‘My brothers, you have left me alone in this world. To whom will I talk to again? With whom will I eat again? My brothers, they have mixed up your blood and flesh. We couldn’t recognise your bodies; why did you choose this death? The world hated you! You have left me in a desert of pain. You left me without life; will I survive? Go well my brothers, I pray to the angels to welcome you. God receives your souls! Farewell!’
She burst into tears as she threw soil into the two holes.
Uncles, aunts, cousins, friends and neighbours came forward one by one, each one with a goodbye message, to throw a bit of soil in the two graves. Then a crowd of men with hoes and spades started covering the graves in a hurry.
Afterwards, the songs carried on in slow motion, many women with voices almost inaudible from singing and weeping. There were even coughs from those trying to find voices they no longer had. Slowly people went back to their homes; it was like the end of a chapter in a book.
Risto was still on the tree trunk. Was he dreaming? Was it a story someone was telling him, or a play he was seeing? He jumped down from the tree. Yes, he was still alive, and it was all true; he had witnessed a real end to the story of his two friends. He would never see them again.
Peace was once again a visitor to the street after a long busy-noisy three days. No songs could be heard, nor crying. It was known that the following day, women would have to wash everything at Mama Ombeni’s place very early in the morning. Food and drink would be served, and that would be the end of the mourning ceremony.
Risto’s father sat on the sofa near his wife, who was holding their younger daughter, Zaina. They had finished eating. Usually, after the meal there was discussion, debate and storytelling around the table, followed by hymns and prayers before sleep. The house was very sombre that night, no stories, no debate, no discussions. Risto was impatient, waiting for one of his parents to lead the singing, but no one said a word. Then, with a deep, tired and sad voice, his father broke the silence.
‘Yes … that is how life is, you can laugh with someone today and tomorrow you wake up and he is not around anymore.’
He kept quiet for a moment, took a breath, then he turned his face towards Risto.
‘What I can tell you is to be careful. Do not go far away from the house; the situation is not calm in this country. I am talking to all of you, not only to Risto. Anything can happen at any time. And if it happens that we have to run away and find refuge somewhere else, and you are not close to the house, you may be left behind. So, whenever you play, play nearby. If something happens while you are at school, listen to the instructions of your teachers. When they tell you to go home, run here quickly.’
He remained quiet for a while, and then he asked his wife to pray.
An August sun rose from its cave. As usual in August, it was shy, maybe afraid of the wind that blew early in the mornings. There was still a bit of mist on the mountains and on the Ruzizi river, which links Lake Kivu with Lake Tanganyika. Children enjoyed the sun when it reached its zenith. At noon, the bell from the Catholic church could be heard. Anyone could recognise that time if they had eyes to see and could read nature, the way Benny had taught Risto to do.
As the day turned to afternoon, the buzz of children intensified. The noise came mostly from the games they played; singing and dancing, marriage songs and sewing competitions for girls, and soccer games and à la guerre for boys. The children created separate camps from different streets, and competed against one another. Each camp had its own dancers, singers, and a bride and groom, and judges would choose the best food, songs and dances, even which bride and groom wore the best outfits. Everyone enjoyed these competitions, including onlookers, but the parents hated it when boys acted like soldiers at war, screaming their songs and shouting the names of their enemies.
This was the last month of the holidays, and the noisiest. Come September, all the games would be forgotten and the street would be quiet and deserted again. But this was the last time for playing, and by mid-afternoon, the parents couldn’t take the noise anymore; they sent the children to play elsewhere. But the noise of children playing was something that people missed when they went far from their homes. These sounds were the colours that painted the hearts of the people. Noise was medicine for their illnesses. It made the streets alive.
Buholo II Street, where Risto’s family lived, was always happy and cheerful. When the children sang, Buholo II Street sang, when they danced, the street danced too. It wasn’t noise; it was life. Often, older people stood to watch what was happening. They sighed in admiration; they would have wished to see childhood again, to play, and sing and dance like their children. These songs and dances healed burned hearts and wounded souls. It was rare to come across any case of heart disease in Buholo II Street. People were happy. They forgot about the war, they forgot about the soldiers, they forgot to worry about whether they would be invaded tomorrow.
