The Great Agony & Pure Laughter of the Gods

by Jamala Safari

  He was no longer Risto; he began to believe that what the Kadogo had been taught during the training was true. Killing a man was easier than killing a goat. With just one bullet, a man was down, no matter the weight of his body or the strength of his talisman. Risto felt invincible with his gun; he became proud of his ability to use a single bullet to take away a life. He imagined a world that he would soon rule with his gun and his cannabis, how important he would be with his ability to kill with only one bullet, the respect he would earn as the strongest of all the Kadogo.

  Already he had begun to forget what had happened only a few days earlier. He had forgotten his life. He had forgotten where he was and who he was with. He had forgotten his pain and his fear. He had forgotten his past and his future. He had forgotten with whom he had come, who was still with him, and who wasn’t. He lived in the present. He was neither happy nor sad. He was just there. He took his gun and his cannabis everywhere he went. These were now his only friends, the only ones he needed.

  Bisi, his housemate, wanted to know where Benny was. Risto shouted, ‘Shut up! If you say his name again, I will shoot you! It’s none of your business where he is.’

  Later, he threw the borrowed plastic shoes back to their owner; he had his own now, and they were leather. When the owner dared to complain about how dirty they were, Risto took a bayonet and threatened him. The Kadogo started complaining that since Risto had been given a gun, he had become too proud. Risto knew that he had earned his gun; he had proven his bravado, he was a favourite with the General.

  They had already conquered the valley of Birava and the surrounding villages. Sometimes Risto was based in Birava for days. People feared him. It was what he wanted; he was not interested in games or jokes. He ran for his gun whenever he was upset. The others gave him the name ‘Buhanya’, a Mashi word meaning misfortune. That was what he had become: it was unfortunate to have a problem with Risto. If anyone said a bad thing against him, Risto would beat that person until he called to his ancestors.

  Soon the chief and his entourage began to assign the cruel tasks to Risto. He was the one they called to carry out punishments, to beat whomever didn’t want to pay taxes. He was the one to burn a house if someone from that village had run to give news to the Mai-Mai or the main rebel movement.

  Even among the Kadogo, he was the one to punish and to restore order when needed. Whenever he saw someone with a watch or nice clothes, he took them away. The chief praised his charisma and strong spirit, giving him a share of the loot from raids. It seemed as if Risto no longer cared about people, or their weeping and protests. When they cried, he smoked cannabis or drank beer, and then he became fiercer than before. But there was one thing he would not do: he would not take the little girls they captured and terrorised and use them. If anyone questioned this, he would wave his gun, and that would be the end of the matter.

  One day Risto was sharing beer with his comrades at the Birava market. Two soldiers arrived dragging a man in his late thirties. He had refused to carry a fifty-kilogram sack of cassava powder that the soldiers had taken from the open market. The man had pills in his hands; he said his daughter was very ill, and he was in a hurry to give her the medicine he had bought her. The chief ordered Risto to handle the situation.

  ‘Rat, put the sack on your idiot head, or I will blow it up with one bullet!’ shouted Risto. He had taken to imitating the ferocious voice of the General despite his youth. His voice alerted people all around the market, and they watched. The man put the sack on his head, but after a few steps, he fell down. Risto took a stick and beat the man, but the General was not impressed. He wanted Risto to shoot the man so that other villagers would see and be afraid. For a moment, Risto pretended not to see the gestures the chief was making.

  Suddenly, shots sounded; another soldier had shot the man in the head. Blood flew and spattered Risto’s face and clothes. The man moved helplessly on the ground. Risto shot him twice in the chest, and he lay still.

  In a split second, Risto’s entire journey since he had entered the forest revolved in front of his eyes: from the poacher he had killed to Benny’s death. The scenario was unbearable. He ran quickly for his beer, then his cannabis.

  Néné had become a woman. She wore a loincloth that made her look like a prematurely aged village woman. She had few clothes; most of them were too big for her. Sometimes she tried to smile, but it hurt her bones and flesh; she cried most of the time. It was unusual to see her walking around the camp, but she craved a real bath, so she had decided to go and bathe at the river, like everyone else. She was tired of washing at night from a small bucket. As she walked, trying to forget that she was in the forest, abducted by human monsters, she heard a voice calling her. She looked around, but didn’t see anyone. She felt a gentle tap on her left shoulder.

