Death didn’t knock on his door that day. In his dreams, though, he saw a policeman holding out his hand, demanding a visa. Risto jumped; it was still daylight, he realised. He was back in the real world. Cars passed along the road. His head hadn’t blown away; it hurt, but to his surprise, it was slightly better. Standing over him was a silhouette against the late afternoon sunshine; it revealed the figure of a young man. It was none other than Merci. He had become confused; he lost his map of Tanzania, and he didn’t dare ask anyone in the Kariako market for directions in case he suddenly became a policeman. Any resistance would mean a visit to a police station. Policemen in uniforms were patrolling the market like the keepers of beehives.
The night in the abandoned structure seemed short, and their eyes soon found the daylight in the belly of dawn. They had learned there was a bus leaving town at 5am for Mutuara, a Tanzanian town close to the border with Mozambique. The journey took all day, and they reached Mutuara late that night.
While other travellers enjoyed the majestic beauty of the Tanzanian savannah, Risto and his friend observed silence throughout the journey, pretending to be either sick or asleep. Their great worry was how to rent a hotel room without documents. The driver, Mahamar, helped them to enter the small town and arranged a hotel room for them. They did not trust him, but they had no choice. Along the way, he had stopped for no reason and two fake policemen had entered the bus. They had checked only Risto and Merci’s documents. Ten thousand shilingi ended the mysterious police crackdown. It was Mahamar’s plan, they knew it.
The hotel receptionist wanted their passports. They put their student cards on her desk. She could not speak French, and the Mutuara accent of mixed Arabic and pure Swahili meant that any exchange could get the two boys in trouble. So they needed Mahamar’s help to exchange money and make transport arrangements to get out of Mutuara. They sent him to get some supper, and after eating, it was time for Risto’s soul-piercing sermon, his effort to move Mahamar. His heart wasn’t made of stone; Risto’s words touched him.
At dawn the next day, they were headed for the border in a pick-up truck arranged by Mahamar, after his share of ten per cent had been confirmed. They passed some men in a confusing uniform – no one could tell if they were police or soldiers, but they had firearms and scrutinised each movement in the little Muslim town. Mahamar had tipped the truck driver, so that when they reached the Ruvua River that separated Tanzania and Mozambique, he would help them cross in secret. He organised two bicycle drivers to help the boys cross the river with its majestic crocodiles, which were feared by even the bravest fishermen from the nearby villages.
Hussein was Risto’s driver, while Bengera agreed to take Merci. Hussein called his customers ‘Uncle’. ‘Uncles, you are in the right hands,’ he said.
They walked between little huts, avoiding the dirt road that led to the border post. A giant man, his skin covered with hundreds of marks, tried to start a conversation with Hussein; a few minutes later he cycled past them, heading towards the bush. The journey began once 5 000 shilingi got into the pockets of each bicycle driver. Within seconds, the jungle became a highway, as the bike drivers raced at top speed. The route led to some farms where a few women were working; the drivers stopped, and greetings followed. Then came a ten-minute walk.
At a stand of dense bush, a group of five young men loitered, as if waiting for them. The tattooed giant that had spoken to Hussein stood among them. He could have eaten a whole goat alone. An argument broke out between the youths and the bicycle drivers; the words, in mixed Swahili and Portuguese, seemed vicious. Eventually, with a regretful voice, Hussein handed Risto and Merci over to the group of five.
‘These guys will help you.’ Those were his last words before he and Bengera returned the way they had come.
Something swung on the hip of the giant, a sharp edge that scared Risto. He coughed to clear his throat: ‘Thanks for your kindness, but we have to return to Mutuara; we have forgotten something there.’
The giant gave him an intimidating look. He scratched his head and ground his teeth. Risto was not going to wait for death on his knees, but before he could utter his words, the huge man had lifted him over his shoulder and held him fast.
‘Please, let me walk alone,’ screamed Risto.
‘You are tired; I am helping you,’ said the man, beginning to run.
After thirty minutes of being carried, the boys were thrown to the ground. The river winked only metres away; a little hill separated them from it. The gang of men were looking for money, Risto knew. He could read his fate in the anger of the overflowing Ruvua; it was craving his blood. The men would take their money, butcher them, and throw their bodies in the Ruvua. Crocodiles would celebrate and thank God for giving them a free and tasty meal. They would never know it was the meat of two innocent boys running away from war in their country, looking for a place where their minds and bodies could find peace, a place where their dreams could be born and breathe once again.
