The Illegal Read Online Free

Faloo business people around the four sides of President’s Square. In the middle of the square was the Fountain of Independence, surroundedby the outdoor stalls of the market vendors who sold meat, bread, cheese and produce every day but Sunday. It was still early—5:15 a.m.—and the vendors were busy hauling goods on flatbed wagons to their stalls.
    A group of six men walked by the fountain, each limping and leaning on a red cane. They looked broken, beaten, with shreds of clothing, torn sandals and bleeding sores on their feet.
    One of the men startled Keita by calling out to him. “Boy, give me a dollar.”
    Keita stopped running. “I’m sorry, I have no money.”
    “Then give me your shoes. You’re only a child. You don’t need them.”
    Keita’s mouth fell open.
    “Leave him alone,” another man said. “He’s the journalist’s son.”
    “Whose son?” the first man asked.
    “Yoyo Ali, the journalist.”
    “Well, in that case, son, go with God, and tell your father that the returnees send their best.”
    Keita’s father, who because he was a journalist knew everything, had spoken about these men before, and sometimes he stopped to give them coins. “Returnees,” Yoyo had said, “are good men who have been broken.” Keita waved nervously and resumed running, heading down to the President’s Promenade. He ran on the imported white marble, admiring to his right the South Ortiz Sea, and to his left, to the south above and beyond the town, the Red Hills crowned with pink clouds. At the far end of the Promenade, he came to the Olympic Stadium. His country would never host the Games, but nevertheless, it named its best track as if it had. Keita had hoped that his father would take him to a track meet that very day, but Yoyo was to fly overseas to Cameroon to research a story for the New York Times . He would be leaving the house at noon but had promised to take the family out for a treat that morning.
    Keita turned west to run along the north edge of downtown and up the sloping streets leading back to the Faloo residential district.
    At home, he showered and changed. After they all ate their oatmeal, Yoyo took them to Chez Proust. Keita and Charity were each allowed a hot chocolate and one madeleine. Keita took his madeleine à l’orange . Charity ordered hers au citron , which, she said, was beaucoup plus sophistiqué .
    “Stop being such a snob,” Keita said, “you’re not French. The French only ran this country for thirty years, and that was ages ago.”
    Charity countered, “If you want to be a famous journalist, you have to know how to be at least a wee bit sophistiqué and how to order your madeleine au citron . And stop dunking. That is so disgusting.”
    Charity asked her mother if she could taste the Drambuie displayed behind the barista.
    “No,” Lena said. “For one thing, it’s seven in the morning. For another, Drambuie is expensive. And for a third, you’re still a child.”
    “I’m thirteen. I’m pretty much an adult.”
    “You are far from an adult,” Lena said, “but I’ll review the names of the liqueurs for you.” Lena asked Patrick the barista, a family friend, to place some bottles on the counter. “Repeat after me,” she told Charity. “Drambuie is made from whisky and honey, and it hails from Scotland.”
    Charity repeated what her mother had said.
    “Grand Marnier and Cointreau both have an orange flavour and come from France . . . Amaretto is from Italy and made from almonds or apricots . . . Kahlua is made from coffee beans and comes from Mexico . . . Limoncello, a lemon liqueur, comes from southern Italy.”
    Charity repeated all the details.
    “Your future husband will appreciate such worldliness,” Lena said.
    “I don’t want a husband,” Charity said. “I just want to be a journalist and see the world.”
    Lena laughed. “Then go see the world, my darling girl. Bet every day on your own abilities, and you’ll be able to do anything you