AfroSFv2

by Ivor W Hartmann

  In the early 1990s, with a loan from the World Bank, the government built a new road to reduce access to the mineral rich region by five hundred kilometres, by-passing Katong. Now, there was nothing to attract anyone to Katong. The English farms had long been abandoned. The population fell from over forty thousand to under five thousand.

  The President ruled for over two decades. Then, at the behest of his American masters, who wanted to prove to the world that they were helping the country, he organised elections. And he lost to a soldier, a Colonel who had been the General’s vice president. Either he made the mistake of granting the Electoral Commission total independence, or they were aware of the Colonel’s power, so they announced the results.

  Furious, the President annulled the results and ordered the arrest of the entire Commission. Again, riots broke out. This time, disgruntled soldiers who had been kicked out of the national feast sided with the Colonel and with the rioters. Before anyone could understand what was happening, the civil war that had threatened since the General’s death finally broke out. A score of different factions cropped up to claim power, and instead fragmented the country into territories under the rule of warlords.

  The war did not come to Katong. It had nothing to attract the warlords, no wealth, no military value, it was stuck in the middle of nowhere. They ignored it until they realised it could offer them recruits.

  The cemetery lay in a grove about a mile outside town, on the old highway to the city. About five hundred survivors had gathered to bid farewell to the dead. Branches of tall trees intertwined to roof the cemetery, for it was taboo to rest the dead under open skies. The coolness reminded Kera of the chill in the cave. A thick undergrowth of flowers emitted a sweet perfume, but that could not mask the odour of forty three corpses. A hymn, punctured with wails and the sound of digging, wrung tears out of Kera’s eyes.

  The dead lay in neat rows, wrapped in bark cloth. Though they had adopted the Christian custom of scribbling the name of the deceased on a cross, they never used coffins, and never sealed the graves with cement. Instead, they retained their old rituals of ringing the new home of the departed with stones and flowers. An Anglican reverend led the service. The absence of the Catholic priest was conspicuous.

  Kera and his father stood over their three loved ones. Mama’s face had grown darker in death, her braids seemed longer than he remembered and her lips appeared a little redder, as though she had applied lipstick. The bark cloth hid the rest of her body, but it was stained with black goo, and Kera could only imagine the damage the grenade had done. Okee and Acii lay beside her, no longer holding hands.

  Bring them back to life, Kera prayed silently, not to God, but to his father.

  The replicator could not clone living things. He had experimented with a grasshopper. He got hundreds of insects, but all were dead, and all were made of the glass rock material, rather than of flesh. If he put his mother, or Okee, or Acii, in the replicator, they would not resurrect. Instead, he would create statues.

  “Never try to clone a living thing,” Baba had said, in a voice so soft, so unlike the alcohol-roughened voice Kera had heard all his life. “You’ll only succeed in creating evil.”

  Please build a machine to bring them back to life, Kera now prayed. Baba frowned at him, but Kera persisted in his prayers. What could be so evil in bringing loved ones back to life?

  “You have me,” Baba said, “and Karama.”

  “Where is Karama?” Kera said.

  “He’s not dead,” Baba replied.

  That brought more tears, of relief. He still had an elder brother. He did not ask how his father knew. He looked through the trees, to the valley, which lay just beyond the old highway, wondering if Karama was hiding somewhere down there, or if he had joined the small stream of refugees making their way to safer places, wherever they may be. Had Baba had telepathic contact with Karama? Is that how he knew Karama was still alive?

  The soldiers took him, Baba said, speaking inside Kera’s head. Every time it happened, a breeze blew through Kera’s skull, ice made his spine tighter, and a fire hollowed out his belly.

  The revelation brought bile to Kera’s mouth. If soldiers had taken Karama, he was as good as dead, for the soldiers would turn him into a monster, a rapist, a cold blooded killer, a senseless automaton who saw no value in human life and whose only purpose in life was to fight to the death for the warlords.

  He won’t turn into a monster. You’ll rescue him.

  “What?” Kera said.

  I’ll show you how.

