Aliens, Tequila & Us: The complete series

by Michael Herman

  “She is with them. They will be here shortly,” Kitoko announces.

  In expectation, we make ourselves comfortable by grabbing some chairs and placing them in the shade. We sit and wait, facing the edge where the three men had intruded with Boboto into the compound. We make small talk, wondering how this will play out, and drinking ice water and soda. Betty parks herself down on the ground next to Kitoko and plays with the water bottle Kitoko has given her, drinking and spitting the water out in a small arc and catching it in her palm.

  Before long, we see people walking single file through the bush towards us. In the lead are African men dressed in gear for the bush with rifles slung over their backs. In the middle is a smaller white woman followed by a smaller African girl. Six or seven more African men trail behind them. They are dressed for the bush. All wear shades and carry rifles on their backs. Betty takes one look at them, screeches, and rushes off into the foliage before she is seen by them. Good instincts in that bonobo.

  The party of newcomers passes into the compound and crosses directly to us. A man carrying a cell phone leads and looks down at it every now and then. When he stops about fifteen feet from us, he turns to the white woman and says in French, while pointing beyond us, “It’s in that direction. Do you want us to continue?”

  “Yes, Anaclet. Take the men with you. Kinshasa and I will hang back here with Markus and Peter.” The woman is maybe five feet tall, not much bigger than the African child she is with. She is dressed as the men are, with khaki green trousers and dark green jacket over a beige shirt. Her chiseled face is weathered and tan. Her eyes are no-nonsense and penetrating. She exudes command. In contrast, the child next to her places herself slightly behind the woman, as if cautious and hiding. Her faded T-shirt over a skinny body and her baggy and loose camouflage-patterned cargo shorts contrast with the neon orange sandals she wears.

  In German, the woman orders, “Boku and Etula, search the buildings for our thieves. Do not break anything—be careful. Koko and Menga stay up front with Anaclet. Watch for the thieves as you advance on the boxes. They may hear you coming. Be attentive.”

  The search party strides past us while the two men directed by the woman separate and begin to cautiously check the compound buildings. The woman ignores us. Her attention is on the two men going from building to building.

  We sit quietly, passive spectators to the display. Zed leans into Sonnet and whispers something that makes her smile. You can always count on Zed for humor regardless of the circumstance. Kitoko drums her fingers on the top of her soda can, making a small rat-a-tat beat that I recognize from one of her favorite songs.

  I study the men named Markus and Peter who stand idly behind the white woman. Both wear the green camouflage uniforms of anti-poaching rangers. A brown and green turban of sorts covers one man’s head while the other sports a typical floppy-rimmed green and brown cap. Ammunition drapes their torsos. Knives and a machete hang from their belts. Both wear government and company patches on their clothes. In their thirties, they seem relaxed and cool; obvious veterans.

  Silent seconds stretch out to silent minutes until her two men searching the buildings finally flash an “okay” sign to her. She waves acknowledgment, then turns to us and unapologetically says in French, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Marie Moreau. My employer wishes that we retrieve boxes that have been relieved from one of our trucks. Our tracker tells us they are beyond your living area here and so I have sent my men to bring them back. Is that amenable? I know you had nothing to do with the theft because the man responsible for their ‘accidental’ fall from our truck confessed that he is part of a local gang. You have nothing to fear from us and—by the lackadaisical way you all sit there—I assume that you know this.”

  Before Sonnet, Zed, or I can respond, Kitoko stands, ignores the woman, and gestures to the girl hiding behind Marie Moreau. “Come forward. You have nothing to fear from us,” she says in Lingala. The girl steps even further behind the woman.

  “Tch,” Kitoko says in exasperation. “Come, let me see you.”

  The girl shakes her head, “No.”

  “Young lady,” Marie says in Lingala. “You are Ndundu. You should be used to being feared. Why do you scare her so?” The two African men behind her fidget and murmur. “Even my two men, Peter and Markus, are uncomfortable in your presence. Please do not greet them. They do not want to be haunted by you.”

