Binta

Chapter Four — What My Father Took to His Grave

The words followed me into the hospital room.

Your father wasn't my father's friend.

I stood beside the bed, staring at the man who had raised me.

My father looked smaller than I had ever seen him.

The machines beside him blinked steadily. A thin tube ran beneath his nose. His eyes were closed, and there was a bandage across his forehead.

My mother sat on the other side of the bed, holding his hand.

"Talk to him," she whispered.

I couldn't.

I had spent my entire life thinking my father was the one person who always knew what to do.

When I was sick, he knew what medicine I needed.

When I was afraid, he knew what to say.

When I made mistakes, he knew how to make me understand them.

But now he was lying there, fighting for his life, and I couldn't even ask him the questions burning inside me.

A nurse entered.

"Only five minutes."

My mother nodded.

The nurse left.

I pulled a chair closer.

"Father?"

His eyelids moved.

"Father, it's me."

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

For a moment, he looked confused.

Then he recognized me.

"Issa."

His voice was barely audible.

"I'm here."

His eyes moved toward my mother.

She leaned closer.

"We're both here."

He closed his eyes again.

I reached for his hand.

"Who did this?"

He didn't answer.

"Was it an accident?"

His fingers tightened around mine.

That was enough.

It wasn't.

My heart began pounding.

"Father, tell me the truth."

He opened his eyes.

"Go home."

"No."

"Issa."

"You told me to leave the past alone."

He swallowed painfully.

"Please."

"I can't."

My mother looked at me.

"Issa, your father needs rest."

"No. I need answers."

My father's breathing became heavier.

"Gold Creek..."

His voice faded.

I leaned closer.

"What about Gold Creek?"

His eyes opened wider.

"Don't trust..."

He stopped.

"Don't trust who?"

His lips moved.

I couldn't hear him.

"Father?"

He whispered again.

"Don't trust..."

Then the machine beside him began making a rapid sound.

My mother screamed.

Doctors rushed into the room.

"Step back!"

I was pushed away.

"What's happening?"

"Please leave the room."

My mother grabbed my arm.

We were forced into the corridor.

The doors closed.

I stared through the glass.

Doctors surrounded him.

My mother's hand trembled in mine.

"Allah..."

I didn't know whether I was praying or simply begging.

Then, suddenly, everything became quiet.

Too quiet.

The doctors stopped moving.

One of them looked at the clock.

Another lowered his head.

My mother collapsed against me.

"No."

I caught her.

"No..."

The doctor stepped outside.

"I'm sorry."

Those two words destroyed the world I knew.

My father died before sunrise.

I had always thought death would be loud.

I imagined crying.

Screaming.

People running.

But it wasn't.

Sometimes death arrived quietly.

It simply took the person who had always been there and left an empty space where they used to stand.

For three days, our house was filled with people.

Relatives.

Neighbors.

Patients my father had treated.

People I didn't know came to tell stories about him.

One man traveled from Paynesville just to say that my father had once treated his daughter without asking for payment.

Another woman cried because my father had bought medicine for her when she couldn't afford it.

Someone called him a saint.

I didn't.

Not because he wasn't one.

Because saints didn't keep secrets like his.

On the fourth night, the house finally became quiet.

My mother had gone to bed.

I sat alone in my father's room.

His desk was exactly as he had left it.

His glasses.

His pen.

His medical files.

His old leather bag.

I opened the drawer.

Nothing.

Second drawer.

Nothing.

Third.

Locked.

I stared at it.

My father had never locked that drawer.

At least, not that I knew.

I searched the desk for the key.

Nothing.

Then I remembered his hospital bag.

I opened it.

Inside were several prescription pads, a stethoscope, some medicine, and an old envelope.

My name was written on it.

ISSA

My hands began to shake.

I opened it.

There was only one sheet of paper.

My son,

If you are reading this, then I was unable to tell you the truth myself.

I stopped breathing.

I continued.

There are things about our family that your mother does not know. There are things about Musa that I should have told you years ago.

I looked toward the door.

I almost stopped reading.

Then I forced myself to continue.

The marriage between you and Binta was never arranged because of tradition.

My heart hammered.

It began because of a debt.

I stared at the page.

A debt I have spent twenty-two years trying to repay.

Twenty-two years.

My age.

I kept reading.

Binta's mother was not who you think she was.

My fingers tightened around the paper.

And Gold Creek knows why.

I stood abruptly.

The chair fell behind me.

There was more.

One final sentence.

If anything happens to me, find the blue book before they do.

I stared at the words.

The blue book.

What blue book?

I searched the desk.

Nothing.

The shelves.

Nothing.

The cabinet.

Nothing.

Then I remembered the locked drawer.

I pulled at it.

It wouldn't move.

I searched through my father's things until I found a small metal key attached to his old keychain.

I tried it.

The lock clicked.

My heart jumped.

I opened the drawer.

There was a blue notebook inside.

Not a book.

A notebook.

Old.

Dusty.

The cover was faded.

I picked it up.

On the front were three words.

GOLD CREEK — 2004

I sat down.

My father had died hours earlier.

And somehow, the dead man had just opened a door into the past.

I didn't sleep.