  It was Risto. ‘I have been following you, calling your name, but …’

  ‘I can’t hear, Risto … my pain and suffering have taken all my senses. I only feel, hear, see and touch pain … can’t you see?’ Her voice carried the moisture of anguish, it was empty of breath. Risto’s cruel lion heart never appeared when he saw Néné; with her, he was always tender and kind. That day he was even weak; feared as he was, the careless, tough Risto broke down in front of Néné when he saw her wet eyes, when he heard the sadness in her voice. He held her tight in his arms and felt her heart beat in unbalanced cadences. He had no calming words for her, no healing story to recount to her, no songs of miraculous healing that could soothe her; all he had as therapy, a moment’s relief for her pain, were his warm hands and his heartbeat. So he tried his best to let Néné feel his heart beating, as he felt hers.

  And she held him tight in return because he was indeed the only comfort in her life.

  Néné thought that Risto’s tears were a response to the misery of her appearance – her torn, ill-fitting clothes that left one shoulder greeting the skies, her shoeless and dirty feet, her dry skin. She looked like a skeletal old woman. She wanted to tell him about all the internal pain she felt, all her suffering, but then she imagined the burden of it on his soul. He, too, was a slave like her, a child soldier, a prisoner of monsters. She feared the terrible stories of her life with Amani would become yet more ghosts to haunt Risto.

  She had indeed many painful stories to tell. Her daily suffering in the little windowless hut would destroy any human soul, the cruelty her body endured: the pain of Amani’s fingers inside her, as he searched for sources of pleasure that could keep him going all through the night. He wanted to be aroused all night long and pleasured all through the day. And so he tried any trick that could harden him so that he could climb back on top of her. He would finger her, he would tell her to turn this and that way, he would swear all kinds of swearing, he would penetrate her with pitiless force, forgetting that she was just a little girl, then he would scream with joy as Néné cried with pain. There would be bruises and bleeding, but Amani wouldn’t care. Even little she was always dry, Amani, who had neither tender hands nor sweet stories, would rush quickly to satisfy his selfish desires, leaving Néné bleeding and wounded.

  So she wanted to tell Risto all this pain that slept in her heart like an unnoticed fire in a savannah, but in the end, she could not speak. Instead, she held him in silence, listening to his heartbeat.

  Footsteps echoed, but neither Risto nor Néné had the strength to release the other. It was Amani, with Lieutenant Kurega and three other soldiers, walking past on patrol. Amani glared at Risto as the boy saluted Kurega. His fierce eyes carried rage and jealousy. Néné left in a hurry for the river. As the group passed Risto, he regretted not having his gun. He made a second promise to himself: to kill the devil Amani.

  ‘You have to wake up, you must go to Mbayo. You know the programme.’

  ‘Yes … but I am not feeling well,’ Risto replied.

  ‘Stop with your story, the chief calls you.’

  ‘I understand, but I am sick.’

  ‘Eh! I’m not joking with you
! Go yourself and tell the chief you are sick.’

  Then silence. Risto was alone in the hut; Bisi had gone to patrol the forest. The programme had been set a week ago; that morning they were to go to Mbayo village to collect taxes of cobalt, gold and cassiterite. But Risto’s last patrol had left his bones shaking; a terrible rain had caught them in the heart of the forest at night. He had returned with strong fever. Now his mouth was bitter and he was dizzy. It was malaria.

  ‘Risto, the chief says you must wake up. He doesn’t like lazy people,’ the voice rose up again outside the hut.

  Risto tried to stand up. He leaned against the makeshift wall and ducked outside. Here he found Amani, the husband of Néné. He was there with two other soldiers and two Kadogo.

  ‘Where is your gun?’ asked Amani.

  ‘What for? Is it yours?’ Despite his weakness, his hatred for Amani was visible in his eyes and voice.

  ‘I asked you, where is your gun?’ shouted Amani, his expression wild. Risto examined the faces of the others; he knew the two Kadogo, and the two other soldiers seemed familiar. He remembered; they had tried to send him and Bisi to fetch water one day. He had refused, and had promised to shoot them one day.