  “I am no witch,” Kitoko declares defiantly. Then angrily, “Do you think I do not know what people think of the Ndundu? I have lived it my whole life. People want to kill me, cut off my limbs, take my bodily parts, sell parts of me as fetish. I know what stupidity our people can do.”

  She points towards us and proclaims, “These people do not treat me like that. They are not fools and savages. They accept me. Why can’t you?”

  Marie Moreau shrugs and tells her, “It’s not me who’s afraid of you, my dear. It’s the people I bring with me and the people we live among. It’s the country, the culture. Hard to be on your side of the stick, I’m sure.”

  “Then let the girl come to me.”

  Sonnet raises herself from her chair, smiles, and extends her hand towards Marie and the girl. “Young girl, Kinshasa. Is that your name? You seem to be such a pretty girl, would you come closer and let me see you. What are you doing with these people? Why are you not with your family?”

  Marie turns to the girl and says gently, “Don’t be afraid. She won’t bite. Ask her what her name is.” The little girl shakes her head “No” and pushes herself closer to Marie. Marie turns back to us and says, “Maybe you might have a soda for her. I’m sure Kinshasa would like that.”

  Zed jumps up from his chair, rushes through the doorway behind us and returns a few seconds later with a cool can of soda. He passes it to Marie who hands it to Kinshasa who pops the can open and then greedily drinks its contents. When she is satisfied, she lowers the can and lets out a man-size belch that startles everyone. Kitoko giggles, and Zed, Sonnet, and I are forced to smile. Even the men behind Marie grin. It’s an icebreaker that changes the dynamic.

  “My, my,” Marie coos and runs her hand over Kinshasa’s head. “Can you say ‘thank you’ to the kind people?”

  “Thank you, kind man,” she says and extends the unfinished can back to Zed.

  “No, no. You keep it. Let me know when you’d like another?” Zed tells her, still smiling.

  “So why is a child traveling with a work crew like yours? Seems out of place,” Sonnet inquires in French.

  “Oh...well. May I speak English?” Marie offers.

  “Of course. It’s our native language. You wish to exclude the girl from the conversation?”

  “The men as well.” She takes a deep breath and gives Kinshasa a sympathetic look. “She is a rape victim that has brought shame to her immediate family. An uncle claims she seduced him. She was about to be ejected from the family so I decided to intervene.”

  “You know her people?”

  “No. One of my men, a relative of the girl, brought her plight to my attention. We decided everyone in the family could use a break from each other while things got sorted out. She should be able to return to her family in a few weeks if the uncle gets the work he seeks in Northern DRC. In the meantime, she is under my care and since I travel, she must travel. It’s posed no hardship to either of us. In fact, I quite enjoy her company and she seems to be comfortable with me. She’s bright and sensitive, very intuitive and learns fast.”

  “Do you always get involved in the affairs of people you don’t know?”

  “She was brought to me, I didn’t go to her. The problem was personalized for me once I met her. Face to face I couldn’t bring myself to say no. There is something about her that appeals to me. I’m not sure what it is. Anyway, here we are in your homestead, invading your buildings and acting inhospitable. I apologize. It’s just business and security before niceties. It’s survival. I hope you’ll understand.” Then as if it were an afte
rthought, she inquires, “Did you not see the men who took the boxes? They did not pass this way?”

  “We’ve just come from burial services for one of our people. We arrived only shortly before you,” I tell her.

  “Ah. I’m sorry for that. Death is never easy.”

  Kitoko, weary of being left out of the conversation, wanders over to Kinshasa who keeps wary eyes on her. “You know I will not harm you. Have you never seen Ndundu before?” she asks in Lingala.

  Kinshasa shakes her head.

  Kitoko extends her hand to the girl. “Touch me, don’t be afraid. You’ll see I am like everyone else.”

  Kinshasa slowly reaches out and places her index finger on top of Kitoko’s arm then runs it down to her hand and fingers. Kintoko turns her hand, palm up, and watches as Kinshasa runs her finger through her palm.

