Doeba Bropleh
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FOYA’S MOON, a Short Story by Doeba Bropleh
Yama continued to wave through the scratched-up window of the rusty mini-bus though she could no
longer see Zuma, the guy she now knew she loved. It was as if she hoped that the waving would wipe away
the confusion dicing up her insides. Yama was more mixed up than two days ago when she visited her old
hometown of Foya. “I’m never coming back here,” she muttered, still looking back towards the bus depot.
Her voice created a small circle of fog on the glass; it disappeared quickly.
When Yama got to Foya two days ago she had gone straight to her best friend Korto’s house.
“Yama Galapka, that’s you?” Korto shrieked. Korto was on her front porch when she saw Yama, her friend
since grade school. “What you doin’ back in this town?”
Yama’s family had moved from Foya to Voinjama six years ago when her father, Kekura Galapka, became
vice president of the Lofa County Agricultural Development Project. No one from that family had been back
to the tranquil town until now. When she lived in Foya, Yama had always talked about leaving and not
returning, but here she was.
The small agricultural town of Foya had a couple hundred residents and a large, round palaver hut in the
middle where everything important was held: weddings, trials, meetings, parties, everything. There was
one grade school, one high school and no college.
“It’s me, it’s me,” Yama laughed as she ran into Korto’s deep embrace. The young ladies, both twenty-four
years old now, hadn’t seen each other in the six years since the Galapka family had been away. Korto,
who had on a brown mud-cloth dress with white circular patterns, spun her friend around to size her up.
“Look at you Ms. city girl—all dressed up and lookin’ good.”
Yama had on a lavender knee-length tie-dye dress. “Oh stop it,” she deflected. “No, check you out and
your beautiful hair.” They exchanged a few more compliments, then Korto said:
“You been wantin’ to see the world since we were small lil’ girls and you couldn’t wait to get outta here.
Why you back?” Korto had her arm around Yama’s shoulder. “You came to tell us you gettin’ married or
somethin’? Please don’t tell me somethin’ bad happened.”
“No and no,” Yama laughed. She went on to assure her friend that she wasn’t even close to getting
married and that nothing bad had happened to anyone in her family. “Not really sure why but something
just made me want to come back.”
After a filling meal of rice and potato greens, Yama and Korto settled on the porch—a place where they
had spent a lot of time together while they were growing up. Today, they sat there drinking Lancer wine
and talking about old times and new developments. Yama had earned a degree in journalism and now
worked as a reporter for a news magazine in Voinjama. Her job had enabled her to travel across Liberia:
from Cape Palmas to Yekepa to Zwedru to Robertsport. For her part, Korto explained that she was thinking
about leaving to get an associates degree in drafting from a college in Voinjama, but life kept getting in the
way. She went on to tell Yama about Foya’s dearly departed, the stubborn and stagnant, the lucky and
those down on their luck. But they spent the most time giggling about how Yama had taught several guys
to please her.
“You never told me his name, but you did mention the first guy you tried that with,” Korto said. “Think we
were in ninth grade at the time. Still teachin’ men huh? You’ve been a brave girl for a long time.” They
laughed hard. Early evening, shimmering in the silver of a full moon, draped the reunion. Its air was still
laced with sounds of the ladies’ joy when Korto said, “Oh yeah, I got engaged ‘bout two years ago.”
Yama paused mid-laugh before blurting, “What? Why didn’t you tell me that first?” she hugged her friend.
“Congrats!”
“Well, it’s been so long, don’t even know when we gettin’ married.”
“You will, don’t worry. Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Ezekiel Morris,” Korto blushed. “Rememba him from school? He was two grades higha than us.”
“E-ze-kiel, E-ze-ki-el,” Yama rolled the name around her brain. “It doesn’t ring a bell, but maybe if I see his
face.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Korto said as she refilled their glasses with wine. The two friends talked and laughed until
fatigue closed their eyes.
The next morning, after enjoying a steaming plate of cassava with chicken gravy, Yama told Korto she had
to leave. “Aunty Yassa will kill me if I don’t make it to her house soon. Knowing her I’ll have to eat again
when I get there.”