At 5:40 a.m., I was still reading.

Names.

Dates.

Payments.

Meetings.

Transfers.

Some pages were written in my father's handwriting.

Others contained photocopies of documents.

I didn't understand everything.

But one name appeared repeatedly.

Musa Kamara.

Another appeared even more frequently.

Cole.

Tracy's family.

I turned another page.

There was a photograph.

My father.

Musa.

And three other men standing beside a building under construction.

The date was written beneath it.

October 2004.

I stared at my father's younger face.

He was smiling.

Musa stood beside him.

They looked like brothers.

But there was someone else in the photograph.

A woman.

I recognized her immediately.

Binta's face.

Not Binta herself.

Her mother.

She was younger.

Beautiful.

And standing beside her was a man I had seen before.

I froze.

It was the same man I had seen at Tracy's house.

The man who had walked beside her.

I turned the photograph over.

There was writing on the back.

Amina Kamara.

Daniel Cole.

Musa Kamara.

Dr. Bah.

Daniel Cole.

Tracy's father.

My stomach twisted.

I looked at the photograph again.

Why had my father been standing with Tracy's father and Binta's mother twenty-two years ago?

And what had they been building?

I turned the page.

A sentence had been underlined in red.

THE MONEY WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO REACH GOLD CREEK.

I stared at it.

Then another page.

Amina found out.

Another.

Daniel threatened Musa.

Another.

Bah refused to cooperate.

I stopped.

The handwriting became messier.

Almost frantic.

If Amina speaks, everyone falls.

I turned the page.

Nothing.

The next page had been torn out.

Then another.

And another.

Someone had removed several pages.

I flipped through the rest.

Near the back was a folded piece of paper.

I opened it.

A list of names.

At the bottom:

Binta — born August 2004.

My heart stopped.

I did the calculation.

The dates matched.

Binta had been born around the time everything happened.

I stared at her name.

Then at the photograph.

Then at the notebook.

A horrible thought entered my mind.

I didn't want to believe it.

But once the thought appeared, I couldn't force it away.

I needed to speak to Musa.

Immediately.

I found Musa later that afternoon at the same roadside where I'd first met Binta.

The tea cart was there.

The kettle steamed.

People came and went.

But Musa looked different when he saw me.

His smile disappeared.

"You came."

"Yes."

He looked at my clothes.

"You should be resting."

"My father is dead."

He lowered his head.

"May Allah grant him mercy."

"Did you know he was going to die?"

Musa looked at me sharply.

"What kind of question is that?"

"The kind I need answered."

He turned toward the kettle.

"Issa, this is not the place."

"Then where?"

"Come later."

"No."

He sighed.

"You are your father's son."

"I know."

"Too stubborn."

"Answer me."

He looked around.

Then lowered his voice.

"What do you want to know?"

I pulled the blue notebook from my bag.

His face changed instantly.

He reached for it.

I pulled it away.

"Where did you get that?"

"My father's room."

He looked frightened.

"Your father should have destroyed it."

"Why?"

"Because some things should remain buried."

"What happened in 2004?"

He didn't answer.

"What happened between you and my father?"

He looked at me.

"We were friends."

"No."

His eyes narrowed.

"We were friends."

"Then why did he write that he owed you?"

Musa went silent.

I stepped closer.

"And why is Binta's mother in this book?"

His hands began trembling.

"You shouldn't have this."

"Who is Daniel Cole?"

He looked away.

"Who is he?"

"Go home, Issa."

"Why?"

"Because you don't understand what you are asking."

"Then explain it."

He shook his head.

"You think knowing the truth will make things better?"

"I need to know."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because the truth doesn't always set people free."

He looked directly at me.

"Sometimes it buries them."

I stared at him.

Then I asked the question that had been haunting me since I saw the photograph.

"Was my father Binta's father?"

Musa's face went completely blank.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then he laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because he couldn't believe I had asked.

"No."

I exhaled.

Relief.

But Musa continued.

"Your father was not Binta's father."

I nodded.

Then he whispered:

"He was the reason Binta's mother died."

Everything inside me froze.

"What?"

Musa looked at the road.

"I shouldn't have said that."

"What did my father do?"

He closed his eyes.

Before he could answer, a car horn sounded.

Musa looked toward the road.

His face changed.

A black SUV had stopped across the street.

The same vehicle I had seen near the hospital.

Musa grabbed my arm.

"Leave."

"What?"

"Now."

"Why?"

He pushed the notebook back into my hands.

"Don't let them see you with this."

"Who?"

But he was already turning away.

"Musa!"

He walked quickly toward the back of the cart.

I followed.

Then a man's voice came from behind me.

"Issa."

I turned.

Daniel Cole stood several feet away.

Tracy's father.

He smiled.

But there was nothing friendly in it.

"I've been meaning to meet you."

I didn't respond.

He looked at the blue notebook in my hand.

Then his smile disappeared.

"Where did you get that?"

I stepped backward.

"Why do you care?"

His eyes hardened.

"Because some things belong to the dead."

He moved toward me.

I held the notebook tighter.

"Stay away from me."

He stopped.

"Your father should have listened when I told him the same thing."