  One of them went inside Risto’s hut and came out with his gun.

  ‘You must go to Mbayo today,’ pronounced Amani.

  ‘Don’t you see how ill I am?’

  ‘And you carry on arguing!’ Amani’s last sentence was followed by a blow.

  The rear part of the gun splashed blood; Risto felt the earth turning at 250 kilometres per hour.

  ‘Stand up, you must go to Mbayo,’ shouted Amani, fiercer than ever, while pulling on Risto’s shirt to make him stand. Risto twirled. Another knock to his head, then a punch. He was on the ground.

  ‘This boy is proud. One day he promised to shoot us,’ said one soldier.

  Punches, blows and kicks followed like raindrops. Risto lay motionless.

  . Chapter 8 .

  Risto wanted to open his eyes, but they were too heavy. He wanted to talk, but his mouth couldn’t open. He spoke, but no one heard him. He called Bisi at the top of his voice, but Bisi never responded. He felt hot; there was a sheet covering him. He wanted to take it off; he tried with all his power, but his hands wouldn’t move. He heard people talking nearby; how could they not hear his voice? He called again. He screamed and screamed. No one answered. He became angry with Bisi. If he could hear Risto screaming and was not answering him, then he deserved punishment. He would shoot Bisi when he got up, he thought.

  He tried to lift his legs, but they hurt. His hands felt sore. What was happening? Was he still dreaming? The time of dreaming was over, he told himself. He wanted to wake up once and for all. He couldn’t. He fought and fought, but he couldn’t. No one spoke anymore, the place was quiet. He knew Bisi had run away because he was scared of Risto.

  ‘Risto … Risto!’ It was a female voice. He had heard it somewhere before; he wanted to open his eyes.

  ‘Risto, are you okay?’ the gentle voice asked again.

  There was a great flash of light. He closed his eyes, then opened them again slowly. He was in a large room. Then the light became softer, someone had diminished it.

  ‘Risto,’ the voice said again.

  ‘Yes. Where is Bisi?’ Risto asked.

  But no one answered. Instead, the person next to him brought her ear close to his mouth.

  ‘Where is Bisi?’ he asked again.

  She didn’t answer. Her ear came even closer to his mouth.

  ‘Sleep, sleep, Risto,’ she said as though she was speaking to a little child. She covered him with the sheet up to his neck. He was powerless to resist.

  Time passed; the silence was unbearable, also the heat. Risto knew he couldn’t stay in bed the whole day. He fought to wake up, but his body was powerless and full of pain. He managed to move a little. The same woman sat close to him on his bed.

  ‘Risto, it is me, your mother. Can you hear me?’

  ‘Water.’

  This time she heard him.

  ‘Where is Bisi?’ he asked, as she brought him a glass of water.

  ‘I will tell you later; first drink, my child.’

  He wanted to lift himself and sit, but it hurt.

  ‘Wait …’ she told him.

  She lifted his head gently and took the glass in her right hand. She let him drink slowly.

  ‘Where am I?’ asked Risto, when he could speak again.

  ‘In the hospital at Panzi.’

  ‘Where is Bisi?’

  ‘Who is Bisi?’

  ‘The boy who lives in my hut. He should go and get my clothes. He left them at the well yesterday.’

  ‘No, you are in the hospital, Risto. You have left that other place; there is no Bisi here. You will get other clothes. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I want to get up.’

  ‘No … you can’t. You are badly wounded. You have many broken bones.’

  ‘But I want to go to the toilet.’

  ‘Wait, wait.’

  She left quickly. The room was big, full of patients, but most of them were resting or sleeping. The few who were sitting stared at Risto.

  ‘What is that for, Mama?’ Risto exclaimed as his mother returned with a tin basin.

  ‘You said you wanted to go to the toilet.’

  ‘Yes. Help me to stand up.’

  ‘No, you can’t stand up. You have to use the tin.’

  There was someone behind Risto’s mother, a man.

  ‘Not to pee, but …’ he said, trying to explain his need.

  ‘Yes, I understand.’ His mother looked at his face with pity. ‘We will help you.’ She pulled the sheet down, and then she lifted him as gently as she could. It was supposed to be a time of relief, but it turned into an episode of great pain as Risto’s bones moved and he cried out. Afterwards his mother brought a wet cloth to wash him.

