Spirits' Gold

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Book excerpt

Better come soon,” read the text.

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” I answered.

A “thumbs up” emoticon came back as a reply.

The rhythm of the train had been rocking me to sleep but the vibration of my cellphone had snapped me back to reality.

It was almost seven o’clock Tuesday morning. I was riding the tube on my way to work and I still had a few more stations to pass before mine. I checked tomorrow’s train schedules online while the underground continued to rattle down the tracks. When it reached my station, I hurried up the stairs into the bright sunlight and walked briskly through the clean morning air to the high school.

“Good morning Miles,” I said as I tapped on the open door beside the sign that read “Principal’s Office.” “I have a favor to ask.”

Despite the early hour, Miles appeared to have been working for quite some time. He had his sleeves rolled up and his desk was piled high with stacks of paper. No one knew what time he arrived in the morning because he was always first. A big white mug perched on the edge of the desk displayed the words, “If you can read this, COFFEE ME.”

“Good morning Kwame. Certainly. Come in.”

“I have a sick friend and would like to visit him tomorrow. I know it’s short notice, but do you mind if I take the day off?”

“Not at all,” answered Miles. “If you lay out the program today, I’ll find someone to supervise your classes tomorrow. Too bad about your friend,” he added.

“Thanks,” I said as I hurried off to prepare for my first class.

It didn’t come as a surprise. Roland had been diagnosed with cancer of the spleen five or six months ago. I had talked to him on the phone a couple of times since then and had been meaning to make the trip down to their cottage near Bridgewater. It was clear that there was no more time for procrastinating if I was going to see my old friend once more.

I would have enjoyed some company on the trip, but it was a weekday and my wife Sofiya had to work and of course Jason had school. I caught the early train from Paddington Station to Bristol. Sitting alone on the train as it passed through the small towns and rolling countryside, I had time to think about Roland and our time together.

I changed trains in Bristol and arrived in Bridgewater just after eight o’clock. The bus brought me to the Cannington Post Office and I walked about fifteen minutes to their quaint stone cottage. It had a slate roof and was completely encircled by a low stone wall with a wooden gate. I walked up the path and tapped gently on the door. Jenny opened it looking as beautiful as ever, but tired. The stress of the last few months must have been hard on her.

“I’m so glad you could make it Kwame,” said Jenny giving me a hug. “It means so much to Roland to see old friends. You especially.”

“Thanks for the message and getting me moving. I’ve been meaning to come but never making the time.”

The ancient cottage was small but had lots of windows. I had picked up some fresh cut flowers in Bridgewater and Jenny put them in a vase on the plain wooden table in the kitchen. It was a warm May morning and she had all the windows open and sun and fresh air filled the place. Roland was in the bedroom, asleep.

“He sleeps a lot,” said Jenny. “The pain meds.”

She put her hand on Roland’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. Roland, who was now in his late eighties, looked gaunt and frail. The cancer had indeed taken its toll. But he opened his eyes and when he saw me he smiled and reached for my hand.

We propped him up with some pillows and I sat in the wooden arm chair with embroidered cushions at his bedside. Jenny left us and went to make tea.

“Thanks for coming Kwame. You are looking wonderful,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“Nice to see you too Roland. How are you feeling?” I asked while trying not to look shocked at the sight of his declining body.

“It’s frustrating being stuck in this bed. And the doctor says I shouldn’t be drinking whiskey. Not a good mix with the morphine.” He lowered his voice, “Jenny gets me some anyway,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s a little late to be climbing on the milk wagon don’t you think?”

I’d been preparing for this moment for months now. “Roland,” I said putting my hand on his arm., “I want to thank you and make sure you realize how grateful I am for all you’ve done for me.”

“Whatever I did was all my pleasure,” he rasped. “I’ve enjoyed knowing you and your perseverance and success has been an inspiration to me and everyone around you.”

He asked about me, my job and family. He listened intently as I spoke, and I could tell he was genuinely interested in how things were going. But I could tell he had something on his mind. Jenny brought tea and left us alone again. I steadied his cup as he drank the tea.

“Kwame. I want to tell you something before I die,” he said staring at the ceiling. He paused, and his eyes moved to look at me and make sure I was paying attention. Then he said, “I killed the son-of-a-bitch. I shot him in the chest, three times!”