My blood ran cold.

"You knew my father."

"Better than you think."

"What happened between you?"

He smiled again.

"Ask your mother."

I frowned.

"What does my mother have to do with this?"

Daniel turned toward his SUV.

"Everything."

He got inside.

Before the door closed, he looked at me.

"One more thing."

"What?"

"Don't trust Tracy."

The door slammed.

The SUV drove away.

I stood frozen.

Three people had now told me not to trust someone.

My father.

An anonymous stranger.

And now Daniel Cole.

But all three warnings were about different people.

Trina.

Tracy.

Binta's family.

I no longer knew who was lying.

That night, I called Tracy.

She answered immediately.

"Where have you been?"

"I need to ask you something."

"What?"

"Who is Daniel?"

Silence.

"My father?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Did he know my father?"

Another silence.

"Tracy."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Answer me."

"Yes."

"How well?"

"I don't know."

"Don't lie."

Her breathing changed.

"Issa, what's going on?"

"Did your father know my father before we met?"

"Yes."

"Did he know Binta's mother?"

Silence.

I knew.

She knew something.

"Tracy."

"I don't want to talk about this over the phone."

"Then tell me where you are."

"At home."

"I'll come."

"No."

"Why?"

"My father is here."

"I don't care."

"Issa, please."

"Why are you scared?"

"I'm not."

"You are."

She said nothing.

Then:

"Come tomorrow."

"No."

"Issa—"

"I want answers now."

"I can't give them to you."

"Why?"

Her voice dropped.

"Because if I tell you, everything changes."

The line went silent.

I pulled the phone away from my ear.

"Tracy?"

Nothing.

The call had ended.

I stared at the screen.

Then I received a message.

Not from Tracy.

From the unknown number.

You asked the wrong woman.

Another message arrived.

Binta knows.

I stared at the words.

Then another.

Ask her why she agreed to marry you.

I couldn't breathe.

I looked at the clock.

11:48 p.m.

I grabbed my keys.

Binta opened the door before I knocked twice.

She looked surprised to see me.

"Issa?"

"Did you know my father?"

Her expression changed.

"What?"

"Before the marriage."

She stepped aside.

"Come in."

I entered.

She closed the door.

"Why are you asking me this?"

"Because everyone knows something except me."

She looked at me carefully.

"What happened?"

"My father died."

Her eyes softened.

"I know."

"You knew him."

"Of course."

"No. I mean before."

She became silent.

"Binta."

She sat down.

I remained standing.

"Your father and mine knew each other."

She nodded.

"Yes."

"How?"

She looked at her hands.

"My father told me they were friends."

"He lied."

She looked up.

"What?"

"They weren't just friends."

"Then what were they?"

I placed the blue notebook on the table.

Her eyes widened.

"Where did you get that?"

"My father left it."

She stared at it.

"Open it."

"You've seen it before?"

She didn't answer.

"Binta."

She closed her eyes.

"My father told me never to talk about it."

"Why?"

"Because he said it would destroy you."

I laughed bitterly.

"Everyone keeps saying things will destroy me."

She looked at me.

"Maybe they're right."

I sat across from her.

"Why did you agree to marry me?"

She didn't answer.

"Was it because of your father?"

"Partly."

"What was the other reason?"

She looked away.

"Issa..."

"Tell me."

She swallowed.

Then whispered:

"Because your father asked me to."

I froze.

"What?"

"He came to see me months ago."

"My father?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

She looked directly into my eyes.

"He told me that if you ever found out the truth about our families, you would hate Binta Kamara."

My heart stopped.

"Why?"

She shook her head.

"He didn't tell me everything."

"Then what did he tell you?"

Her eyes filled with tears.

"He told me that marrying me was the only way to keep you alive."

I stared at her.

"What?"

"He said someone wanted you dead."

The room became completely silent.

I couldn't hear anything except my own heartbeat.

"Who?"

Binta shook her head.

"I don't know."

"Why would marrying you protect me?"

"I don't know."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"Then what aren't you telling me?"

She began crying.

I reached for her hand.

She pulled away.

"Binta."

She stood.

"Issa, please go."

"No."

"Please."

"I need the truth."

"You aren't ready for it."

"Everyone keeps saying that."

She looked at me.

Then she whispered:

"Your father wasn't trying to make you marry me because he owed my father."

I stared at her.

"Then why?"

She wiped her tears.

"Because he was afraid of what would happen if you discovered who your mother really is."

I stopped breathing.

"My mother?"

Binta nodded.

"Yes."

I felt the room tilt.

"What does my mother have to do with this?"

She opened her mouth.

Before she could answer, the lights went out.

Darkness swallowed the room.

Binta gasped.

I stood.

"Stay here."

"Issa..."

I moved toward the window.

Outside, I heard footsteps.

Then a car door slammed.

Binta grabbed my arm.

"Don't."

I looked at her.

"What?"

"Don't go outside."

"Why?"

She whispered:

"Because whoever is outside..."

A sound came from the front door.

Three slow knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Binta's fingers tightened around my arm.

Then a voice came through the darkness.

A voice I recognized immediately.

My father's voice.

"Issa... open the door."