Yassa Gayflor, Kekura Galapka’s older sister, lived across town from Korto’s place. Her late husband, the
Reverend Sumo Gayflor, was naked while administering special rites to a member of his church’s choir
when he up and died in her room early one Sunday evening six months ago. Yassa Gayflor had begged
her brother not to come to Foya for the funeral.
Before Yama walked away from the verandah she turned back to Korto who was gathering the dishes.
“Zuma Kesselley—remember that guy? He used to play football for Foya Central High.”
Korto raised her eyes as if the answer was stuck on the thatch ceiling. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, he still around.
Now they call him—” her voice trailed off.
“They call him what? What were you going to say?”
“Nothin’,” Korto kept her eyes low and stared at the dirty dishes.
Yama moved in front of Korto forcing her to look up and lock eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’,” Korto repeated, clearing her throat, “he workin’ as the manager at Haddad store.” She smirked at
Yama, “Goin’ visit him?”
“No, we didn’t talk about him last night so I was just wondering.”
Korto smiled and waved as Yama left.
On her way to her aunt’s house, Yama turned left just before the main path fed into the grassy quad in the
middle of Foya. She was at Haddad’s Enterprises before long, and was taken to Zuma Kesselley’s office.
Zuma kept his gaze on the papers sprawled across his maple-colored desk when Yama was shown in.
After several moments, the clerk cleared his throat, “Eh, boss man, dis lady here to see you.”
Zuma looked up, then tilted his head as if the diagonal position aided his recognition process. The clerk
shuffled out.
“Yama Galapka? Damnit!”
“Hello Zuma.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Zuma circled from behind his desk and smothered her in a hug.
Tentative at first, Yama exhaled and allowed herself to feel him pressing against her. They both emitted
little awkward laughs when they stepped back to get a good look at each other. “Ms. I-couldn’t-wait-to-get-
out-of-Foya, what brings you here?”
Yama had had to do too much explaining last night when she told Korto that she wasn’t sure why she had
come back, so she said, “Here to see Aunty Yassa. I heard how my Uncle Sumo died and I wanted to
spend some time with her.”
“Yeah, that was a mess around here,” Zuma’s smile was pulled to the sides of his face.
“I was headed to her place when I decided to stop and say hello.”
“Glad you did. I’ll finish up here and drop you off.” Zuma began to straighten up some papers on his desk.
“You really don’t have to. This place hasn’t gotten any bigger and Aunty Yassa’s place isn’t that far.”
“I insist because we have a lot of catching up to do.”
Yama knew that her smile that followed was forced. Was she nervous? Another inexplicable feeling tugged
at her gut when Zuma put his sinewy arm across her shoulder to lead her out of the office. She breathed a
sigh of relief—or was it disappointment?—when he removed his arm to lock his office door.
“By the way, how did you know where to find me?”
“Korto Kollie told me that you were the manager here. This town is small, so I’m sure you know my friend.”
“Of course,” Zuma cleared his throat, then told the clerk that he was leaving to run a few errands.
Zuma and Yama stepped into heavy afternoon heat. After helping her into his gray Toyota pick-up truck,
he asked if they could stop by his place for him to change out of his work clothes. Yama nodded as she
gazed at the palaver hut in the middle of the quad where she and Korto used to sit and share Fanta on
their way home from elementary school. The circular structure looked aged and now had caked dust
standing in for paint.
Zuma showed Yama around his home then disappeared into his room to change. He emerged while putting
on a linen shirt with the map of Africa stitched in the center. Yama shifted her head away, but her eyes
remained fixed on the six-foot-three inch frame striding towards her. When he got close Yama looked up
from the couch and asked for some water. Zuma apologized for not offering Yama anything. “Was trying to
hurry up and get you to your aunty’s place since you came all the way here to see her.” He headed past
the mahogany-paneled dining room into the kitchen. Yama’s eyes, possessed, followed his jeans. She didn’
t mean to stare when Zuma returned with the glass of water but his chest showed in relief through the linen
shirt. She damn near choked when Zuma sat next to her.
“You ok?”
“Yep, just swallowed too fast.” Yama wiped the trickle sneaking from the corner of her mouth then pointed
towards his chest, “How’s your moon?”
“Still here,” Zuma said patting his heart. “Right where you left it.”
Yama started to reach towards his chest, then stopped.
