Devil’s Harvest

by Andrew Brown

  A flat roof had been fixed to the wall of a dilapidated building, providing shelter to a crowd of men, now sitting on plastic chairs and sipping tea from glasses rather than cups. A huge neem tree provided cover to those clustered around its base, its dark-green leaves rustling together like foil. A few seed pods, dislodged by the deepening rainfall, clattered to the ground.

  The men all murmured their greetings to Gabriel in typically reserved Sudanese style. A young girl with delicate scars in the shape of multiple v’s radiating from between her eyebrows was pouring a clear brown liquid through a strainer into a glass. She added some small sticks, cinnamon perhaps, and brought this to one of the men. Gabriel could smell the spice from where he sat, his salivary glands piqued. Rasta and the tea girl had a short conversation, her eyes flitting to her unexpected guest, then cast away demurely.

  ‘Akondi ti momondu inasiku ko ponda tinate. Tea will come now,’ Rasta advised him. The man seemed annoyingly at peace with the world, his default a warm smile and twinkle in the eye, as if he knew something amusing that everyone else was yet to grasp. ‘I will drink kerekede, but it is bitter, so you will have tea.’ Again, Gabriel felt his irritation rise at having his choices made on his behalf. What he actually wanted was coffee, but he knew better than to request this. In Juba, he was learning, it was best to submit.

  He watched the girl tip a heaped spoon of milk powder into a glass and, with a little boiled tea added, reduce it to a thick paste that attached itself to the sides of the glass like builder’s putty. Then a generous amount of sugar was added, followed by more brown tea from the kettle. She stirred it vigorously into a milky, discoloured liquid. She filled another glass with a red-brown liquid, poured cold from a plastic jug, and brought them on a metal tray.

  ‘We English like a bit of milk in our tea, but this is a bit ridiculous,’ Gabriel said in what he hoped was a joking tone.

  ‘No, no, try it.’ Rasta made a clucking sound with his tongue, as one would if annoyed. ‘You will like it. It is tea.’

  Gabriel regretted incurring his amiable host’s displeasure and took a healthy sip to appease him. The milky appearance had led him to expect something lukewarm, but the tea was piping hot and yet, in the muggy heat, deliciously sweet and creamy. Unlike coffee, it didn’t heat him further, but rather settled his stomach in an agreeable manner. He sat sipping at his tea, momentarily contented, while the men around him conducted a serious conversation, sometimes in English but mostly in a language that he couldn’t follow. It appeared that the conduct of the local police was under discussion, as the editor-in-chief of the Citizen newspaper had been arrested and assaulted in front of all of his staff. One man in the group seemed to believe that the editor got what he’d deserved, while the majority felt the police had exceeded their powers. Rasta kept a low profile on the issue.

  Gabriel picked up a discarded newspaper. The Citizen had as its byline ‘Fighting Corruption and Dictatorship Every Day’, which seemed noble if a little ambitious. The quality of the printing was atrocious and the black-and-white photographs were so faded as to be barely discernible, but the English articles gave Gabriel some insight into the issues of the world’s newest country. It didn’t make for entirely happy reading and he thought again of Jane’s smug words: I did warn you.

  There was a thunderclap and the rain started to come down with intent. Gabriel soon realised the reason for Rasta’s sudden tea stop. The ditches, blocked by rubbish, took none of the water away and the road surface was quickly submerged under an inch of water. The sides turned into two brown rivers, plastic bottles and other rubbish swirling along in eddies. One or two motorcycles kept going, sending out waves of dirty water, but most people parked their cars or jumped off their bikes, and headed for the tea houses. They ran as if the deluge was about to sweep them away, their sandals sending sprays of dirty water in all directions. The parallel rivers grew, stretching out across the camber of the road until they touched in the middle, the road becoming a single watercourse. Soon, the rain obscured the building on the other side, an almost impenetrable sheet of water lashing down along the length of the road.

  The water pushed up against the side of the neem tree and then flowed under the chairs, an edge of brown foam marking its advance. Some took off their shoes, but most sat unconcerned, continuing their conversation. The young woman serving tea tossed a handful of papers and used tea into the maelstrom, a ritual followed by other people. From here it would flow downhill to the Nile, he realised. The once mighty river must be clogged with garbage.

