Free Adé: A Love Story by Rebecca Walker

not unlike the shacks where my mother was born, in the South—but these were filthy and run down, and those were not. Five or six children ran, laughing, between them, playing a version of tag. Their clothes were dirty, their houses were dirty, their road was dirty. Adé and I were spotless—the wealthy city mice visiting the poor country mice, except we were not particularly wealthy, just clean and full of hope.
    Another turn and then, there he was—Adé’s father—on the porch of one of his little houses, sitting stock still on the top step, expecting us, it would seem, with one elbow resting on a raised knee. He saw us, but showed no emotion. He was darker than I had imagined, darker than Adé, than Nuru. He looked hollow, lost, overrun. He seemed angry. He glanced at us, briefly, with a stare so empty that a chill ran through me. It occurred to me that I did not know where I was, or with whom. If anything happened, I would barely know how to get back to Lamu.
    Adé made the respectful greeting. “Papa,
shikamoo,
this is Farida.”
    His father looked briefly at Adé and gave me a quick glance before nodding a begrudging approval. Adé asked after his four wives, and all of their children. He knew all of their names and ages, and each of them came up to him as he spoke and looked at him shyly, with shining eyes, admiration, and not a small bit of awe. He was from far away! He was their big brother, even if they did not know exactly what that meant. Adé pulled small giftsfor them out of his shoulder bag, items I had not seen him pack. A
kanga
for the oldest girl, gum and candy for the youngest, pens for the boy in the middle. The wives stood watching without words, nodding their heads in gratitude from doorways. The scene was like an old Western: tumbleweeds, stoicism, unspoken heartache, and an undercurrent of violence.
    I wondered if these children had ever seen the ocean. I wondered what it would be like to be related to them. Would they expect me to bring them gifts, to curry favors on their behalf? I respected the family, but knew I did not want this responsibility. Nuru’s children would always have my allegiance. But these children did not belong to her or Adé, these children I would not, could not, claim.
    After a few more silent moments, Adé pulled out a giant wad of bills—cash I did not know he had, more money than I ever imagined he could have—and handed it over to the wordless, emotionless man. The wives moved closer. The children grew quiet. Adé said something I could not understand, did not need to understand. The money, my presence, his determination to face his father squarely, without deference, were all signs, at least to me, of Adé claiming his freedom. He had been a good son; he had honored his father over the years, despite his father’s dishonoring his mother and abandoning him. Now he had his own bride, his own money. He was leaving his father’s house.
    His father did not count the money, but slipped it into his shirt pocket with a nod. He did not thank Adé, but accepted the bills as if they were owed to him. As if the deal had been struck long ago and there was no need for pretense. Adé paid for his release, and when the transaction was complete, their eyes met andparted for the last time. Adé turned, and I with him, to take our rightful place in another life far, far away.
    Adé was quiet all the way back on the bus to the small house in the main town of Malindi, closer to where the ferry docked. The three women—Khadija, Asma, and Halima—his cousins, answered the door with bright smiles and a huge meal of coconut rice and cassava. I exhaled as they spoke Swahili too quickly for me to understand, and wandered through the simple, wood-framed house until I found a room with a small bed. I pulled a few of my
kangas
from my bag for cover, and drifted into a deep sleep filled with dreams of dust, winding roads, and strangers appearing out of tall grasses.
    I awoke to darkness and