“It’s ok,” Zuma coaxed, “you can touch it. Besides, you’re the one who taught me that it wasn’t ugly.”
Yama didn’t think she should, but her fingers, without waiting for instructions, began tracing the crescent-
shaped scar on Zuma’s chest. When Zuma was thirteen he had slipped and fallen on a rusty oil barrel
which gashed his chest.
Yama felt her heart beating in her ears as soon as Zuma started to caress the back of her hand. His palms
were calloused from years of farm work but his touch felt tender to Yama, like the insides of a ripe butter
pear. Each brush of his fingers against her skin was a tantalizing whisper that she was special, that he
savored being with her and didn’t want to be anywhere else. She whispered, “Wait...wait,” but nothing else
when Zuma touched the side of her face. His stroke caused a muted tickle that made Yama’s lungs rise in
search of air. She slipped her hand under Zuma’s shirt and rubbed his scar.
“I often think about the times we shared,” Zuma’s voice was low, “but our first time meant the most to me.”
His hand, moving in tandem with his measured voice, rediscovered the curves of Yama’s shoulders, the
valley of her collarbone, the rise of her breasts. With his free hand Zuma hit the remote and flooded the
house with Miatta Fahnbulleh’s sultry "Come With Me".
“W-we should stop,” Yama murmured, but continued to massage the scar.
Zuma paused, then said, “I’ll never forget what you told me the very first time we were together.” His hands
were ushering the tension right out of her flesh. “Remember?”
Yama, squinting at the cherry-colored, long-faced Lorma mask hanging on the wall in front of her, tried to
force her mind to change how her body was responding. She shook her head though she recalled their
first time in detail so vivid she could touch it.
“You said, ‘Zuma, go slow...make your body talk to mine.’”
“I rememb—” Yama was interrupted by Zuma’s lips. It was what she’d wanted as soon as she had seen him
behind his desk. When his tongue struck up a conversation with hers, Yama closed her eyes and felt her
heart thumping against her rib cage as their sounds slow danced.
When their bodies could not move any more, daylight was no longer wedged in the narrow middle slit
where the two sides of the curtains refused to stay together. Evening had ridden in on the back of dusk.
Yama looked around the living room as if she had just walked through the door, as if she did not recognize
the place any longer. She could hear the chirping of the insects of the night as Miatta Fahnbulleh’s "Amo
Sakee Sa" ended.
Rrring. Rrring. Zuma apologized, picked up the phone from the coffee table, checked the display, then put
it on silent. “Ezekiel this, Ezekiel that—people need to leave me alone sometimes.”
“Who’s Ezekiel?” Heat rushed to Yama’s face; her heart pounded as if a pestle hammering the center of a
mortar.
Zuma explained how he had taken the name when he went to live with Professor and Mrs. Morris who had
come from Buchanan to teach at the technical college nearby. “I got lucky because Prof offered me tuition,
room and board at a time when my family couldn’t pay for any more schooling.” He told her how the
professor and his wife didn’t have any children, so they offered names to the three boys they took in.
"Ezekiel was Prof’s father’s name,” Zuma said, “and it stuck.”
“What?” Yama leapt from the couch as if she had just sat on white-hot coals. “I’m leaving.”
“Why?” Zuma reached toward her. “What’s the matter?” his voice searching for the reason for the outburst.
“Nothing,” Yama turned her face and blocked Zuma’s arm. “I have to go.”
“I’ll take you. It’s dark and you haven’t been here in a while.”
“No, it’s okay,” Yama shook her head like a wet dog flinging off water, “I’ll walk.” She got into her clothes
much faster than she had taken them off. As she stormed to the front door Yama glanced at the Lorma
mask on the wall which looked back at her as if saying: “I saw you.”
Zuma had hopped back into his jeans and shirt. “I don’t know what’s wrong all of a sudden,” he was
shaking his head, “but I’m happy you came back.”
“I should have stayed away,” Yama blared, bumping into a wooden end table which had a palm tree carved
on the top.
“Well,” Zuma said, “even if you don’t want to admit it, your navel string is buried here.”
“Wasn’t talking about that,” Yama hissed then hurled herself into the crisp evening. She hoped that the
Harmattan winds would blow her away.