  Kera’s eyes grew several inches wider. If soldiers had taken Karama, then they held him in an open-air prison with hundreds of guards. How could he, a boy not yet sixteen, rescue his brother?

  Baba gave him a smile, and Kera thought an explanation was coming, but the sound of an approaching car broke the moment. A chill spread through the graveyard as a sudden hush fell upon the mourners. The digging stopped. Everybody stood still. The war had created a severe fuel shortage, very few people could afford to drive, and most were soldiers.

  “Stay calm,” Teacher shouted. “It’s only one car.”

  Teacher was inside a grave, digging, bare-chested, his trousers folded to the knees, his hands and legs covered with dirt, his face smeared with mud and sweat. The slight tremble in his voice did not calm the growing panic. The doubt on his face fanned the fear. A single car could do as much damage as a convoy. It could be a pick-up truck with a machine gun on its bed, or a saloon with a couple of automatic rifles inside.

  “Is it soldiers?” Kera asked his father.

  “No,” Baba said, raising his voice so those around him could overhear. “It’s the wazungu from the missionary.”

  “How do you know?” Okello said. He was a retired policeman with pure white hair.

  “From the sound of the engine,” Baba said. “I know because I’ve repaired that car before.”

  “It’s not soldiers!” Okello shouted to stem the growing panic. In spite of his age, his voice boomed with authority. “I know that engine! It’s Father Stephen’s car!”

  People turned to the old man, uncertainty in their stares, and he in turn threw suspicious glances at Baba. Before a stampede could break out, the car came into view, a Landrover with a sleek blue sheen that gleamed like a pearl.

  “Father Stephen!” several people shouted at the same time.

  “That bastard,” Teacher hissed. He climbed out of the grave and started to march toward the Landrover, brandishing a hoe.

  “Don’t,” Baba said, running after him. “He didn’t do it.”

  Teacher did not stop until Baba grabbed him. A vein pounded against Teacher’s temple, and Kera thought Teacher would shove Baba aside and charge at the mzungu, but Teacher did not. His fingers tightened on the handle of the hoe.

  The car stopped at the roadside. Father Stephen got out and waddled towards them. He had white hair that flowed down to his shoulders and a big white beard that dangled over his chest. His skin was red with sunburn. The frock, hanging lose on his body, could not hide his obesity. His neck had vanished, and his head sat on his shoulders like a melon on a rock. He had lived in Katong for over forty years. When the General expelled Europeans and Asians in the seventies, he stayed as the church had interceded on behalf of foreigners in its service. Father Stephen was fluent in Luo. Two nuns came with him. One Italian, the other French. They had not yet learnt Luo, but they spoke good English. A hymn broke out to welcome them.

  “Bastard,” Teacher hissed again. But he seemed calm, so Baba released him.

  Father Stephen exchanged greetings with many of his congregation as he waddled to the row of corpses. The short walk left him breathless.

  “Oh dear,” he said. “Oh dear, oh dear.”

  “Did you send the soldiers?” Teacher said, speaking in English.

  Father Stephen’s face folded, his eyes seemed to disappear beneath slabs of fat that had once been brows. His lips twitched, searching for an answer, but o
nly a sigh came out. A few people heard the question. They frowned. The majority were out of earshot. They continued to sing and to wail.

  “Hello Teacher,” Father Stephen managed to say, in Luo. His voice trembled.

  “Don’t foul our language with your tongue,” Teacher said in English. “Answer me. Did you send soldiers to kill us?”

  “What are you talking about?” Father Stephen insisted on speaking in Luo, and so the exchange happened in two languages.

  “Did they attack your church?” Teacher said.

  “No,” Father Stephen said. “No. Of course not. God protected us.”

  “God? Are you trying to say there is no God in the Anglican church? The soldiers bombed it. They killed the reverend’s wife and his four children. There they are.” Teacher pointed at a group of corpses beneath the reverend’s feet. “Every building in town has bullet holes. Every family lost something. Why did the soldiers spare you? Is it because you are white? Is it because they are working for you?”

