Free In the Belly of the Elephant by Susan Corbett Page B

square, usually bustling with late day commerce, was empty. The shops that lined the perimeter of the square were all closed, their fronts covered with tin awnings that dropped down to block doors and windows.
    Everyone started talking at once about la grève . Fati and Nassuru switched from French to rapid Fulfuldé.
    “The workers have gone on strike!” Adiza peered out the windows at the empty market.
    My only experience with strikes had been in Liberia. Strikes meant looting and soldiers with guns.
    We pulled into the office courtyard and found Djelal, Don, and Luanne standing near the double doors. Nassuru, Fati, and Adiza were smiling. Everyone seemed pleased. It was hard not to get caught up in the excitement, but still, my hands started to sweat.
    “Why are they striking?”
    “President Lamizana is making the same mistake as his predecessor,” Djelal said. He explained that, after independence, Maurice Yaméogo was elected president of the new republic of Upper Volta. Yaméogo dissolved all political parties except the Union Démocratique Voltaique, cut the salaries of civil servants, and built himself a luxurious palace while the rest of the people lived in poverty. Lamizana had overthrown Yaméogo.
    “Now, Lamizana is cutting the salary of the civil servants.” Djelal shrugged. “So the workers have called a strike.”
    “Will there be another coup?” I asked.
    Djelal raised his eyebrows and Adiza pointed.
    A military truck entered town on the south road, followed by another. Trucks kept emerging from the dust left by the ones before. After five or six passed, I stopped counting.
    We all watched in silence as soldiers piled out of the trucks and crowded the square. I recalled the night in Liberia when a soldier had stopped our car. A boy no older than fifteen in a tattered uniform had pointed his rifle at us until we dashed him a few dollars to let us pass. Soldiers made me nervous.
    “What will they do?” I wiped my palms on the sides of my dress.
    “Lamizana is just reminding us that he controls the military,” Djelal answered. “Don’t worry. No one has ever been killed in Upper Volta for political reasons. They will patrol the streets, then leave in a few days.”
    I kept reminding myself that Upper Volta was not Liberia and hoped Djelal’s prediction held true.
    By evening, more soldiers had arrived, setting up military tents, and patrolling the streets. Dori’s small military outpost had tripled its number of soldiers in one afternoon.
    We were told to go home and stay there. Hamidou drove us all to our various courtyards. I found Laya and the kids waiting for me, the table set for the meal I had missed at noon. We sat in our places.
    “ Bismillah !” Laya said, and we ate.
    The children chattered about the soldiers as we all cleared the table. Laya warned me to stay in my courtyard and they left. I saw them to the gate and waved at Old Issa across the way. He smiled and nodded to me. I am here. Don’t worry.
    So, there I was, boxed up once again in my courtyard, but this time with a 10 pm curfew. Being a prisoner in my own compound was different when it was somebody else’s choice. Three military trucks drove by. As I watched between the cracks in my wall, I had the sinking sensation of standing in the path of an oncoming train. There were eyeballs painted on its headlight.

Chapter 6
    Falsehood
    Late October/Dhu-al Hijja
    A rust-colored scorpion the length of my little finger hugged the edge of the patio next to the wall, its tail tilted upward ready to strike. Broom in hand, I kept my distance, remembering the scorpion that had crawled out from behind my bed in Liberia. That scorpion had been ten inches from head to tail, fat, and a solid blue-green. This one was small, nearly translucent, its sting more painful, much the same as a baby rattlesnake’s bite is more potent than an adult’s. It had taken five or six good strokes of a sharp machete to kill the bigger scorpion.
    I fetched