Chris Abani - GraceLand

“Where are we going?” Elvis asked.

“To collect de merchandise,” the driver said.

Elvis studied the two men up front. The driver was short, dark and thick, and he gripped the steering wheel with short, stubby fingers and small hands. He had introduced himself as Anthony, and he seemed garrulous and friendly.

The other passenger was tall and skinny, like an upright mamba, and as dark, his skin shining with a purple hue. He wore a sour expression that seemed apt given that his name was Conrad. His face was patterned with deeply cut tribal marks that would have identified his exact clan a century ago, and might have also saved him from being sold into slavery, because the scarifications would have lessened his market value — unless he ran into slavers so desperate for a trade that they wouldn’t care. He was taciturn, barely responding to their greetings, and then gruffly. The only thing the two men had in common were glittering red eyes; probably the result of some drug, Elvis decided.

“Are we going to meet the Colonel?” he asked.

“You ask too many questions. Watch yourself,” Conrad warned.

Elvis lapsed into silence, staring out the window at the increasingly rural landscape. Tall elephant grass that reminded him of his childhood and the rhino beetle hunts he went on, wading through the four-, sometimes five-foot-tall grass, peeling the reluctant armored black beetles from their perches on the tips of the grass. He and his friends would tie stiff black hair-plaiting thread, obtained from a female relative, to the beetles’ torsos, under their wings. Prodded with sticks by the boys, the beetles would take off, flying in circles controlled by the strings, whirring like small black helicopters.

As they passed the occasional small town, he saw old men and women dozing outside their huts. Dogs slept in the middle of the road, where it was warm, reluctantly getting out of the way for their truck. But Anthony never slowed down or swerved to avoid any, and he left a trail of roadkill behind them.

“Hey, Zorba!” Conrad said every time they hit one.

Elvis conjectured that Zorba was Anthony’s nickname. It probably came from the movie Zorba the Greek , with Anthony Quinn. In some way, he guessed, it made sense.

They had been driving for about four hours and dusk was settling, but just before it got really dark, they pulled up to a solitary hut. A single kerosene lantern burned from the top of a pole mounted outside. Though there was no sign of any electric lights, a generator thumped somewhere behind the hut. There was only the sound of the generator and the idle throb of their engine. Even cicadas did not sing. Anthony and Conrad got out.

“Wait here!” Conrad called over his shoulder.

Elvis and Redemption exchanged looks. Leaning forward, Redemption wound down his window and lit a cigarette, taking a deep, grateful drag.

“Give me one, man,” Elvis said.

“Dis is my last. I go fifty you,” Redemption replied.

He took a few more drags that burned the cigarette half down. Reluctantly he passed it to Elvis, who sucked greedily until he burned through to the stub.

“Dis car big O!” Redemption said looking around the back of the truck. The GMC truck had two regular rows of seats, and two benches in the back that faced each other. “I fit take it make good taxi. Carry plenty passengers one time,” he continued.

“I don’t trust those guys,” Elvis replied.

If Redemption was surprised at the non sequitur, he did not show it. “Me too,” he agreed.

Just then Anthony and Conrad came out of the hut carrying two giant plastic coolers. Grunting, they struggled to get them into the back of the truck. Turning in his seat, Elvis offered to help.

“Clever man,” Anthony replied cheerfully. “You wait until we done, den you offer.”

Elvis laughed uncomfortably. Conrad had already started walking back to the hut. He returned with six people. As they got close, Elvis saw that their hands were tied and that they were a mixed bunch of kids, boys and girls, ranging in age from about eight to sixteen. Conrad opened the back doors and they filed in silently, sitting facing each other, three to a side, on the benches, the coolers sitting on the floor between them.

While Anthony rambled on about the weather and the trouble the repeated rains were causing his father’s farm and their crops, Conrad chained the feet of their new passengers together. He was about to slam the door shut when a hard-faced man came banging out of the hut, lugging a third giant cooler.

“What’s dat?” Conrad asked. “Colonel said two cooler.”

“Dis is food and drink. It is long trip.”

“Okay. Help me load it,” Conrad said, lighting a cigarette.

The man grunted from the effort of carrying the heavy cooler by himself, shooting baleful looks at Conrad, who just watched, smoking. There wasn’t enough space to get the third cooler in on the floor, so the man sat it on top of the other two coolers already there. With any luck it would upturn and spill the food and drink everywhere, the man thought. But thinking better of it, he lifted it back down and began to move the other coolers around to see if he could fit them all in on the floor. As he was doing that, Elvis turned away from Conrad and the man and focused on Anthony. He was talking rapidly, even more so than he had on the drive up, and he seemed agitated. Elvis could hear the generator thudding away in the background and wondered why it wasn’t connected to any lights — at least, none that he could see. Perhaps it powered some other device. He was curious, but knew better than to ask Anthony or Conrad.

“Redemption, you hold your gun?” Anthony asked.

“Sure.”

“You get bullet?” Anthony pressed, loading a big revolver.

Redemption took out his automatic, pulled out the magazine and checked it. Elvis looked from one gun to the other nervously. He didn’t like guns.

“Bullet dey, thirteen rounds accounted for, sir,” Redemption said in mock military style. Both he and Anthony laughed.

“Why you dey always laugh?” Conrad asked, getting in and slamming the door.

“Easy, Connie, you too vex.”

“Go, go,” Conrad said, slapping the door of the car.

“Okay,” Anthony said, grinding gears and accelerating too fast. The truck skidded in the sand before finding a grip and heading off.

Elvis turned to look at the six passengers. None of them were moving. They wore dazed expressions and seemed unaware of their restraints.

“Who are they?” Elvis asked.

“De people you are here to escort. Anthony is driver and I am relief driver. You are de escorts.”

“Why are they chained?”

“Dey are crazy runaways from Ghana. Their papa is a big man in Rawlings gofment, so we are returning dem to their parents. Simple,” Anthony replied.

Elvis sat back. He didn’t believe a word of it, but he knew better than to ask more questions.

He stared out of the windows at the thick soup of night. It was so dark he could barely make out the shapes of trees and huts lying low like sleeping animals. They stopped at several police checkpoints. Each time, Anthony handed some money and cigarettes to a lead officer.

“Esprit de corps,” he called each time as they drove off.

“Esprit,” the officers always responded.

Elvis looked at Redemption the second time he heard the exchange.

“Army talk,” Redemption said. In minutes, he was asleep. Elvis couldn’t sleep. He was too scared. Everything was wrong, and yet he couldn’t tell exactly what. He didn’t believe they were returning the kids to their parents, but couldn’t think of anything else they might be doing with them. He sighed and looked behind him. In the gloom, he could make out that one of the kids, a young girl, was staring straight at him, eyes awake, afraid. He wanted to say something to reassure her, make her shift her gaze, but he couldn’t think of anything.