  Kitoko is focused on Kinshasa’s eyes, watching her carefully and studying her intently. As Kinshasa traces her fingers through Kitoko’s palm, a shiver visibly passes through Kinshasa, making her blink rapidly for a few seconds. Then, over the space of a few more seconds, her face alters from suspicion to one of enlightenment. When she raises her eyes to Kitoko’s, there is a gleam of something, a sort of recognition that passes between the two of them. Kitoko smiles and when she withdraws her hand, Kinshasa is transformed—no longer wary but instead apparently taken with her new friend. Kitoko holds her hands up and invites Kinshasa to do a common hand game. Together they clap each other’s hands and chant out the requisite rhyme. When they finish, both girls laugh in enjoyment of the shared activity.

  “Let’s get you another soda. I can tell you’re still thirsty,” Kitoko says and then intertwines their arms as if they were longtime friends. Quickly, the two of them disappear through the doorway behind Zed.

  “My goodness! That was a fast about-face. I’ve never seen her take to someone quite so readily,” Marie remarks in surprise.

  Sonnet replies, “Kitoko has a way about her sometimes.”

  From behind us, we hear the voices and sounds of the men returning with Marie Moreau’s two boxes. They walk to Marie, lower the boxes to the ground in front of her and remove the lids. She bends down and inspects the contents carefully. While she is checking the equipment, one of the men kneels and speaks with her in a subdued voice that is unarticulated for us. He pulls a belt and a set of keys from his cargo pants pocket. I’m guessing they belong to the men killed by the silverback. I catch sentence fragments, “...blood all over...” and “...dragged past the mound...,” and then everything else is mumbles.

  Finally, when the small conference is finished, she straightens up and waves them on towards the road. Turning to us, she asks in English, “You did not hear anything from that direction?” She points to where the boxes had been buried. You can tell she is putting the blood she just heard about and death we said we just came from together.

  Zed answers her, “The child we buried was murdered by men.” He says nothing more and his silence is pregnant with meaning as he quietly stares her down. The rest of us volunteer nothing.

  Marie looks from one to the next of us then shrugs uncomfortably and speaks. “Yes, you mentioned a burial. I’m sorry for that. Being this close to a road is a two-edged sword. Access for you means access to you. I’m sorry for your loss. I wish I had more control over things not in my control.” She breaks eye contact, looks around the compound once more and says in Lingala, “Well, we must be moving on. Please accept my apologies, again. I never did get your names.”

  Zed introduces everyone, lets her know her apologies are accepted and tells her, facetiously, that we look forward to seeing her again.

  Just as I am about to ask what her business is that requires a telescope, Kinshasa and Kitoko appear at the doorway, hand in hand. “Kinshasa needs to stay with us. She does not want to go back to her family. She says her uncle is a bad man and she fears he will molest her again. She will be safe with us. You must go and leave her for us to care for. She will be better off here,” Kitoko says with force.

  Marie responds as expected. Her eyes narrow and she says with irritation, “Young child, you will not address me like I am your subordinate. I am well aware of Kinshasa’s situation, that is why she is in my custody and under my protection, she...”

  Kinshasa whispers in Kitoko’s ear while Marie is talking and then Kitoko interrupts Marie. “She says she is afraid of your men. They look at her just like her uncle did. You are just a small woman. She is afraid you may not be able to protect her.” She then addresses me. “Mundélé Elombé, please stand.”

  Surprised by Kitoko’s command of the situation and wondering where this is headed, I raise myself from my chair. Kitoko and Kinshasa stand in front of me. “See how big Mundélé Elombé is. He protects me. He will protect Kinshasa.”

  Marie softens. “Kitoko, Kinshasa belongs with her family. Once we straighten out the problem with her uncle, she should return home. Her mother, father, and family are best for her.” She addresses Kinshasa directly. “Kinshasa, are you really afraid of my men and that I might not protect you? Have you not seen how they respect me? I would never let them harm you.”

  Kinshasa is silent for a moment then replies, “Just for a few days, then. When you come back this way, maybe I can go with you.” She motions towards Kitoko. “Kitoko can teach me what it is to be a Ndundu. I will be better for it if I stay here awhile. Please, I like you very much and will miss you, but I wish to be with Kitoko.”

  One of the men watching whispers loudly, “The white child witch has bewitched her.”