  Just as he was draining the last sweetness from his glass, the rain halted. As with the sudden advent of sunrise, there was no misty drizzle as transition. Rather it was as if someone had simply turned off the tap. Within minutes, the road appeared again, rising at the centre and rapidly extending until there was a drivable surface once more. Steam rose off it and the humidity in the air became palpable, making his armpits and the backs of his knees feel clammy once more. He immediately longed for a cold shower.

  People emerged and clambered back on their bikes; cars rumbled back to life; Juba went back to its business after a brief interlude.

  Back at the compound, Gabriel settled down at the bar counter with a Nile Lager, another local beer that came in a quart bottle. The freckled Ms Preston and the UNDP had fobbed him off; that was clear. If he wanted to proceed, he would probably have to find a different source of assistance. The British Council, which was active in Juba, had already advised him that they did not have any programmes outside of the city. The American agencies had not bothered to reply to his emails. Médecins Sans Frontières wanted to know if he had a medical degree. Samaritan’s Purse was very active – Gabriel had already spotted a number of their vehicles – but without a church reference they were unlikely to help.

  The thought returned: he could leave. It was an increasingly comforting prospect, escaping the flies and heat. He could tell everybody that he had been to South Sudan and tried his best to get north. He could be home in less than forty-eight hours.

  Home brought thoughts of Jane to the fore once more and he felt an aimless aggravation overtake him. He sipped his beer and watched a sports match play out on the mute television set. Rasta was playing music through the speakers – Dire Straits’ ‘Sultans of Swing’ – which only added to Gabriel’s moroseness.

  He was joined at the bar by a tall, sad-looking man with a bald head and a soft intonation. The man ordered a soda water and introduced himself as William.

  ‘Just getting over another bout of typhoid,’ he said, as if the choice of beverage required explanation. In Juba, perhaps it did.

  William was an employee of the British Council – a teacher. He travelled to those parts of the world where there were no tourists. ‘Before it gets spoilt,’ he explained. He’d spent three years in Kabul before coming to Juba eighteen months ago.

  ‘Been in this compound for nearly three months now. It’s one of the few that the Council endorses for security. They’re worried we may be abducted.’

  Abducted by whom, Gabriel wondered, but didn’t ask for fear of being drawn further into conversation. Instead, he stuck to small talk. ‘Must be difficult always being so far from home,’ he offered.

  ‘Home?’ William looked perplexed for a moment. ‘I haven’t had a home for years. Not since I left the army.’

  Of course. A military man. Now Gabriel placed the square shoulders, the strong jaw, the eyes once cold and determined, now far more hesitant, not making contact.

  Jannie, the South African, had entered the bar and was joking loudly with Rasta. William didn’t seem disconcerted, but Gabriel’s gaze drifted over his companion’s shoulder. The reference to the army conjured images of Jane and her military lover.

  ‘You were in the army? And now you teach? That’s quite a change. What do you teach?’ Gabriel asked, his interest piqued.

  ‘English. To men who’ve only ever known how to clean and shoot a Kalashnikov. Some were child soldiers,
abducted by the SPLA, by the SAF, by some mad militiamen.’

  ‘Sounds rough,’ Gabriel said.

  ‘All they know is war and fighting. Now there’s peace, they sit around the huge army compounds cleaning their rifles, and waiting. It’s a time bomb. You can’t decommission them, you can’t send these people out into society and tell them to start again. So the army keeps them there, the biggest army in the world, just sitting around, polishing their bullets. Listening to me prattle on.’

  Gabriel had of course heard the stories of Africa’s child soldiers, but they had somehow always seemed like fictional characters. Before he could ask a question he noted Jannie making his way up to them. He felt his body tense up involuntarily.

  Jannie slapped William on the shoulder. ‘Willie, my vriend. How’s it going teaching the gooks English?’

  William seemed lost in introspection and didn’t react to the man’s presence. Jannie was wearing a white vest that displayed his muscled shoulders and arms. The hair under his arms was also sandy coloured and profuse. He turned his attention to Gabriel.

  ‘Hey, Birdman. You know that all that stands between us and a fucking army-load of stoned kids with AKs is this man Willie here? You have any idea how fucked up those gooks are, boet? They’ve been through shit you can’t even fucking imagine.’