  “Nonsense,” Father Stephen said, “I came here to pray for the dead and I won’t let your madness stop me. This is my home as much as it is yours. Whatever madness has gripped you, I’ll pray for God’s mercy to touch you.”

  Teacher’s hoe struck Father Stephen in the temple. Blood splashed onto Kera’s face. The fat man crumpled to the floor with a yelp of pain. He rolled about on the ground, and he would have fallen into a grave if he were a little smaller. Teacher kicked him, trying to shove him in, and then brought the hoe down intending to hack off the fat neck, but Baba jumped and grabbed onto Teacher. Two other men joined the fray and together they restrained Teacher, who fought back but could not match three men. They pinned him against a tree and took away the hoe.

  “You sent them!” Teacher shouted, now speaking in Luo, as he struggled against the men holding him. “You think we don’t know your schemes? You want our gold and diamonds and oil! That’s why you are here! You bring your stupid religion and you make us stupid and you think we won’t ever know the truth? You sent them!”

  The nuns helped Father Stephen to his feet. One ripped a piece off her habit and pressed it against the wound to stop the blood. The singing stopped, people were crowding, questions flew about to add to the confusion.

  “Oh God,” Father Stephen wailed.

  “You dirty demon, the soldiers work for you!” Teacher was shouting.

  “It’s best if we left,” one nun said, trying to pull Father Stephen away.

  “I’m not leaving,” Father Stephen said. “I’m innocent.”

  “You sent the soldiers because you want our diamonds!” Teacher said.

  “Don’t blame all wazungu for the crimes of a few,” Bondo said. He owned one of the three stationary shops in town. His son was an altar boy.

  “Let’s go,” the nun said, tugging at the father. “You’ll bleed to death if they don’t fix that wound soon.”

  “I didn’t send them,” Father Stephen said. “You are my people. You are my children, how could I hurt you?”

  “Hypocrite!” Teacher shouted.

  “Don’t mind him, Father,” the mayor, said. “They killed all his children and his wife. It’s the grief making him say such things.”

  “We are all aggrieved,” Bondo said again. “But does that mean that we should blame all wazungu for the crimes of a few? We know about the mines and we know why this war started but blaming Father Stephen for it is sheer stupidity.”

  “You are the stupid one,” Teacher said. “This fat mzungu is a thief! When he came he was so thin that the wind could have blown him away but now, see how fat he has become! He’s stealing our wealth!”

  “Father,” the nun was saying, tugging at his frock, “let’s go to the clinic.”

  “I’m not a thief!” Father Stephen shouted. Blood ran down his face. He wavered, as though about to fall.

  “Please go to the clinic,” the mayor said. “The Reverend will manage the service. Thank you for coming by, but please leave now.”

  “I’m not a thief,” Father Stephen said.

  “Teacher has a point,” Timeo said. He was a carpenter. He married hardly a month ago and his wife was with Kera’s mother when the soldiers came. She had been pregnant. “Why didn’t they attack your church?”

  “This is madness,” the mayor said.

  “How do you know the Catholic church is the only building they didn’t shoot at?” Bondo said.

  “We searched all houses looking for victims,” Timeo said. “The Catholic church was untouched.”

  A hush fell upon the graveyard. Even the wind seemed to stop, and the leaves fell silent, as though to fuel the accusation. Kera heard a twig break as the carpenter took a step toward the wazungu. Father Stephen’s mouth hung ajar, saliva dripped down onto his garb.

  “Many other buildings are untouched,” Baba said, and every one turned to him. “They didn’t attack The Social Centre or the Headmaster’s house.”

  “But they killed the Headmaster,” Teacher said. “They wounded Agira. He may not survive the day.” Agira was the caretaker of The Social Centre. After the English had gone, the complex had been poorly maintained. The golf course was overgrown, the swimming pool had not had water for decades, and bats infested the cinema.

  “Please,” the reverend said. “Let’s not behave like the soldiers. Vengeance is for the lord. I lost my family. I’m aggrieved. But we’ve no proof that Father Steven is working with soldiers. No proof at all.”

  Kera could feel the tension thaw. Sound returned to the world. The wind resumed blowing, the leaves sung, and a murmur spread through the crowd.