At fifteen, Risto couldn’t mix with the younger children in his street anymore. Instead, his home became a meeting place for young people of his age. His father had bought him a lot of games: drafts, mucuba, cards, dice, Scrabble, as well as a small radio so he could to listen to music and news. Risto especially loved mucuba. This traditional African game had thirty-two magical holes in which beans or marbles were moved back and forth during the game. This game was the old people’s favourite; one had to be good at calculations to play it. Amazingly, some very elderly people were known as good players even though many of them had never been to school. They regularly won against the young people with tertiary degrees. With a little debate and talk of politics as the game was played, a day would go by as fast as a hyena being chased by a lion.
This was also a time for teasing and gossip. Risto was the victim almost every day. His friends began to tease him about the daughter of his neighbour, a girl called Néné. He never liked to hear her name coming out of the mouths of his friends. They never stopped fabricating stories about Risto and Néné.
‘Oh, Risto, we heard that you sent a letter to her …’
‘Oh, Risto, people saw you kissing her after you gave her a rose.’
All these were lies, and they irritated him. But there was nothing he could do except divert the teasing to another person, until they all turned to that person, and the day would go on.
One morning as he sat playing games as usual, he noticed Néné passing. Murmurs sounded. Provocative coughs came from Risto’s friends.
Néné and Risto’s eyes met and they both smiled. Her teeth flashed like lost diamonds in the night; it was a smile that took Risto’s heart away.
She went towards Risto’s family lounge. Everyone’s eyes were on Risto. He swallowed his tongue. After a while, she returned back to her house. To avoid any comments his friends might make, Risto concentrated on his game. Not five minutes had gone by when Néné’s voice vibrated in the air.
‘Risto! Risto! My mother is calling you.’
‘What for?’ Risto asked.
‘I don’t know, but I think she might send you somewhere.’
Risto stood up, reluctantly leaving a game that he was close to winning.
As he approached Néné’s family house, she came out and confessed that her mother was not there.
‘No, I am lying … my mother is not calling you,’ she said, a bit afraid and shy.
‘Then … so … why?’
‘No, it’s me,’ she looked at the ground. ‘I am going to Labotte, I don’t want to go alone. Would you mind coming with me?’ She looked back up, and this time her eyes met Risto’s. Then they both looked aside.
Risto nodded his head in agreement. Sparkling smiles shone on their faces.
Labotte was one of the most beautiful places in Bukavu. It was like a land that was about to be stolen by Lake Kivu, but then the entire landscape had fought for its rescue. It remained suspended above the water. From far away on the south mountain, one could see it like a string floating on the waters of Lake Kivu. Fresh breezes ble
w from both sides. Fishermen and their boats danced to the rhythm of the gentle waves of the lake, a lake that slept like a tired mother after a long day tending to her children. The fishermen, in happy songs and chants, floated with their boats and canoes on the quiet Lake Kivu. Its peaceful breeze was so beautiful, like a grandmother singing lullabies to her grandchildren.
Firstly Risto and Néné walked to the bus stop, and then they took a taxi to Labotte. This time, Risto’s friends would have good reason to create stories about the couple. But what they were saying was something that he didn’t want anyone to talk about: the love he was feeling for this beautiful girl. Risto’s heart skipped a beat whenever she smiled, showing the small gap between her teeth and her dimples … Oh, if beauty were a mother, Néné would have been her first daughter, he thought. The sun rose in her eyes! She walked with the grace and rhythm of a Congolese zebra! He felt special whenever he was with Néné; truth be told, he was deeply in love with her. Was this trip going to be an opportunity to tell her that his heart was dying for her? He had wanted to declare his love to her before, but his mouth had never allowed him to go ahead with the plan of his heart. This time he decided to use this opportunity.
