But the mountain wasn’t theirs and so the ball had to keep rolling. Why did the ball have to keep rolling when there was barely any land on the mountain fit for playing football? Because conditions on Gurugu were not as most people from the Zambezi north imagined them to be. You can spend all hours of the day dressed in shorts in Doaula and two items of clothing suffice in Bamako, but the uncomfortable truth is that on Mount Gurugu the elements are rather less accommodating. In a sense, the Gurugu inhabitants had already reached Europe, for although they weren’t the sort of temperatures that would have troubled the average European, if you’d just come from, say, San Pedro, Senegal, it was very, very cold. Not cold enough to draw television crews perhaps, but if you were camping on the mountain because life had closed in on you elsewhere, your teeth chattered, especially at certain times of the year. The Gurugu inhabitants had barely any clothing and some didn’t even have the roof of a cave or a tent over their heads. Plus they had to prevent their gaze, if not their thoughts, from lingering too long on the town below, and so they sought solace in Samuel Eto’o’s calling. There was nothing else for it, they could either burn down the mountain making endless campfires or they could run around after a ball and let the warm embrace of exercise bring a few hours comfort and respite. Run after a ball or any round thing, for often what passed for a ball on Gurugu would have made their footballing idols laugh. But anything roughly round and fairly light sufficed on Gurugu, for it was better to have something to chase after than to sit around trembling in the cold. You had to keep moving, you had to keep going, you had to play, even if you’d never played football in your life before, because if you didn’t, you suffered, you ached, you saddened, and through bouts of shivering fits, even though the cold wasn’t all that cold, you began to lose heart and think that someone had better give you a reason to be hopeful, and soon.
‘Good morning, Peter. We need to eat breakfast, it’s match day, the semi-finals.’
‘Good morning, Alex, yes, we need to eat breakfast.’
‘You’re not interested in the match?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You said “yes, we need to eat breakfast”, but you didn’t mention the match.’
‘Well, you can’t have seen me walking recently. Haven’t you noticed my limp?’
‘No, brother, sorry. What’s the matter?’
Peter sat up in his bed and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say it ought to be obvious.
‘Okay, well, we’d still better tell the captain.’
‘And what about breakfast, eh?’
‘Well, you can’t play on an empty stomach, but if you’re not playing …’
It was a universal truth that you couldn’t play football on an empty stomach, but there were other truths on the mountain, important truths to do with why the ball had to keep rolling and why so many people had limps.
‘Anyway, come on, let’s help with the lists.’
The residents compiled two lists. For the first list, the captain thought of everyone who was available to play football and he soon reached eleven names. A few feet away, others worked on a second list, one which required even more careful consideration than usual, for it was match day and football was an important business. As they worked on the list, the sun climbed up the horizon and the breeze brought fresh air: a new day had dawned, a new day that would bring new demands. Soon the second list was complete. It was a shopping list of everything the men and women of black Africa needed to survive in the residence. It was a mental list, for there was no pen and paper.
Two residents set off with the shopping list in their heads. As they made their way down the hill, one of them started thinking about all the food there was on the African continent, a train of thought that had begun while helping compile the shopping list. He’d thought: ‘Imagine if we had an elephant.’ That’s right, an elephant, just the one, one elephant for the five hundred or so men and women gathered on Mount Gurugu. ‘Imagine if the park warden who’d escaped from Idi Amin’s Praetorian Guard sent us just one elephant, we’d have enough meat to feed ourselves for months on end:
‘“Hello, Sir, you don’t know me, but I’ve come to Yankari Park especially to see you, for I must tell you about the situation further north, a fair distance from here. There are some five hundred of us, black Africans all, and we just want to live, you know? We just want to live, but living is a serious business in Africa, for it’s often very hard and lots of people barely manage it. We’re in a place called Gurugu where we’re divided into language groups, principally English speakers and French speakers, although there are other groups too, because there are sometimes lots of people from a particular place and they speak their own language. Anyway, we basically spend the day playing football, for reasons I won’t go into, but in order to play football, often with a ball no bigger than an orange, we need to eat. Do you understand me, Sir? Eat or manger, according to whichever history the whites chose for you. If Sir could just see to it that an elephant, just one single elephant, could reach us, the meat would last us for months. We would carve the elephant up and set aside the non-edible parts, such as the contents of its digestive tracts, although we wouldn’t throw them away, for in a place with so little, everything has its worth. Do you understand what I’m saying, Sir? We’d find a way to chop the beast up into pieces and then we’d take some of the meat to sell on the streets of Melilla.”
‘“And the two tusks,” Sir would say, “don’t forget about the tusks, they’d fetch a pretty packet.”
‘“Of course, Sir, you’re right, that’s the first thing we’d do. We’d sell the tusks and then we’d sell some of the meat.”