  ‘You haven’t washed since you came here; it has been a week now.’ She smiled at him. ‘I am happy you can speak. How do you feel now?’

  ‘I am okay. How did you reach this place? Did they allow you into the headquarters?’

  ‘No, we are not in the forest. You are in the hospital at Panzi. Sleep; rest a bit. We will talk later.’

  Risto didn’t want to sleep; he wanted to talk. But if he kept talking, maybe something would go wrong, he thought. He couldn’t sleep either; the pain was too strong. He wanted to scratch his legs. There was a flea in his wound that he wanted to take out. But he could not move. It was maddening him. Pain flashed in heartbeat rhythm from his hand as well. He had a fever. He wanted to weep, but he saw people staring, whispering into each other’s ears. Risto asked his mother to pull the sheet over his head. As she lifted up the sheet, he saw that he was wearing a green gown without underpants, his entire body wrapped in bandages. Mercifully, he drifted back to sleep.

  When he woke the next morning, Risto saw clearly that he was in hospital. At last he understood he was no longer in the Kahuzi-Biega National Park; he remembered what had happened. One night, he had had a fever. Bisi had gone to patrol in the forest, and had left Risto’s clothes at the well. Amani, the so-called husband of Néné, had come to his hut early the next morning, bringing two Kadogo and two other soldiers. Risto had been dizzy; he had had to lean against the wall to go outside. Finding him weak, his enemies had grabbed the opportunity and had beaten him. He had tried to resist, but his dizziness wouldn’t allow it. Many punches, a hell of knocks, kicks and blows had followed. He had cried and screamed. Then he was down. Then … then … nothing. This was all he could remember.

  He tried, despite his pain, to push the sheets away from his face. There was a strong light.

  ‘Risto, how are you? Something to eat?’ It was his mother; she was nursing him.

  ‘A bit better. No appetite.’

  ‘The doctor said you have to eat.’ She looked at him with a begging eye. ‘Banana, milk, tea … just something, Risto.’

  ‘Maybe
… banana.’

  She peeled a banana and held it out to him.

  ‘Give it to me, Mama. I will try myself.’

  ‘Don’t hurt yourself. Hold it by the peel, as you haven’t washed your hands.’

  He slowly bit into the banana.

  ‘Here is another one,’ his mother smiled.

  ‘Water to drink.’

  His mother held a cup again.

  ‘How do you feel now?’

  ‘Much better, not as sore anymore.’

  A deep silence consumed the time as mother and son looked at each other. Risto realised that his mother had become very thin. But her eyes still held a spark.

  ‘I thank God to see you talk.’ Her teeth flashed as her smile made a gap between her lips.

  Despite his pain, his mother’s shining smile made Risto want to cry with joy. But then ghosts flashed into his mind. He was back in the forest; he could hear flying bullets and see Benny running and running, only to fall. Tears ran from his eyes. His mother came close to dry his face and to comfort him, but the news Risto whispered tore her apart. First her eyes shone, then her mouth widened wordlessly, then she held her shaking face in her hands and sobbed. She tried to hold back her cries, but the magnitude of her sorrow was too great to be contained by her mouth. She called Benny’s name, and in her dialectic tongue, she asked the heavens why only her children should suffer and die this way. All eyes in the room were on Risto and his mother, and a nurse came to lead her outside.

  A day had passed since Risto had opened his eyes. The story of his recovery had travelled beyond the spheres of family and friendship. Many did not know whether to rejoice or to grieve that of the two boys, only Risto had returned from the forest alive.

  Landu was one of the many touched by Risto’s story. He was a distant cousin the same age as Risto. His family stayed in Burinyi village. It produced a lot of gold, coltan and cassiterite, like many other parts of South Kivu, and for that reason, it had attracted many armed groups. Each group wanted to control the mines, and each militia used children as soldiers to work and fight for them. Landu was a runaway child soldier. He had served in a Congolese militia controlled by Major General Simba Kali. No one knew Simba Kali’s real name; he had taken a ferocious name, ‘fierce lion’, as a form of psychological intimidation.