormy nails into my leg. I lean over and reach for Frank’s gun. It is black and heavy in my hand.
    I raise the gun to my temple. Adilah screams.
    I know that when I awake as Frank Harkins again, I’ll be in paradise again. This time, even in my sleep.
    This time with Adilah.
    I can finally rest.

#
Eleven: Frank

    I hear the explosion of the gunshot as my eyes snap open. And Adilah’s shriek makes my heart scream almost as loud. I scamper to cover her mouth with my hand, her voice becoming a muted alarm beneath my cupped palm.
    “Quiet!” I whisper to her.
    Of course, she doesn’t understand me. I don’t speak Swahili, but apparently quiet means bite, because that’s what Adilah does. I pull my hand back with a yelp, perplexed to see a large portion of my palm flesh bitten off. Blood floods over my entire hand and, through woozy eyes, I see Adilah spitting bloody skin to the dirt.
    “Wewe aliuawa ndugu yangu!” she cries.
    “I don’t understand!”
    “Wewe aliuawa ndugu yangu!”
    I raise my hands and attempt to calm her down. “Please, Adilah. I’m here to take you home. It’s what Mwamuila wanted.”
    Her crying stops a little. It’s enough for me to relax, but I stiffen again when she lowers herself to Mwamuila’s body and picks up the Desert Eagle.
    Jesus, I think. “No, Adilah. Put that down. That’s not a toy.”
    “Toy,” she repeats. Then she smiles and points the gun at me. “Toy?”
    “No!” I say. “Not toy. Give it to me.”
    Her little wild grin sends chills crawling on my back. She’s going to kill me.
    “You kill my brother,” Adilah says.
    “How!” I shrill. How can she speak English? Mwamuila never taught her. Not that I can remember, at least.
    I must use this to my advantage if I want to live. I must reason with her. Christ, that smile. It’s wretched enough to drive a man insane. Her eyes, fixed on me like the barrel of that gun. What can I say to end this?
    “Please . . .” It’s a weak start, but it’s all my throat can utter. “I’m taking you back to New York with me. It’s what Mwamuila wanted.”
    “No,” Adilah says. “What you wanted.”
    She cocks the gun.
    “No,” I cry. “Jesus, no.”
    She smiles wider and takes a step back. Then farther back.
    I wait for the gunshot, but it doesn’t come. She walks into the trees until she disappears completely. I don’t know why, but for some reason she has shown me mercy. I accept it, and I run.
    Boy, do I run.

#
Twelve: Frank

    I’ve been sleeping well for almost a week now. Really sleeping. The act will take some time getting used to, but right now I’m content just to know that there is rest available.
    Do I miss Africa? I’ve been asking myself that question daily, and my answer is yes. Though I feel relieved overall, nostalgia creeps its way in still. I suppose that’s to be expected.
    It’s bedtime. I brush my teeth and shower, looking forward to another full night of normal sleep. Black, unregistered bliss. I change into my pajamas and crawl into bed. I turn out the light. The room is a dark purple haven, the window showcasing the moon’s ambient glow. My wife is at a dinner with her company and will be coming home late tonight. I usually wait up for her on these nights, but right now, I still have the excitement of a child given a new toy. A new toy that—
    “Toy,” a voice says in the darkness on the far side of the room. It is a child’s voice.
    “Hello?” My heart begins to rampage inside my chest. “Who’s there?” Jesus, I think. Is it Adilah?
    Impossible.
    “Hello?” I say again.
    As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see a small figure pressed against the wall of my room. I can’t make out the face, but it looks about Adilah’s height.
    She’s come for me. But how? How could she leave Africa? It’s impossible.
    “Are you going to kill me?” I say.
    The figure’s head nods. I hear a gun click.
    It isn’t Adilah; I can see the hair end below the figure’s ears, while Adilah had long, kinky hair. This child isn’t black, either. The child is white. And I can see now that he’s a boy.
    The boy begins to emerge from the shadowy wall, and I can see the gun.
    “Why are you here?” I say.
    “To kill you.”
    I can’t breathe. “Why? Please, God, why?”
    “You killed Adilah’s brother.”
    Christ Almighty. “Who are you?” I say.
    The boy steps closer into the moonlight. I can see the boy’s hair is blond now. And freckles layer his pallid face. And that smile.
    I know that smile. I know this boy.
    The boy is Kenny Dodge’s son.
    “Charlie,” I whisper.
    “Yes.”
    Everything makes sense now. No wonder Adilah knew how to speak English.
    “But why?” I begin to cry.
    “You killed Adilah’s brother. She was too kind to do anything about it. I’m not so kind.”
    “I don’t understand!” I am choking on my tears, almost amused at how broken and despicable my voice sounds. This boy means to kill you, my mind assures me. There’s nothing you can do. “For God’s sake, I don’t understand!” I shout again.
    “I think you do,” little Charlie says, pointing the gun at me. “I really think you do.”
    I tremble against the headboard. Yes, maybe I do understand.
    I hear the gunshot. Then fade into blackness, this time having nowhere else to wake up.

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