‘“Okay, son, but your plan is flawed somehow,” Sir would say. “Melilla is a European city, you can’t just wander the streets hawking raw chunks of elephant meat. As for the tusks, forget it, ivory poaching is strictly forbidden in Europe, at least it is if you get caught, what you do secretly is another matter. But your story interests me, so do carry on, just don’t think I haven’t somehow noticed these flaws.”
‘“If you send an elephant to Gurugu, Sir, we’ll cut it in two, and we’ll sell the tusks and some of the meat secretly. With the money we get we’ll buy rice, onions, olive oil, garlic, cooking pots, drinking cups, tomatoes, potatoes, vinegar, kerosene, buckets, milk, condensed milk, drinking cups, seasoning, flour, butter, chickpeas, lentils, couscous, oats, chicken, rabbit, raisins, oranges, apples, lamb, sweets, bananas, flour and cheese. We’ll go back to the mountain with all our groceries and we’ll cook the delicious leftover elephant meat … ”
‘“Yes, what will you do with all the leftover meat? Because you can feed an army on an elephant.”
‘“I’d rather there was no talk of arms, Sir, for the arms that pour into Africa are a major cause of the problem we find ourselves in.”
‘“I said an army, I didn’t mention arms specifically.”
‘“Please let me finish my story before you start talking of arms, Sir, if that’s what interests you. Returning to the leftover meat, we wouldn’t buy a giant fridge to store it in, no, because we’d need the money to continue our journey.”
‘“Onwards and upwards, eh?”
‘“Look, Sir, I’ve doubtless forgotten to include other items on the list, but I really must mention salt. Lots of salt. Because, after cooking a giant pot of food for everyone, or each group could cook its own pot and its preferred accompaniments, we’d cure the leftover meat using the salt. We’d gather dry branches fallen from the mountain trees, and take a few green branches too, and we’d make a bed to lay the meat on and underneath the bed we’d make a fire, to dry the meat out, to smoke it and cure it, so that it could be eaten for many months to come.”
‘“And what would you do with the elephant’s innards?”
‘“The innards are the tastiest parts, so they’d be awarded to the winners of the football tournament.”
‘“And what about the brain? Would that not somehow go to you, b
ecause I understand you’re the captain of one of the teams?”
‘“I hadn’t thought about the brain, and no, Sir, I’m not a captain. Why did you think I was?”
‘“Because you speak more than one language. Anyway, I’m sorry to pop the bad news, but don’t you know elephant meat is haram?”
‘“Elephant meat isn’t haram, Sir.”
‘“How do you know? Are you somehow a Muslim?”
‘“I’m not Muslim, but in my travels along rivers I’ve gathered experience.”
‘“Well, I don’t mean to contradict you, but can you imagine the environmental scandal an elephant sacrifice on a civilised mountain would entail? All that blood everywhere, the stench from the innards and the contents of the elephant’s digestive tracts, never mind the billows of smoke you’d make curing the leftover meat … This cocktail of ingredients would turn Mount Goo … Gru … ”
‘“Gurugu, Sir.”
‘“Would turn Mount Gurugu into Dante’s inferno. Do you know who first told me about Dante’s inferno?”
‘“No, Sir, I don’t.”
‘“The English advisor to His Excellency Idi Amin Dada, Conqueror of the British Empire.”
‘“But he’s dead, Sir.”
‘“Who? His Excellency’s English advisor?”
‘“No, Idi Amin.”
‘“Well, if he died, he died with his titles, but actually he’s not dead. Anyway, firstly, elephant meat is haram, secondly, I somehow don’t think the Moroccan police would tolerate you turning the mountain into some barbaric horror scene. One dead pachyderm and the whole camp would be razed for good.”
‘“Are you sure, Sir?”
‘“Very sure, though it pains me to say it, because elephant meat is indeed a fine delicacy. Even if it is haram, and anyway, such luxuries are not really for the likes of you, a simple black who somehow decides to abandon his country because he wants to go to Europe and marry a white girl.”’
Such were the thoughts of one of the men as the two envoys made their way down the hill to seek food in Farkhana.
‘What are you so busy thinking about, brother?’ the other envoy suddenly asked.
‘Idi Amin.’
‘Amin? The dictator? Why think about him, eh? Anyway, there’s something I need to tell you, brother, something I need to tell you in confidence.’
‘Go ahead, friend.’
‘There’s a certain item women use at a particular time. We have to find out what it’s called, because one of our sisters is bleeding and needs it.’
‘You mean she’s got her period?’
‘She’s bleeding, brother, I don’t think I need say more.’
‘But is she bleeding or menstruating? It’s not necessarily the same thing. How serious is it?’
‘It’s serious enough for us to have been asked to add the item to the shopping list, brother. We have to find out what they call it in their language down there and add it to the list.’
‘We can add it to the list, it costs nothing to add something to the list. Whether we can get hold of it or not, that’s another matter, because we certainly can’t afford it.’
‘I know, brother, and it’s going to be awkward, asking strangers for something so intimate, which we don’t know the word for.’
