“My thoughts exactly.”
“Why did it take so long for the two of them to hook up? I mean, they’re in such close proximity. And what about the web of communication created by Gi that encompasses the planet? Are we talking the equivalent of different operating systems not communicating with each other?”
“Maybe Sonnet will have answers for us when she’s fully acclimated to her new self.”
Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 9
Thirteen Days after Twizzle’s Arrival
Zed is up on the painted metal roof of his living quarters applying a new metal ridge-piece to a rusted out area. A small Lesula monkey sits on an overhanging tree branch a few yards away, watching. The cooler morning air, already high with humidity, makes work on the hot metal roof possible compared to the blistering unworkable noontime that turn the metal into a frying pan. The sun is still low, putting Zed’s work area into the shade of the adjacent tree cover. A flock of blue-headed wood doves alight and settle into a tree adjacent to the building. Their coo-cooing rises above the background noise of other animals and insects. Grey and white clouds blowing south gather in the sky above and cast moving shadows on the compound.
He straddles the roof ridge and leans into the piece, pressing it into place. Black tarry mastic squirts out of the edges. After wiggling it firmly down, he leans back and glances up at the Lesula monkey who stares back at him.
“Zed,” I call out. “Guess who’s awake and walking around hungry like she hasn’t eaten in years.”
“Our sleeping princess awakes,” he guesses. “Is she open for conversation or is this just another bathroom moment and then she’s back into coma land?”
“Says she’s done sleeping.”
“I’ll be down in a minute. She’s in the kitchen?”
“Yeah. Twizzle and Rafa are there also. Rafa is cooking up his signature silver dollar goats’ milk pancakes.”
“I thought I smelled something good in the air.”
I walk past two of Twizzle’s security men who are relaxing in weathered wooden chairs at a painted wooden table, playing cards and sipping tea. Their green Docker cargo-style shorts, khaki short-sleeve-Ts, sunglasses, plastic flip-flops, black baseball caps, and side arms make them separate from the locals. Two Colt Defense M4 carbine assault rifles lean against the building wall adjacent to them. One waves good morning to me as the other slams his cards down on the table in defeat.
“Watch his sleight of hand,” I warn the losing man.
He grunts and shakes his head. “If I could only catch him cheating...but I never see it.”
The winning man laughs, makes a snide retort and challenges his opponent to another hand. I walk on towards the building that houses the kitchen. When I arrive, I find Rafa doling out small pancakes to Sonnet and Twizzle, who are seated at the kitchen table. His bright pink tank top that Kitoko picked out for him stands out amid the drab earth-tone colors of the interior of the kitchen. The black baseball cap with our foundation logo on the front covers the top part of his head. His khaki cargo pants drop slightly below his knees, exposing tan legs with sun-bleached black hair. His dirt-colored sandals with tire bottoms appear to be as old as he is.
“Forbes,” he calls when he sees me enter. “Should I set a place for you?”
“Of course. I’m always up for your flapjacks.”
“We brought Michigan pure maple syrup for the occasion,” Twizzle announces and holds up the amber-colored bottle for me to see. She’s casual this morning in her loose waist-high calf-length African floral print dress she picked up in Kinshasa a few days ago while shopping with Kitoko, Kinshasa, and Rafa. Her sandals, picked out by Kitoko, are bright pink to match Rafa’s tank top—according to Kitoko. Rafa, never one to worry about his masculinity, didn’t give the pink color a second thought, even when it became the source of comments by the security crew. He took it all in good humor—anything to please his Kitoko.
I take a seat at the table and study Sonnet who’s looking healthier than I’ve seen her in a long time. Her dark coral hair is pulled back from her face in a ponytail and tied off with a small, bright blue ribbon. She looks freshly cleaned and scrubbed. The fragrance of lavender soap hangs off of her to compete with the essence of maple syrup and pancakes the kitchen exudes. A glass of orange juice from frozen concentrate sits next to her plate. Two ice cubes jostle around in her glass.
“You okay?” I ask her.