At first, I didn’t know what to think. It struck me that perhaps the pain medication had muddled his thoughts. Neither of us said anything for a moment and then he continued. I listened and as he went on to fill in the details surrounding the incident and soon realized what he was talking about. I was aware of some of the events and circumstances, some I suspected and some, like this shooting, were a complete surprise to me. It seemed imperative for him to pass on this information and he pushed himself hard to get it out. He would talk a while, then rest, then talk some more.  I continued to help him with his tea cup. When he finished saying what he needed to say, he drifted off to sleep. He seemed at peace now.

The clouds had gathered and a cool wind came up. We closed the windows and Jenny turned on the gas heater in the kitchen. We ate soup and sandwiches at the wooden table while he rested. I told her what Roland had relayed to me.

“He’s been carrying that secret with him for twenty-five years now. Thank you for giving him the opportunity to get it off his chest. He really had no choice but to do what he did, and it doesn’t really matter now. What’s done is done. He just wanted you to know what happened.”

We reminisced about the old days as we ate and laughed at some of the awkward circumstances we experienced. After we finished, I told her I would like to spend longer with Roland and felt badly but needed to leave to catch the train back to London. She asked me not to wake him and assured me that it was alright. Roland would wake and eat something later and she would bid him farewell for me. I told her I would return in a couple of weeks.

I was relieved. I really didn’t want to have to say goodbye to him. I didn’t want to face the finality.

Roland passed away the following week and a simple but beautiful service was held on Saturday at Cannington’s Church of St. Mary. I had hired a car and drove down for the day with Sofiya and Jason. The church was a stunning structure dating back to the fourteenth century. The beds bordering the church and pathways were loaded with spring flowers in full bloom. The setting was fitting for Roland.

Jenny kept herself together extremely well under the circumstances. Their marriage wasn’t always what one would describe as harmonious, but they had been together for close to forty years. She would find the adjustment to being on her own extremely tough.

The turnout of friends and acquaintances was remarkable, and it was easy to see that Jenny appreciated them paying their respects and showing their support. After the service, the group gathered in the church hall for tea and snacks. The hall was cold, and the sound of the steel legged tables and chairs echoed off the painted brick walls and tiled floors. But it didn’t stop everyone from sharing enthusiastically, stories about their experiences with Roland. Some were humorous anecdotes about his eccentricities and propensity for drinking and some were about his warm generosity to his fellow man.

As the group enjoyed each other’s tales, I thought about mine. About my time with Roland. My story. And how it had never been properly shared.

When there was a lull in the proceedings, I stood up and said, “When I first met Roland I was fifteen years old and extremely fond of music. Living in a small village in West Africa, my opportunities were limited but Roland encouraged me and taught me to play piano. At the same time, he filled my head with tales of his travels and adventures. Today, due largely to his influence, I have an excellent job teaching music in a high school in London and have been able to see a lot of the world. Roland gave me the curiosity and desire to want to go out into the world and the self-confidence and encouragement to do it. He was a tremendous help to me and like everyone else here, I’ll miss him big time.”

But in a way, I felt like I’d cheated these people. Because that didn’t begin to tell the story. The real story. What had happened all those years ago and miles away. About our time at the Chateau and the events that led up to and followed the killing of “the son-of-a-bitch.” And how I ended up in England.

After the guests had left and we were helping tidy up, I cornered Jenny. “What would you think,” I asked her, “about me putting the story together, of our adventures in the Ivory Coast, our time at Chateau Abengourou? Putting it on paper to share with others?”

She thought for a moment and I could see her mind reliving the events from so long ago. Her eyes looked distant and I was expecting her to discourage me from digging up the past. Then a smile came across her face and she turned to me and said, “That really was quite an adventure wasn’t it? I think the idea is smashing. You should do it. And don’t leave out a thing.”

So, I started putting the story pieces together and tracking down anyone I could find that had been at Chateau Abengourou with us in 1991. I told them what I was doing, and they offered their help enthusiastically. I asked them to send emails detailing the events as they remembered them, and the response was overwhelming. Everyone had a slightly different version of what happened but they all remembered Roland and Jenny, and all wanted to help. Then I sifted through the emails and phone conversation records combining the details of their input with what I could remember myself and filling in the blanks as best I could. Slowly the pieces of the story of the Spirits’ Gold came together.