‘It’s not our fault, friend, we’re not in our own land.’
‘I know, brother, but the whole situation, it’s enough to make you want to go mad, because then—’
‘There’s nothing to be gained by us losing our heads.’
‘No? If we were mad, it would be a whole lot easier to ask strangers for something we don’t know the name of, something we have to ask for because blood is spouting out of our sisters, we don’t even know why and yet—’
‘What do you mean we don’t know why? We know why blood comes out of our sisters, or is there more to this than you’re letting on?’
‘Please stop interrupting me, brother.’
‘Come on, don’t get cross with me, friend. Communal living isn’t easy.’
‘But you’re acting like you’re oblivious to what’s going on and that’s not right, brother, that’s no way for a responsible person to behave. We have to go into a corner shop or a supermarket and find out the name of the product we need, a product that we really shouldn’t have to ask for, because it shouldn’t be lacking in the first place, and because women shouldn’t have to leave their villages and their work in the fields to seek a new life elsewhere, because—’
‘But the reality is—’
‘Stop interrupting me!’
‘But something has obviously happened! You’re clearly upset about something and unless you tell me what it is, I don’t see how this can be a successful trip. Come on, let’s sit down on that rock over there and you can tell me what the matter is, aside from the ridiculous fact that we live in a cave and call it a residence so as not to die of shame before illness or a Moroccan bullet gets us first.’
‘You want to know what’s upsetting me, eh, brother? Does it seem reasonable to you that we have to go around begging for an item we’ve never used and don’t know the name of, eh? We don’t speak Berber, we don’t even speak Spanish. So what do we say, eh? We can hardly act it out! We can beg for something to eat, the pain of hunger has been universal since the twelfth century BC, but times have changed for women, even if we are back to living in caves.’
‘I’m sensing there’s been an accident of some sort, am I right?’
The other man lowered his head as tears welled in his eyes. But they had to push on and they had to prepare themselves to overcome their shame and beg for food, in an alien language besides. That’s why one of the envoys wished he were mad, for madness would have taken away his inhibitions. You’re an adult, you’re black, you live in no-man’s land on a mountain watched over by armed police who don’t like you being there. Hunger is eating a hole in you, several holes in fact, and the trees on the mountain bear no fruit, not even bitter fruit. You have to head for the lights of civilisation, the nearest town. Look, good citizens, as you know, we live up there, because you won’t open your doors to us and the immigration centre is full to bursting. We’re not going to die of hunger just to make life easy for the chief of police, so we’ve come to beg, to beg you for something to eat.
‘What do you want?’
‘Aliments, please, la nourriture.’
‘Look, all I can give you are a few onions and potatoes left over from yesterday.’
‘Merci, merci very much … And now how do we ask for the other thing, eh, brother?’
‘What?’ said the woman. ‘What’s the matter?’
The time had come to ask for the sanitary towels.
‘Ah, I wish I were mad,’ said the envoy who’d said it before.
‘What’s the matter with you? I’ve given you what I can, I don’t have any more, the crisis affects us all, you know? This is Morocco, not Sweden or Denmark, or even Germany.’
‘No, Señora, look, por favor, ecrito, ecrito.’
The lady took the scrap of paper and squinted, trying to make out the word written in improvised ink.
‘Goodness me! No, lo siento, I’m no longer of an age to use them. I don’t have any, I’m very sorry. You’ll have to go to a supermarket or a corner shop, and good luck to you.’
‘Merci, madame.’
‘May Allah have mercy on you.’
Two potatoes and a few onions. Without all the meat in Yankari Park, even with the army having perished in the Zambezi’s waters, two potatoes and a few onions was a very light breakfast for the legions of footballers on Mount Gurugu. The two black men looked at one another. It was never good when envoys came back to the camp so empty-handed. Each group looked after its own affairs, but they shared whatever they got hold of and if there wasn’t enough to go around the residence, there’d be nothing to offer anyone else. But it was more than that; it was a statement of sorts: the inhabitants of Farkhana have nothing for the blacks who’ve invaded th
eir forest.
‘If that woman spoke Spanish, she can’t have been Muslim, eh, brother? Unless we’ve totally misunderstood how things work down here.’
‘You can’t expect to understand them, we’re not from here. She is whatever fate determined her to be.’
‘But what do we do now, brother? We don’t have enough food and we’ve failed to get hold of the thing the women need. Ah, I wish I would just lose my mind and not have to worry about any of this.’
‘Your pride will protect your reason, friend. Come on, we’ve no choice, we’ll carry on asking, we have to survive.’
‘But do you think that woman really didn’t have what we asked her for?’
‘She gave us what she had.’
‘But all women use them, don’t they, eh?’
‘What do you mean by all women?’
‘All women, grown-up women with households and children.’
‘How old are you exactly?’
‘Twenty-two. Why?’
‘No reason. Come on, we’ll keep on asking.’
The Gurugu Pledge Page 5