  Jannie downed the Tusker beer he was holding and Rasta replaced it without being asked. Jannie winked at the barman in thanks. Just getting warmed up was the message.

  ‘Let me tell you something about this fucking place. First, both sides use Chinese-made Weishi rockets. A Weishi flies fucking fast, boet – around 3 000 miles an hour – but you can’t aim the thing better than a hundred square metres. Now you know that the North are using old Russian Antonovs for their bombing runs?’

  Gabriel didn’t, but nodded nonetheless.

  ‘It’s the four-engined AN-12, the old transport planes, so no bomb bays. They pack used oil drums with explosives and bits of scrap metal. Roll them out of the back of the rear ramp in flight at about 200 metres. You can’t aim the fucking thing. Just rolls out the back, tumbles through the air and hits the ground.’

  William stirred to life, his memory of his military days animating him. ‘It’s a massive explosion when it hits,’ he said, taking over from Jannie. ‘It’ll take out anything that isn’t lying flat. Usually civilians who don’t know any better. The soldiers are all hiding in the ditches already.’

  ‘Imagine: oil drums rolled out the back of a cargo door. Fucking amazing.’

  The interaction between the men was increasingly unnerving. There was an instability about both of them as they described the carnage, William sadly, Jannie almost reverently. As if he wished he were part of it, that he was missing out.

  So this was the calibre of man Jane was entertaining. All brawn and no brain. Men of action. He himself had always found discussions on warfare and military tactics utterly nonsensical.

  ‘Then they send in the Mi-17s and 19s,’ Jannie continued. ‘Helicopter gunships bought from Ukraine and China. Sometimes a MiG or a Sukhoi-Su-25. They take out anything still standing. When they’ve finished it’s just flame and smoke and black earth. They can’t get the fighters, so they take out everything that supports them.’

  ‘Same tactic you used in Namibia and Angola years ago. Nothing new.’ William gazed into his half-drunk soda, before tipping the remaining contents into his mouth.

  ‘Ja, same-same, but different. Namibia didn’t have the Janjaweed, riding through the fire on horseback, their faces wrapped, just their hollow eyes showing. Like hell. The fucking Devil himself.’ Jannie’s eyes were bright and his face flushed even beneath its tan.

  William stood up without giving his leave and wandered off towards the toilets behind the reception office. Gabriel turned back to the television set in the hope that Jannie would leave him alone. The South African lit up a cigarette, but said nothing further. A few moments later, Gabriel heard him engaging with someone else a little way off. He realised that in his anxiety he had finished his beer. Rasta replaced it with a cold bottle without him asking, again anticipating his wishes. Was this the answer to an imploding life, Gabriel wondered, to drink until one passed out.

  He turned and looked out across the dining area. The crowd had grown considerably and the music had been turned up. Rasta was playing something by the Police – ‘Roxanne’ he thought. The dreadlocked barman was behind the counter, furiously pouring drinks and opening bottles as young and rosy-faced UN personnel ordered more rounds. On the fringes a few wearier aid veterans sat nursing their drinks, smoking and eyeing the enthusiasm of the youngsters with cynicism. One giggling youth knocked up against Gabriel and spilt some white wine on his leg, apologising and breathing alcoholic fumes over his face. He turned back to the bar in irritation.

  Two young local women were now sitting next to him, absorbed by the small black-and-white television screen nestled between the fridge and a collection of spirits. The sound was off and the picture was grainy, but the women were enraptured by the passage of play. The woman closest to him exclaimed loudly in dismay. Gabriel looked up at the screen to see the replay of a player, a hazy shape in the poor reception, dropping a pass.

  ‘You actually follow rugby?’ he asked, genuinely surprised.

  The woman turned to look at him. ‘Oh yes!’ she said. She had a pretty face, but it lacked the softness of youth, her expression severe and serious. ‘The trouble with Western Province is that the backline lacks consistency and they don’t play as a team. Each one wants to be a hero.’ The woman returned to the game, leaving Gabriel hopelessly perplexed.

  ‘Western Province?’

  ‘The South African provincial team?’ The woman seemed surprised. ‘Don’t you know rugby?’