They walked together side by side. It was difficult for Risto to start a conversation. They usually only talked about school. This time he wanted to talk about something else, to offer her his friendship, his love. But he was shy. He couldn’t make eye contact with her. She also didn’t allow it to happen. If their eyes met, they both quickly looked aside and carried on walking.
What is she going to think of me if I don’t talk to her? Isn’t she going to think that I am afraid of her? Risto argued with himself. He wanted to show Néné that he was strong, that he wasn’t shy. But what if she refused him? He would be miserable.
But maybe she has the same feelings; maybe she loves me too, he thought.
Risto looked at her again; their eyes met, and he felt relieved.
. Chapter 3 .
Six months had passed since Ombeni and Frank had been killed and buried, and a new wind buffeted the whole town of Bukavu every day. It was a never-ending whirlwind in people’s minds, strong at night and weak during the daylight. Everyone was afraid.
Bukavu’s peace had been broken by war and fear. Whenever a mother left her home for her daily job, or for the market, she left the responsibility for her children to the adults remaining in the neighbourhood. If anything happened, they had the right to make decisions about those children. The echo of heavy firearms banged in people’s eardrums. Even when it came from afar, it made life uneasy. Each day, the news filtered through and added to the uneasy air. Each night Bukavu slept uncertain of the morrow: tomorrow was an unborn ghost that haunted everyone’s sleep.
At last, the news no one wished to hear blew into the hearts of the Bukavian people. The region had been invaded. The news travelled from lip to lip and house to house. Anything could happen at any time. Bullets lit the dark skies of Bukavu as they flew back and forth between Congo and Rwanda. It was terrifying. How could a bullet cross the Ruzizi River and reach a home in Bukavu? Or cross in the other direction until it reached a home in Rwanda?
These things weighed heavily on Risto’s shoulders, becoming a shadow that took his appetite, his smile and laughter away. The question he always had in his mind was whether the next house to be hit would be theirs. Sometimes the exchange of bullets came as a rain-like sound, of hailstones on the roof; sometimes it was like two metals crashing and colliding. Risto lay among the banana trees, as the entire family had been advised to do by their father. He was afraid, hanging in an endless earthquake. The shooting echoed inside his head and left him feeling that his heart had been pulled from his chest. Now and again, he would put the palm of his hand on his chest, so that he could feel if he was still breathing. He had heard that one could die without knowing it, so he kept checking that he was still alive.
At first, the noise of firearms made children afraid. Whenever it started, they cried and ran in all directions. Later, they grew used to it, and would shout, ‘Shoot another one!’ They did not cry anymore. The shooting, the deaths, had become a part of their daily lives. There was no longer any difference between greetings and shootings.
The people’s prayers were not answered; the South Kivu region had been invaded. An official message came that people should evacuate. Soldiers arrived, setting up their posts in the streets. Their tanks were bigger than some of the houses in the neighbourhood; some of them walked on four feet like elephants. At first people opposed the evacuation, but one shot from a tank made a jam in the streets and paths. People fell with their bags on their necks; children’s cries burst towards the skies.
Risto’s father was at work when the town caught alight. With their mother, Risto and his two sisters followed their neighbours, their eyes and ears turning behind, hoping to find their father. With tears falling from her eyes, Risto’s mother followed the steps of her friends, walking in a multitude of people like ants. Her friend followed another friend, who in turn followed a friend. Nobody knew where they were going. They travelled aimlessly, following the mountains around Bukavu town. No one questioned the destination; everyone followed the same path, each person filling the footprint of their predecessor. The guns were heavier and sang rhythmically in the air. Their echoes came from different directions.
They walked past dead bodies, burning houses, wounded soldiers, wounded civilians. Risto thought about his late friends Ombeni and Frank, then was distracted by the cries of a lost child. He shivered. The crowd was as large as that at a soccer tournament. To keep count of their children, mothers would shout the name of each child, from the firstborn to the youngest, and every one would answer loudly. The noise of guns combined with the cries of children was deafening. Bullets whispered a quiet but violent song that people often only grasped after fatal words pierced innocent bodies. The song of the bullets came in a wind that carried many voices, those of the dead, the dying, those fighting death and those escaping death, and when it became very loud, people fell down on their stomachs with no wish to open their eyes again. Then the bullets would fall, not very far from where they were lying. For some, it would then be time to bury their loved ones, for others, a time to build crutches for their own bodies, but the journey carried on and on to the unknown destination.