She looks up at me with bright eyes, nods her head, and says something unintelligible with her mouth full of food. I look over to Twizzle, who’s sipping a cup of steaming coffee and watching Sonnet with focused eyes. Her black cap, identical to Rafa’s, is pulled low over her head. Her short-sleeve black leotard, tight against her body, shows off her lack of excess fat. A black belt that holds her Glock pistol side arm separates her dress from the leotard.
“I’m waning,” Sonnet announces through a half-full mouth. “My ability to go avatar is diminishing. My Gi side tells me I need to make contact with the Mikeno Gi to resolve this issue.”
Twizzle sits back in her chair. “What does that mean? You want to travel to Volcan Mikeno? You can’t. The news says that government troops have been sent north and are engaging rebel troops out of Uganda north of Volcan Mikeno. It’s a war zone. It’s too dangerous.”
“Are they as far south as Mikeno mountain?” Sonnet asks.
“Not yet. It’s all northwest border areas, but that doesn’t mean things haven’t progressed to that area. All we know is what the news broadcasts—and who knows how accurate or stale that is?”
Sonnet shakes her head. “I have to go. I’ll need to commandeer some of your men. All we need is one or two vehicles, two probably in case one breaks down. It’s not that far.”
Twizzle pulls out her cell phone and starts navigating the trip. “It’s over 800 miles northeast as the crow flies and you’ll be on dirt roads, which means it’s even longer. The Mercedes has a range of 325 miles so even if you pack fuel, chances are big that you’ll run out before you find more fuel. The helicopter has a range of 500 miles, so direct flight to there is out. The closest airport to Volcan Mikeno is the Goma airport. Goma is about 13 miles south of Volcan Mikeno. You would have to hopscotch from airport to airport. Direct flight from the N’Djili airport northeast to the Kindu airport is over 600 miles, too long. The only way is to fuel up at the N’Djili airport, then fly southeast to Aéroport de Kikwit, refuel, and then northeast on to the Goma airport. You’ll get there a lot faster by helicopter and be a lot safer. The city of Goma is filled with NGO workers and UN staff so security in the city is not impossible, but there is virtually no government. And kidnappings of NGO staff and workers are a constant problem. The foundation logo on the helicopter is going to mark you as NGO. You’ll need to distance yourself from it as soon as possible.”
She pauses and fiddles with the display on her cell phone then continues, “You’ll have to pick up vehicles from there. No guarantees on what kind of vehicle you’ll end up with, if any at all. You may have to resort to buying something used. MONUSCO has a big presence there and is a huge factor driving the economy so you may be able to get something decent. UN soldiers patrol the edges of the airport to keep it secure, so parking the helicopter there with pilots and waiting for your return shouldn’t be a problem.
“From Goma, you drive the N2 road to Volcan Mikeno. As far as an escort crew, I want Rafa to accompany you along with at least six of my guys. Forbes and Zed and I can all come along as well.”
Sonnet muffles out something negative then says clearly, “Too many people. I don’t want to be slowed down looking for the entrance. Once I arrive there, I should have no problem feeling my way there through the Bangala Elongó that are living in that area.”
“Sonnet, those Bangala Elongó are killing and eating Kinshasa’s Bato Elongó. You think just because you are one of their Bangala Elongó that you’re completely safe? You don’t know that. You need protection and the more the merrier,” Twi
zzle argues.
“No. I don’t want to call attention to us. Bull and just a few of your men is all I need.” To emphasize her point, Sonnet waves her arm across the table and a swarm of colorful butterflies appear in her wake. “I’m not without my own defenses.”
“But you said your ability to go avatar is waning. And butterflies are not protection,” Twizzle counters.
Sonnet frowns and curls her lips in thought. “Okay, let’s compromise. Give me Bull and four of your men. I’m not completely defenseless.”
“You don’t want Zed or Forbes or me to go?”
“Your men and Bull are worth a lot more to me than the three of you, no offense. They’re trained for this stuff and my knowledge of the DRC and my ability to speak the different languages are all we need. Why make it any riskier by including unnecessary people? We’ll be fine.”