*****
Yama didn’t get much sleep and when she woke up the next morning she knew she had to leave. Her mind
was exorcising itself.
Tell Korto but maybe not what will I say will she believe me why did I come she’s my friend why did she take
Zuma he was mine she deserves to know what happened I should’ve stopped myself maybe what she
doesn’t know won’t hurt her I’m so ashamed of myself how could I do this I should leave and never come
back....
Yama was still wrapped in her morning lappa when she told her aunt a story about her boyfriend calling to
say that he had come down with malaria and needed her. She told her that his family was in Grand Gedeh
and he was alone in Voinjama. Yama bore her aunt’s ranting objections then got dressed and went out to
say bye to a few people. Korto was not one of them.
Yama was walking past the sprawling breadfruit tree next to the palaver hut when she ran into Zuma on his
way to work. She dispensed pleasantries like a bothersome formality, then before Zuma could respond she
lowered her voice and said: “How come you didn’t tell me you were engaged to Korto?”
“Thought you knew, everyone knows.”
“She told me her fiancé’s name was Ezekiel. Didn’t know it was you until-”
“Well, it didn’t stop me.”
“But you’re a man, just like all the others,” Yama dropped her head. “And you knew Korto was my good
friend.”
Zuma sat on the banister. “It didn’t stop me because I’ve wanted you since the day you showed me how to
talk with my body.”
“This isn’t right,” Yama grunted, “you’re engaged.”
“I waited a long time for you to come back Yama.”
“Korto’s my friend…”
“Yeah, but why didn’t she tell you? She knew you and I had been together.”
“She did? How? Did you tell her?” Yama was frowning so hard she could see her eye brows.
“She figured it out.”
“How—huh?” Yama caught herself before her voice got too loud. Zuma explained how Korto had begun
making advances at him. He told Yama how Korto had been standing close to him when he took off his wet
jersey after a football game. “She came towards me, glanced at my chest and said: ‘So that’s the moon
she was talking about.’”
“She said that?”
“Yes, she did,” Zuma’s arms were outstretched with his palms turned up to the broiling sun. “Yama, you’re
the only person who has ever described my scar that way.” He grinned, “You used to say that you wanted
to lay your head on my moon.”
“I remember,” Yama hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
“Anyway, after that incident, Korto turned it on strong, ask anybody. I told her how I felt about you, but she
told me over and over that with your get-up-and-go attitude, there was no way you were coming back.”
“You were waiting?” Yama sounded conciliatory.
“For about three years. I gave up when Korto told me she had spoken with you and you told her that you
won’t ever come back to Foya.”
“I never told Korto that,” Yama shook her head the way people do when severe reality is setting in.
“That’s what she said, I swear,” Zuma reinforced.
Yama started to walk away. Four worry-free boys ran by using rods fashioned from steel clothes hangers
to push bicycle tire rims. In front of Foya Elementary School a group of young girls were engrossed in a
heated game of Knock Foot. The girls stirred up burnt-orange dust that hung in the air, playing along.
Zuma pursued Yama, “I’ve always wanted to be with you,” he said a few times to her back.
Yama stopped and without turning to face Zuma, spat: “I’m catching a bus and getting out of here. Stop
following me Zuma, people are watching. Bye.” She continued along the path.
“Yama, Yama!”
The girls paused from clapping and kicking their legs at each other to glance towards Zuma who was
standing in place.
“Yama!”
*****
A few minutes later, Yama arrived back at her aunt’s place to pick up her suitcase. After surviving another
tirade from her aunt about why “she had to be the only person in this whole world who could tend to her so-
called boyfriend,” she made it to the guest room where her luggage was. Korto was sitting on the bed.
“Oh yeah,” Aunty Yassa yelled from the hallway, “Korto’s in the room waiting for you.”
“Came by yesterday evenin’, but you weren’t here.” Korto was chipper and her smile was as brilliant as it
was two days ago when her friend came to town. Yama remained silent. “Brought you some eddoe soup
with stock fish for breakfas’.” Korto removed the lid from the enamel bowl etched with delicate green
flowers; the aroma blanketed the room. The morning was in full bloom and passersby walked by the room
window going about their Saturday errands.
Yama coughed out a “thank you” but remained close to the door, close to her luggage.