  Marie whirls around to launch into him, but Sonnet intervenes. “Marie, let the girls visit for a few days, maybe a week or so. She’ll be in good hands with us and the worst that can happen is that she loses her fear of Ndundu. Your men are not to blame for their superstitions. It’s just how it is. Besides, when you return, maybe you can visit as well, make new friends.”

  “You are complete strangers. It would be most inappropriate to leave the girl in your care,” Marie counters. In English, she adds, “How do I know that what happened to the child you just buried won’t happen to Kinshasa?” Then it’s obvious she immediately regrets her words. Her vehicle caravan and employees are indirectly responsible for the death of the child. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just that...”

  “We know what you mean, Marie,” I say, then turn to Sonnet who picks up the conversation.

  “We are a sanctuary, Marie. Not only do we take in animals, but the village south of here is filled with people driven from their homes, left to die, or who are victims of abuse. We are a care center. Do you not know of us? The foundation that supports us is worldwide. Our reputation is known to many in Kinshasa and the DRC. We provide housing and services and counseling to victims all the time,” Sonnet informs her.

  Marie breathes in resignation, gives Kinshasa a long study and then says, “Of course. I’m aware of your prominence. I’m being overly protective. I’m sorry.” She switches to English. “Perhaps being away from my men is better for her.” She gives Kinshasa another long look then says tenderly, “You may stay.”

  Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 3

  The chorus of evening sounds is something I look forward to every night. Crickets, frogs, birds, marsupials, all fill the air with a rich nocturnal ensemble. It’s a choir of gentle, pulsating voices—chiming, ticking, zizzing, humming, croaking and crooning. Nightjars call enigmatically, doves coo softly, the deep rumbling vocalizations from a family of elephants grazing nearby occasionally punctuate the air. A vehicle heading north in the distance slowly grinds its way along the nearby road. Tonight a full moon silhouettes the trees ringing the compound. Bats flutter overhead, audibly echolocating. A large owl, papery and black, wings its way across the sky between the moon and us.

  Seated at the table next to me on the wooden veranda, Zed pops open a beer. “Your favorite, Massa Mundélé Elombé. Arrogant Bastard Ale. Freezing, just the way you like it.”

  “T
hanks,” I say and raise it to my lips. Sonnet stirs her gunpowder tea with mint, mixing honey into the brew, eyeing me and waiting. I turn my attention back to the jungle outside and lean against the door frame.

  “They must have taken the thieves’ vehicle. It wasn’t on the road when I last checked,” Zed reports.

  “Probably one of their own,” I guess, “just more stolen property to retrieve.” I turn to him. “You know what surprises me is that their tracker was able to follow, what I guess was, a homing signal from the boxes, even though they were buried.”

  “They weren’t very deep, maybe a foot or less. They’re probably used to retrieving stolen goods. Place homing beacons in all the boxes.”

  “Technology just gets more impressive.”

  The conversation dies for a minute until Sonnet speaks up. “You know, Marie Moreau felt partly responsible for Boboto, but was quite muted about the thieves. What do you think she thought about them?”

  “I overheard her man speak of blood at the boxes’ location. Hard to say what her take was on that,” I respond.

  “Our area does have its reputation. Roach hotel. They check in and don’t check out,” Zed quips.

  “We’ve had our fair share of roaches.”

  “Rebels, thieves, Mai Mai, rampaging soldiers, gangs, M23, Lord’s Resistance Army. It’s all the same,” Zed comments with an edge of bitterness in his voice.

  “Yet they still keep on coming. It’s never-ending.”

  “Fertilizer for the orchid beds. You know, I used to feel guilty about turning them into compost, but that faded years ago. When I saw Sonnet’s silverbacks drag them off today, I was genuinely happy. Those bastards,” Zed confesses.

  I throw a few expletives in the air and then my eyes tear up. My sadness comes out best as anger. I curse the man who killed little Boboto. I take another swig of my beer. A black mist of pain swirls at the edges of my mind. It traps me and scars me to the extent that I take a small measure of joy in mentally replaying the death of Boboto’s killer at the hands of the silverbacks. The sadness I feel at the loss of little Boboto drags heavy on my gut.