Twizzle looks to Bull for his opinion. “You okay with this?”
Bull smiles reassuringly and responds, “Let me pick the guys and we’ll do fine. Sonnet will be in good hands.”
The air around us is suddenly filled with static and the floorboards creak when one of Sonnet’s silverbacks materializes behind Twizzle and makes a huffing sound. The musk of its body odor wafts over the table. Without turning to look at it, Twizzle gives Sonnet a sharp look and says, “Don’t! Don’t even think about it, young lady.”
The silverback dissolves and Sonnet smirks in satisfaction. Bull makes a small laugh.
“Point made, Sonnet. Just make sure you and my men return in good condition,” Twizzle orders.
“No problem,” Sonnet whispers.
Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 10
Eight Months Later
One day after Sonnet and her escort leave the Goma airport, all communications with them cease. News that the war had spread to their area reaches us the same day. A day later, Goma and its airport are overrun with rebels and is closed down. The Foundation helicopter barely makes it out of there ahead of the rebel onslaught. They fly south about 50 miles to Kamambe Airport DRC to stay close to Sonnet and her team, but things are iffy. Should the rebels move south, they will have to fly southeast to Kindu airport, about 200 miles away.
Zed says he doesn’t feel Sonnet’s absence so she must still be alive, but he can offer nothing else. For my part, being new to the psychic link I now share with Zed and Sonnet and the Bangala Elongó of the village, I’m no help. We have to assume that it is either technical problems or they’re captured.
After communications are broken and we don’t hear from them for days, Twizzle becomes frantic. Sending someone to Goma is out of the question. Instead, she organizes a new team that includes two of the Bangala Elongó. They fly via passenger airplane to Kamembe Airport in the DRC and drive north—avoiding the conflict by staying just on the edges of it. Fortunately, they’re able to maintain contact with us, but they’re never able to locate Sonnet’s group. For months they search and somehow manage to stay alive amid the conflict and tribal hostilities, but to no avail. Their quest takes them as far north as Uganda, and as far south as Burundi. They pursue false lead after false lead that all lead to dead ends.
The Bangala Elongó in the village, aware of Sonnet’s disappearance, include her in their services and pray for her safe return. All of the Bangala Elongó feel sure she is alive and say they feel her presence strongly when they gather as a group, but none of them offer clues as to where she is or what her condition is.
To compound our fears, Mount Nyiragongo, the volcano about ten miles south-east of Volcan Mikeno, is acting up and spouting smoke. Nyiragongo, which is characterized by unusually fluid magma with fissures that extend directly beneath the city of Goma, has led to some calling Goma an African Pompeii in the making. Tremors ripple throughout the area. No one knows if an eruption is imminent, but it’s just another hazard to worry about.
Then everything changes with the crackling words over the radio of the man leading the second group.
“Found them, at least some of them. Sonnet and Bull and some of the others are well. A little worse for the wear, but they’re alive,” comes the distorted words over the radio.
Twizzle stands behind her security man who is operating the radio. “Where are they? Ask them to give their location.”
There is static and then garbled words and what sounds like gunfire in the background. Then there is nothing.
Twizzle pats the radio operator on the shoulder and says, “Keep at it. Good work. At least we know they’re alive. If you need to break, get someone else to man this. Let me know as soon as you make contact again.” She looks over to me and indicates that we leave the room.
Outside of the building, she paces back and forth. “We get their location, we fly another team to wherever they are, get everyone to Kamembe and then evacuate them all,” she says. She’s pale with worry. Her eyes flit over mine and then back to where the radio operator is trying to reestablish communications. “I should have never let her go with so few people. We all should have gone. What an idiot I was to have let her go so unprotected. Aagh!”
Twizzle had been beating herself up over this for months and now she’s back to it. I just let her wear herself out. There’s no point telling her, once again, that it isn’t her fault. Then from out of the corner of my eye, I see Kitoko and Kinshasa approaching from the far end of the compound. Kinshasa is carrying Kinshasa Míbalé.