Korto pushed some steam back into the bowl as she replaced the top, “Why you standin’ over there lookin’
like that?”
“I’m going back today,” Yama blurted out.
“But you jus’ got here,” Korto’s brows were furrowed.
Yama sputtered through her story about the sick boyfriend.
“Boyfrien’? Thought you said you weren’t goin’ out with nobody, at least not seriously,” Korto had a wry
smile. “And you, of all people, cuttin’ your trip short for man business? Ms. men-are-so-spoiled herself?”
“It’s something new,” Yama retorted through clenched teeth.
Korto chuckled. “Wish I could at least take you to the bus station, but tomorrow’s Zeke’s birthday and I’ve
gotta get fresh stuff to cook him his favorite dish: kitili torborgee.”
Yama’s mind clawed at her; Korto continued to talk with a tone of oblivion.
“Really wish you didn’t have to go. I’m missin’ you already. Make sure it’s not anotha six years before you
come back to visit. Better yet, I’m comin’ to Voinjama.”
Yama grunted in the place of a response.
“When you comin’ back?” Korto asked.
“Don’t think I’ll ever be back,” Yama lifted her suitcase. “At least this time I’m actually telling you so you don’
t have to lie about it.”
“Wha’dya mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. Why didn’t you tell me that Zuma was Ezekiel—Huh?” Yama fumed. “And
that you’re engaged to the only man I really liked in this town?”
Yama’s and Korto’s eyes darted to everything in the room except each other. After an uncomfortable
pause, Korto asked, “So what’s the real reason you came back?”
Yama glared at the young lady she had known since elementary school, but didn’t recognize the look on
her face for it lacked the deference Yama had commanded in the past. Yama’s laugh was thin, like the
laugh of a defiant boy getting spanked, but fighting back tears.
“Because my navel string is buried here.”
Korto stood up from the bed. She had on a sky-blue African gown decorated with white drums. The
embroidered v-neck was cut low. “He wouldn’ have been enough for you,” she stated in a small, but firm
voice. “Zeke belongs here—with me.” Yama and Korto were now eye-to-eye. “You would’ve broken him
down, just like you did a few others ‘round here.”
“You don’t know that,” Yama backed out the room. “You don’t!” She found her aunt, kissed her bye, then
stormed off to the bus station, leaving the bowl of eddoe soup on the table. Korto watched her from the
room.
“Only two mo’ seat...Voinjama here!” an enthusiastic car boy crowed repeatedly. Everything Got Time was
emblazoned in big, yellow cursive letters on the hood of the mini-bus. Yama took one of the two remaining
seats and before long the driver was negotiating the rickety vehicle between throngs of people and around
potholes that looked more like giant rice fanners. It was near the outskirts of the bus depot that Yama saw
Zuma. He had on a beige, sleeveless shirt made from country cloth, matching pants, and a pair of Tipotehs
on his feet. He was jogging beside and looking into each bus as they snaked their way to the main road.
Zuma did the same thing when Yama’s bus got close to him. Their eyes met as he ran alongside the bus
and Yama looked back to maintain eye contact as the bus turned out of the depot area and began to pick
up speed.
Yama hadn’t seen his hand go up, but she did see Zuma waving. When she tried to wave back, her finger
tips brushed against the scratched-up window glass just as thick column of brownish-orange dust raced
from the back tires of the bus and swallowed Zuma whole.
Doeba Bropleh, raised in Liberia, has published short stories
and essays in award-winning journals and periodicals including:
Sea Breeze Journal of Contemporary Liberian Writings,
Pambazuka News and Milvia Street Art and Literary Journal.
Doeba also enjoys photography. His photos have been featured
in the magazine Liberia Travel and Life and in several shows
including the 2008-2009 “Africa Now!” exhibition in Washington D.
C. sponsored by the World Bank’s Art Program.
and essays in award-winning journals and periodicals including:
Sea Breeze Journal of Contemporary Liberian Writings,
Pambazuka News and Milvia Street Art and Literary Journal.
Doeba also enjoys photography. His photos have been featured
in the magazine Liberia Travel and Life and in several shows
including the 2008-2009 “Africa Now!” exhibition in Washington D.
C. sponsored by the World Bank’s Art Program.