by Sam Tranum
Bombs seemed to fall from the heavens as though an amateur player of a video war game was pressing the wrong buttons. Twice, the bombs fell unpleasantly close, and shrapnel gave our garage a good shaking, eliciting cries of ‘Allahu Akbar’ from those hiding with us. For three weeks, we saw no sunshine except through the crack in the wall. It was always heads or tails whether we would be alive the next minute. At the sound of every bomb, my stomach turned, and I nearly let loose in my trousers on many occasions. Bombs are fun in the war movies, but not when they are raining on the buildings across the street. I don’t remember hearing anybody laugh during those three weeks. We did not taste a moment of peace.
Where did these others hide? At Moustafa al-Arab’s there was only Bibiana and me and seven other guys. He fed us bread and tea. Morning, noon and night, bread and tea, for three weeks. That was what he could afford, he said. The only thing that changed was the type of bread: hard-crusted bread, soft bread, normal-looking bread, or bread that was long and thin, like a policeman’s baton. Sometimes I wondered whether, in a moment of despair, he might turn us in. It would be an easy thing for him because there was no difference in appearance between the mercenaries and us; but he seemed to be a good man.
Now, as the boat’s engine purrs with a reassuring steadiness, I am happy we’re still alive after the worst three weeks of our lives. I never want to return to that place. Goodbye, Africa. God willing, we’ll see each other again only through Google Earth.
*
The sea is calm and accommodating, like a patient hostess. The boat people must be geniuses for choosing a time so apt for our travel. Everyone in the boat is silent, perhaps thinking of the paradise that lies at the end of our journey. The only sound is of the engine, as the boat ploughs the water apart, heading north. We are far from everything now. All around us there is nothing but water. The fear in me becomes too severe when I let my eyes stretch to the horizon, so I sometimes close them to think only of better things. I have never been in the middle of so much water before. Abdul-Jabaar was right: you have to have a lot of courage to successfully leave your country, your people and your continent.
‘The journey is not an easy one,’ he’d said as he smoked his cigarette in a small, dingy restaurant in Lilongwe’s Devil Street about a year ago.
I did not know that by courage he meant being ready to be in a situation such as this, floating in the middle of a vast, deep ocean to which our boat must seem like a lost beach ball that has strayed too far from the shore.
Bibiana grips my hand. ‘I’m afraid,’ she says.
‘Don’t be,’ I say, hoping that my voice has not betrayed my own fear. ‘There are only nineteen hours to go. Nineteen. After that we’ll be in Lampedusa.’
Bibiana is shivering. ‘But what if …?’
‘Don’t let such thoughts disturb you, my love. We’ll be fine. Trust me.’
Bibiana, amazing as ever, has always been in my life, or I have always been in hers. As far back as my memory stretches, to when I was about five years old – even then, she was there, playing with me in the rain, our mothers running after us, shouting, ‘Come in, you two, you’ll catch fever!’ after which they would grab us and take us for a bath as we giggled. I can say we grew up as lovers, so that when we finally got down to kissing and making love, our bodies responded in such an energetic way that it was clear this was the moment we had always waited for.
All the twenty-seven years of our existence were filled with memories so vivid that time was powerless to erase them. Our parents were the best of friends in the neighbourhood of Lilongwe where we lived. As I was born first, I would wait for a week to celebrate our birthdays together, through the years of our kindergarten, through primary school where we shared a desk, until after secondary school, when our paths split. I went to the School of Humanities, while she opted for the National College of Nursing. By that time we had already made love, but at her insistence we agreed to slow down to prevent a ruinous pregnancy that could have stalled her progress towards a college degree. And then, a year into our studies, we both lost our parents. The car they were travelling in from their holiday upcountry collided with a bus.
When I graduated from college, as I looked for a job, Bibiana asked me to move in with her. Though her salary was too low to support two adults, she insisted on accommodating me. She was incredibly generous and went so far as sparing the little she had to take us out for dinner once in a while, or to visit Lake Malawi, where we would lie on velvet-soft beaches of white sand, or swim in water that was clear and blue like the sky above it.
It was at that time that I began to feel my country spitting me out. Our government, the biggest employer of graduates with my kind of qualification, had suddenly decided that humanities were no longer important. They had stopped recruiting secondary-school teachers with qualifications in this field, and would be making these subjects optional, effectively phasing them out. The humanities had been judged irrelevant and downgraded. We were going to be a science-only nation. This, our minister of education said, would put our country firmly on the path to development: ‘With proper roots in science, we can send one of our own sons into space within twenty years.’
After three years of job hunting, I had had enough. I needed to leave the country. Three of my former classmates from college had gone to Ireland, where it was clear they were prospering. We saw their photos on Facebook, wearing expensive suits, smiling as though they had just been crowned masters of the universe. We saw them disembarking from limousines or dancing at parties. We saw them drinking in bars or celebrating birthdays with huge cakes and lots of wine. I too wanted to be there, to be happy.