  “Thank you,” Father Stephen said in a weak whisper, finally letting the nuns take him away.

  “Don’t let them go!” Teacher screamed, fighting the men holding him. “Beat them! Kill them!”

  But the crowd parted to allow Father Stephen to retreat to his car.

  3

  Kera fell into bed early that night. Although nightmares beset him in his sleep, he did not wake until late the next day, when a ray of sunlight fell in from his window and shone through his eyelids. He had a headache.

  They lived in Chandi. It was not a slum any more, but it still had a high population density. Every morning he awoke to a cacophony. Women gossiping to each other across the yard, laughing, infants screaming for attention, children playing, the screech of a broom sweeping a compound, the ring of aluminium clashing as young girls washed pans and dishes, the caw of crows. Life.

  But that morning he did not hear any noise.

  For several moments he could not tell where he was. Then it all came back with such a force that he felt a sharp pain in his heart. There were two other beds in the room, both unmade, as they had been when Okee and Acii had crept out of sleep. Even now it seemed as though they had just walked out, leaving the sheets scattered all over the floor. He watched the dust motes floating on sunbeams, and his tears wet the pillow.

  Bring them back to life, he prayed to Baba.

  An aroma wafted in from the kitchen. It stirred hunger to bubble in his stomach. A sizzling sound tickled his saliva glands. He drooled a little onto the pillow, and it mixed with the tears. Was it Baba cooking, or had he brought Mama back to life?

  Kera scrambled out of bed. The door opened into a short corridor, which had four other doors. One led to the master bedroom, another to the bathroom. Both were closed. The one immediately to his left was ajar. It led to the living room. Kera saw Teacher on a sofa, reading a dog-eared history book. There were two other people with him, but Kera could see only their legs. The fourth door, at the opposite end of the corridor, led to the kitchen. It stood wide open, letting in smoke. If it were Mama cooking, there would not have been so much smoke. He found Baba, still wearing the goggles, straddled over the charcoal stove.

  “How have you woken up?” Baba greeted, without turning around.

  “I woke up fine,” he replied. His voice a croak, barely a whisper.

  “Today, I�
�ll build a solar powered stove,” Baba said, turning an omelette in the pan. “I hate smoke.”

  You could simply bring Mama back to life, Kera thought, and Baba finally turned to face him. Baba’s face had grown a shade darker.

  “Sit,” Baba pointed at a three-legged stool.

  Kera sat. Baba scooped the omelette out of the pan, put it on a plate, on top of four other omelettes, and then put a kettle on the stove. Without asking, Kera took a slice of bread smeared with odi and wolfed it down. The taste reminded him of Mama. She made him odi whenever he left for another term in boarding school, after he had complained to her that they ate nothing but boiled beans and posho. He mixed odi in the beans, to give it a better taste, and to gain supplementary nutrients from the groundnuts and simsim in the paste. The memories caused something cold to run down his cheeks. He wiped it away quickly.

  Baba sat on a stool beside him.

  “I can bring her back to life,” Baba said. “But I won’t. Whatever goes to the other side is not meant to come back. Mama, Okee, Acii, they have gone over. Are they are in a better place or is it a worse off place? I don’t know. But it’s now their home. Bringing them back will only unleash evil.”

  Kera ran out through the back door, into the backyard, which they shared with five other families. Laundry fluttered on a wire. A neighbour had washed clothes just before the soldiers came. Behind the laundry stood a small building, which was meant to be a store, but which Karama lived in. Kera sat down on the doorstep, buried his face in his palms, and allowed himself to cry.

  Nearly half an hour later, Baba brought him breakfast. A mug of milk, slices of bread smeared with odi, and an omelete. Kera wiped his eyes, and ate. Baba went back in without saying a word. After the meal, Kera took the dishes into the kitchen, and caught a quarrel coming from the living room.

  “Our gods have woken up,” Teacher was saying. “They want us to finish off the mzungu.”

  “Our gods are more just than that,” the mayor said.

  “If we spill innocent blood then we are no different from them,” the reverend said.