  Gabriel thought about pretending to have some interest in the sport, but he knew his acute lack of knowledge would quickly be uncovered. ‘Actually, I prefer cricket,’ seemed like the best escape plan.

  ‘Cricket!’ At this, the woman fell onto her companion and the two knocked heads together and howled with laughter. Gabriel half-smiled at their mirth, but said nothing. When the woman turned back to him there were little tears in the corners of her eyes and her entire face had transformed. There was now a lightness to her, as if the moment of laughter had been a condensed vacation. Then she smiled, the action brightening her eyes, restoring her youth, her teeth perfectly white and regular, her face impish. Gabriel shivered in response.

  ‘Dear me,’ she said, putting her hand on Gabriel’s arm, as if she were his elder. ‘I played lock for the Ugandan women’s team, so I don’t know much about cricket. I hear it’s very … dignified.’ Her companion started cackling again. ‘My name’s Justine. What’s yours?’

  ‘Gabriel.’ He turned his body to face her. ‘You played lock? In Uganda? So you’re not Sudanese?’

  ‘So many questions! Do you want the short story or the long story?’

  ‘You can tell me the full—’

  ‘No, no there’s no time,’ she interrupted, looking back at the television set. ‘Here’s the quick version. When the war was so bad here, I ran away from Juba. I was eleven years old. I walked a long way on my own. Then I got a lift and ended up in a refugee camp in Uganda. I stayed there for two years until my family found me. My mother was in another camp, in Sudan, but she sent my uncle to try and find me. I was lucky. He did.’ She brushed her hands together, all the while keeping an eye on the television set.

  ‘And the rugby?’

  ‘Ah yes. I was good at sport, and I got a sports scholarship to go to a school in Kampala. I played rugby. I liked the game, the physical side of it. I had a lot of anger to use, so I was quite … strong on the field. People were afraid of me when I played. I ended up in the Ugandan national team.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I’m back in my new country. Pushing on with this thing people call life.’ She turned away, speaking towards the television set and breaking the engagement with hi
m.

  Gabriel couldn’t tell if there was any sarcasm in her voice, but her turn of phrase struck him. He hesitated. He had no reference point to engage with her, and yet she was able to cast aside all pretences herself. He was unsure whether to offer paternal comfort or delve deeper as her confidant. He felt an inappropriate desire to unburden himself, to tell this stranger about Jane and her appalling infidelity. The earthen floor seemed to pitch and yaw; he was drunk, exceedingly drunk. Someone pushed alongside him, slapping some South Sudan pounds on the counter. Gabriel looked around. The bar area was full now, the noise of conversation and shouts rising above the sound of the reggae music that Rasta now favoured. More people were arriving, many walking arm in arm across the small bridge. There was a cross-section of young NGO and UN workers, seemingly mixing with a number of well-dressed locals.

  ‘Your country is doing well now,’ Gabriel said to his new companion.

  ‘Don’t be fooled by what you see,’ Justine replied, also looking around the bar now. ‘They’re all foreigners, Ugandans mixing with Americans, Kenyans sleeping with Germans. Local Sudanese could never afford this,’ she added, gesturing towards another extravagant round of whisky being poured alongside them.

  As Gabriel looked across the throng, a tall, scantily dressed woman with thin legs waved at him with enthusiasm. He was immediately mortified as he couldn’t recall where he’d met her before. On the plane, perhaps. At the UN compound? He half-raised his hand in greeting, reluctant to embarrass himself.

  ‘Freedom is a luxury only the rich can afford,’ Justine said cryptically. She was staring aggressively at the woman across the bar. For a few long seconds, the two glared at each other with competitive scorn, until the woman’s effusion waned and died as she turned away.

  ‘The only locals here are the whores,’ Justine added, to his humiliation.

  * * *

  At some point in the evening, Justine started dancing, thrusting out her bottom and laughing with her friend, kicking their legs out as they dropped lower and lower to the floor. Gabriel watched, amused but ambivalent. The tempo and volume of the music increased and he started to lose himself in the swirl of activity around him. The dance floor came to life, dust rising like mist as high as people’s midriffs. Hookah pipes gave off their thick acidic smoke. Cigarette smoke, and something sweeter, filled the air.