I had to move. Initially, I wanted to go to the United Kingdom. But when I went to the High Commission to apply for a visa, they wanted a letter from an employer I did not have. They wanted payslips for my last three months of employment, and half a year of bank statements. They demanded that I submit a copy of a letter from the person or institution inviting me to the UK, complete with the address where I would be residing. The cash I would be bringing along too – how much would it be? As though they had not asked for too much already, they insisted on collecting my fingerprints, the way our authorities do with criminals. How, I wondered, did people ever manage to go abroad?
It was at that time I learnt of the skills of Abdul-Jabaar, he who could take you anywhere in the world without a visa. Through a friend of a friend, I arranged to meet him in Devil Street. A man with bushy eyebrows and a perpetual frown, he got straight to the point. All I needed was $2,000 for him to take me to the Mediterranean, and then $1,000 for his colleagues to take me by boat to the other side. To avoid any misunderstanding, he stressed that the dollars had to be American.
Although I had no idea where to get the money, I decided we should do it. I told Bibiana: ‘Finally, we have a realistic chance of moving to Europe. There’s a man who can take us to Lampedusa. After that, we’re on our own. All I need now is to raise the money for the trip.’
‘Drop that idea,’ she said. ‘Stay. Something good will come your way soon. Have patience, please.’
‘Patience? Three years of job-hunting is not enough patience for you?’
‘It is, but just a little more.’
‘For how long? Until my hair is grey and my back bent by age? No, I can’t wait that long. We need to leave now.’
It took us weeks of arguing. At one point, we did not talk to each other for days. Still, I stood my ground. Then she tried to change her approach, telling me harrowing tales of how some had been deported from Europe with nothing, or how they had ended up begging or sleeping in the streets. I countered with stories of those who returned with lots of money, or those who sought asylum and got the right papers and jobs.
‘As far as I know,’ she said, ‘asylum is only granted to those running away from war.’
‘Is poverty peace then?’ I asked.
When it was clear she had given up her opposition, I moved to part two of the
grand plan, which was logistics. How would I raise the money for the journey?
The answer, finally, came to me in a way I could never have imagined. An opportunity suddenly presented itself for me to sell my kidney to a Very Important Person whose name I was asked never to disclose to anyone. It was something I stumbled upon by chance. Somebody who had attempted to donate a kidney was ruing his missed luck in my presence at a local pub. Apparently, he had been turned away because he belonged to the wrong blood group. At once, I saw my opportunity and decided to grab it without hesitation.
After I bought the fellow three beers, he loosened up and gave further crucial details. The man looking for the donation was a top politician who did not want his chances of re-election ruined by doubts about his health. He was prepared to pay well. Scores of potential donors, I was told, had tried without success. The doctors carried out so many tests – for hepatitis, tuberculosis, gonorrhoea, syphilis and a lot more. They checked potential donors’ HIV statuses. Though I was apprehensive about all these requirements, when I went through the tests I came out clean. The doctor who counselled me in preparation for the donation remarked, ‘You are in remarkably good health.’
Finally, when all the testing was over, I informed Bibiana.
‘You are frightening me,’ she said. ‘Please don’t do this.’
‘I must,’ I said.
‘Can’t you see you’ll die?’
‘It’s entirely harmless, Bibiana.’
‘There’s a reason our bodies must have two kidneys.’
‘Scientists have found it harmless to share kidneys, Bibiana.’
We were about to have our dinner that evening. She left the table and did not return. After the meal, I followed her to the bedroom. I lay next to her and tried to put my arm around her. She pushed it off and faced away from me.
‘Listen, my love,’ I said, ‘I’ve not killed anyone. I’ve not robbed anyone. It’s my kidney I’m selling. Can’t you understand?’
She did not respond.
Eventually, we agreed to disagree. I donated the kidney and went through a period of recovery for a couple of months. This was one of the many times when Bibiana showed how much she truly cared about me. Despite her opposition to the idea, she was very supportive when the deed was finally done. She took leave from work to be by my side. There wasn’t any serious harm done to my body. I just felt tired for the first week or two and was unable to lift heavy items for a few more weeks after that. Eventually, I regained my strength, and felt ready for the long trip. But when all was set, Bibiana’s doubts returned.
‘Now that you have all this money, why not just start some kind of business?’ she suggested.
‘You think a business starts just like that?’ I snapped. ‘You have to have an idea, a plan. You must possess the right skills. It’s not just because you have money in your hands.’
I realised that my tone had been excessively harsh, for she looked pained, so I walked over to where she stood and put my hand on her shoulder.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just that we can’t change our plans now. My mind is not here anymore. I feel this country has rejected me. We have to leave, my love.’
I kissed her, but she did not respond.
Her mood soon brightened, however, and she began to speak a lot about our future in Lampedusa. This was after matters were fast-tracked for us in a surprising way. A month before our departure, Abdul-Jabaar warned that we risked being separated along the way if we did not have a marriage certificate. There might be a need to prove to immigration authorities of some countries that we were travelling as a family. So we quickly arranged to exchange vows before the Registrar of Marriages, Births and Deaths.
‘We’ll have a proper church ceremony in Lampedusa,’ I promised her.