About Kinshasa still being in the village, we never heard from Marie Moreau after she left Kinshasa with us. We could only speculate as to what happened to her. Preoccupied? Lost interest? Killed? We had no way of knowing. It was never pursued because, a few days after her arrival, Kinshasa informed us that she never wanted to leave our village. She and Kitoko had become inseparable. Fortunately, Kitoko’s parents made room for her in their lives, accommodating her as if she were one of their own.
Quickly, Kinshasa became just another member of the village. When her baby arrived, there was the usual joy and celebration that culminated in the newborn daughter being christened Kinshasa Míbalé which means Kinshasa Two. What started as tragic—a young rape victim with her newborn and no husband—became simply ordinary. Kinshasa and her infant are provided for and nurtured. Everyone is happy, except Twizzle. Twizzle worries about the predicted conflict between the “Chosen” and whatever the multiple Kinshasas are going to yield.
In Lingala I give them greetings, “Mbote na bino.” (Greetings to you.)
Kitoko greets us back with, “Natindeli bino nyonso mbote mingi.” (I send you all much greetings.)
Twizzle adds in Lingala, “Kinshasa, your daughter is very beautiful today.”
Kinshasa smiles. “Thank you. Like the morning sun, radiant and warming, she greets me every morning.”
Kitoko gives me an all-business look and tells me, “I feel Molingami Sonnet’s presence strongly today. But she is sick. And she is changed. She is many now. They will need our help when she returns. Kinshasa and I shall minister to them. We shall bring all the Bangala Elongó to them. They will need us all.”
“You mean the people with her?” Twizzle queries in Lingala.
“No. You can help them. We will make Molingami Sonnet better. Molingami Sonnet is many.”
Twizzle and I exchange looks of understanding. Sonnet and the local Gi make Sonnet a “many” as far as Kitoko is concerned, we assume.
“Thank you, Kitoko. We’ll come to you when we have Sonnet back safely,” I respond.
With that assurance, Kitoko takes Kinshasa’s arm and leads her back towards the village.
“Not much for small talk,” Twizzle comments.
I chuckle. “Kitoko, the CEO of the future.”
Sonnet’s Legacy Chapter 11
One Day Later
Bull gently lays a battered Sonnet on the white clean sheets of her bed. Her ivory-colored skin, luminescent and nearly transparent, has angry red welts and brown and purple scratches, some nearly a foot long. Her dark red hair is tangled, matted and filthy. Dark grey
bags of flesh hang from below her closed eyes. Her lips are puffy, bruised and cut. Her weight loss is alarming. She looks like a release from a concentration camp, emaciated and bony. Worse yet is the stink of sickness and disease that hangs about her.
“My God! You couldn’t have cleaned her up a little?” Twizzle complains then immediately looks embarrassed when her eyes meet Bull’s. As bad as Sonnet looks, Bull is worse. Mud covers much of his consumptive body. Where you can see his skin, bruises and cuts abound. Twizzle’s lower lip trembles and her eyes film over. She bursts into tears, throws her arms around him and sobs unrestrained. “Damn you, damn you, damn...gone so long. Worried so much. Too long...”
She sobs, tells him how she worried for his safety, imagined all kinds of catastrophes. How much she loves him. She finishes by telling him how overjoyed she is to see him alive.
He wraps his diminished arms around her and hugs back gently, saying nothing, closing his eyes.
Our local African village doctor, Bijanji, shoves her way past everyone and comes to rest in a kneeling position beside Sonnet. Kitoko is right behind her. Bijanji takes one look at Sonnet and says in Lingala to everyone around her, “We need privacy. I need to strip her and do a thorough exam.” Then she addresses the first of the rescued security men who’ve arrived with Sonnet and are walking through the door into the room. “Follow Marie to the room we have cleared for the men,” she orders.
Marie, who is at the doctor’s side, walks quickly across the room, takes the man by his arm, and leads him out of the building. To the woman near the door she commands, “Elonga, Don’t let anyone else in.” She turns to Zed and me and orders, pointing to Bull, “Out. Take the filthy man with you. He needs medical treatment also.”
Aliens, Tequila & Us: The complete series Page 31