On the third day of the journey, the songs of the guns could no longer be heard. Risto, his mother and his two sisters were alive and very far from Bukavu town; they were in the Luhoko village in the heart of Walungu territory. The woman they had followed, the friend of their mother, had been heavily pregnant when they first set out. On the journey, she had given birth to twin children. There was no clinic to go to. Everything – the labour and the birth – happened along the way. Generous villagers had given them food and a lot of fruit without questioning. It was the spirit of the people of the village to help.
The news had come that the pregnant woman needed to rest. The entire group stopped. The pregnant woman was taken in by the villagers and offered a small straw hut. Then everything turned into a grownup women business. From where the curious children watched, a frenzy of activity could be seen at the hut. Two women, with plastic basins in their hands, ran to the pregnant woman’s hut. It didn’t take long before some shouting could be heard. Apparently there was not enough paraffin in the lamp they were using. An old woman emerged from the hut and ran like a buck. One of her loincloths fell off unnoticed. She went straight to another hut a few metres away and came back with a working lamp.
Later that afternoon, the news came that the journey couldn’t go on; the pregnant woman had given birth to twins. Songs burst into the air. The villagers gave the new mother the small hut where she had given birth, and offered other huts to Risto’s family. Many other families were hosted by volunteers from the village. Some who had family members in nearby villages decided to carry on.
Eventually, reports came that war had ended and peace had returned to Bukavu. Di
splaced people started returning home. Risto’s family and the entire group that had found refuge in Luhoko village decided to go back home too. The twins were two months old when the party set out on the journey. The refugees thanked the villagers for their generosity and warmth, and promised to stay in contact.
Bukavu had changed. Was it wearing a mask, or did it have another spirit in its body? The people said it was a new country, and indeed it was. It had new people with new tongues, new ideologies, many new things indeed. These new things had captured the attention of the media. The country was in the headlines across the globe.
Something else surprising had happened. Teenagers were now more rare than gold. And those who were visible had deer eyes on their backs, ready to run whenever suspicious or sinister stories emerged of the kidnapping or militarisation of children. They looked with resistance and insistence at each new face. An unfamiliar face was a dangerous one; it made them run. The story was that many teenagers had joined the new army.
Some of Risto’s schoolmates now wore an army uniform that slowed their movements and made them look like puppets wearing their masters’ clothes. The uniforms these boys wore swallowed their spirits as well as their bodies; they were slaves to a uniform they would never be able to take off. Their youthful age raised questions about their decision to join the fighting. Only later was it revealed that boys like these had not chosen freely. They had been forced into violence, in secret ways they dared not pronounce.
It had been only a few years since the country had changed from Zaire to the Democratic Republic of Congo; now there was change again. There were new leaders, a new army, new soldiers. Risto was confused; he had many questions that even his father couldn’t answer. Was it a new country? Who was in charge? When he heard about the many different militia groups that had risen, he wondered who protected whom, who guarded whom. Some of his friends had joined the most feared army group, the Mai-Mai. They had mystical powers; they couldn’t be defeated and they couldn’t die. Bullets wouldn’t penetrate their bodies; they would would tear their clothing and then fall like little plastic balls hitting a concrete wall. Knives would bend and machetes would bounce off their magical bodies. They were tattooed with lion blood and crocodile scales, and had the spirits of sacred forests and fearsome ancestors to protect them. They wore talismans of feathers and bones around their necks, and never washed in rivers or let the rain fall on them; they never ate food that had been cooked by women, and were not allowed to steal. They had many rules and principles. They were there to protect people from foreign invasion, Risto heard.
The Great Agony & Pure Laughter of the Gods Page 4