*
Now here we are, in this boat, heading towards our future in the company of strangers.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ I try to reassure her. ‘We’ve come a long way. Only a few more hours to go, my love. Only a few more hours.’ My arm circling her waist, I say: ‘Close your eyes if you can’t stand the sea. Think of the beauty of Lampedusa, where you’ll be working as a nurse, where your monthly salary will be more than your annual salary back home. Think of the house we’ll be living in. Think of only good things and you’ll be fine.’
She closes her eyes. The shivering has subsided now. I hold her tighter, her head resting on my shoulder. We’re almost there.
*
Less than ten hours to our destination and, oh God, the engine has stopped. Several hours after I managed to calm Bibiana’s nerves, without warning, the engine died.
I look around. There’s not a glimpse of land for a determined survivor to swim to. Water everywhere, up to the horizon in every direction. The captain looks at us. We look at each other, all of us, without a word. Bibiana’s grip on my hand tightens.
‘What’s happening, Captain?’ I ask.
He, however, speaks a language I do not know. He tries to explain, but I understand nothing. Some, it seems, have understood, because they speak among themselves, their voices rising in panic. Others begin to cry.
‘What’s going on?’ Bibiana asks me.
‘I don’t know.’ I say. ‘It seems we have engine trouble.’
‘Oh God!’ she screams.
‘Everything will be all right,’ I try to calm her. I wish I could believe these words myself.
The captain tries to start the engine again. It sputters and dies, sputters and dies, again and again. He shakes his head, sweating. He speaks. From the gestures of his hands and the gentleness of his voice, I think he is saying everything is going to be all right. It had better be. Everyone around me is crying.
I know that help will come from somewhere. I have seen ships along the way. I am certain that someone will soon spot us and rescue us. For the first time in years, I utter the novena of St Jude.
‘Most holy apostle, St Jude, pray for us …’
*
Now the situation has degenerated into our worst fears. The sea has suddenly changed its attitude. It is no longer calm. It is treating us like unwelcome visitors, as if we have invaded its space. What began as welcome rain has turned into a violent storm. Mountains of water are flinging us up and down with force so great that about fifteen people were thrown overboard the first time a wave hit us. Everyone around me is wailing. Even as I think these thoughts, there is another torrent of water coming. And we, like the rest of the sea’s debris, are going in any direction the wind wants to take us. I have lost a sense of east or west, north or south. I am cold and hungry.
‘Water!’ Bibiana demands. ‘I need water.’
‘Water!’ I call out, my feeble voice battling the raging wind. ‘Does anyone have some water?’
*
Another wave comes with great speed, like a hungry shark. We can do nothing but shriek. It swallows us and tosses us and suffocates us and shakes us, and I am gripping the edge of the boat with all my strength. I cannot breathe, I cannot see, the force is too strong and overpowering. And then suddenly it is gone, and I am gasping. I can now see that the sun has risen. The boat is full of water. The others are using their hands and anything else they can to drain the water, or else we will sink. Bibiana is here, coughing and gasping at once. The boat is emptier, as many more have been sucked in by the deep and hungry sea – men, women, babies.
‘Most holy apostle, St Jude,’ I beg, ‘please do not abandon us …’
*
A helicopter! Oh, St Jude, thank you, thank you! First it passed us, but now it has circled back. Our captain is waving at it. We all join in, waving. It’s flying low now, and some people are peering out from it. We wave more, crying and begging, ‘Please help! Help!’ and they are taking photographs, it seems. That black thing pointing at us, isn’t it a camera? A baby begins to cry, the kind of cry that can only be silenced with food. Maybe they have something they could throw down to us? A bottle of water, perhaps? Or a tin of b
iscuits? The woman lifts the baby with both hands and waves it at them.
‘We die of thirst!’ I shout, pointing at the baby.
But with the helicopter’s heavy engine sound and the whirl of the rotating blades above it, I doubt they have heard me. The helicopter circles around us once, then gathers speed and leaves us. We gaze at it as it becomes smaller and smaller until it cannot be seen any more.
‘I think,’ I say to Bibiana, ‘they’ll send boats to rescue us. Lampedusa can’t be far now. The sea must have tossed us close to the shore.’
‘You think so?’ She is not convinced.
‘Yes, we’ll soon be rescued.’
The wait begins. The sea is calm now. The sky is cloudless. It has become warm. Too warm. The heat is beginning to sear our skin. I hope the helicopter people will bring help fast. The hunger is so severe I could eat a raw fish if I got hold of one. Helicopter, please come back.
‘Most holy apostle, St Jude, pray for us. We are hopeless and alone.’
*
It is day three.
The helicopter has yet to return. Unable to stand the thirst, Bibiana has been drinking sea water, despite my advice not to. It has made her sick. The waves came back last night and took more lives, including the captain’s. We’re completely lost. The sea is calm again, but this is of little comfort if help does not come.
*
I can’t count the hours or the days any more. I have lost track of day and night. I am weak, unable to sit up. From time to time I raise my head to look around, to confirm that I am still alive. We’re still drifting like those little paper boats Bibiana and I used to throw in the rainwater that formed rivulets next to the veranda of my parents’ house. I make an effort to confirm that Bibiana is also alive. Yes, she’s still lying here next to me, her weak hand curled around my backside.