This was the end of their story. No one would ever know that two innocent boys had been killed on the Tanzanian boarder of Mozambique by thugs and robbers. Risto’s mother would suffer eternal pain; she would no longer sleep nor eat, thinking that her beloved son had gone wild, left home and vanished in a soulless world. His Christian mother would fast and pray for months, arguing with God for what he had done to her. She would ask God, if her son had died, to show her his body or tomb; and if he was still alive, to tell her where he would be. But by then Risto would be part of the crocodile, and his spirit would be dwelling forever on the Ruvua River.
The mammoth took out his knife. He ground his teeth again; the other four men surrounded the boys. Risto and Merci were trapped.
‘Hand over whatever you have on you,’ hammered the giant.
‘But … we thought you were helping! The two other guys took away everything we had; I am telling you, we don’t have any more money,’ said Merci, his tears dropping.
‘I won’t repeat it again. Give the money you are hiding. Take off your clothes, boys.’
Risto’s and Merci’s bodies vibrated.
The giant cut a small branch and started shaping the edge of it with his knife. It looked half a metre long; the edges of the blade could lighten the night. He stared at Merci, who quickly stripped off his trousers. This was not enough; he was told to take off his shorts and even his underpants. Merci did this, sobbing. Then it was Risto’s turn. He took off his shoes, his trousers, then his shorts and underpants. The thieves took each piece of clothing and searched every part, carefully checking any suspicious areas.
‘Congolese have gold, diamonds and American dollars,’ the thugs murmured in Swahili. They took each cent they found; Merci was hiding some extra American dollars in pockets especially sewn in his trousers. Their underpants looked light, so the men did not waste their time in searching these. The giant man with the scars and tattoos gave two of his friends 10 000 shilingi each, threw the clothes to the two others, and walked away. Only their underpants remained on the ground. Risto hurried to put his back on, but Merci burst into tears.
‘Please, chief, please, show us a little pity. How can you leave us naked? Please, we are refugees running away from the war in Congo. Please give us our clothes and even a small amount of money for food,’ cried Merci as he followed the giant.
‘Congolese people have got diamonds, gold, dollars … you will get more, don’t worry,’ the mammoth responded.
Risto was gazing at the overflowing Ruvua River while Merci walked behind the giant man, pleading with him. He simply brandished his long, blazing knife, then yelled at him to go back, or crocodiles would breakfast on his body.
Risto’s underpants carried his last hope, a hundred dollars, hidden as if he had predicted this tragedy. He had sewed the money into the thick front spot of his underpants. As soon as they were alone in the forest, Risto inspected his underpants; his money was safe and intact. Merci’s eyes widened, wondering how that money could have e
scaped the scrutiny of those thugs. He took a deep breath and dried his tears.
Almost naked, the two boys walked nervously down the valley, crossing dried-out sandy streams. There were three small huts between a sandbar and the Ruvua. Risto wondered if the people who lived there were Mozambicans or Tanzanians, or whether that was their own tiny piece of country. The first person to see them was an old lady; she quickly stood up from her reed mat and went straight into her hut, ignoring their calls for help. A man who seemed to be in his late thirties came out. The boys did not understand that the old lady was avoiding them as a sign of respect. As a woman, she was not the one to deal with naked men; another man should be the one to speak to them.
The man spoke Swahili with a Portuguese accent, and showed great pity when they explained to him why they were naked, and described their ordeal. Risto went on to add his speech about why they had left their country, what it was like living in a war-torn country, and why they needed to reach Mozambique. The man’s compassion was palpable. His name was Manuel, and despite the poverty in which he lived, he was able to help them with two pairs of shorts, old sandals and a shirt for each of them. In the hut, the old lady who had run away from them offered them water in green plastic cups that had gone blackish. The cups were dirtier than the yellowish water they drank. Merci refused to drink the ugly water.
Manuel volunteered to take them across the Ruvua. He had called another young man from the neighbouring hut for assistance. The two men got a wooden canoe ready for the crossing. When the old lady heard that they were heading to Mozambique, she warned them that the river was overflowing; they should wait for it to go down rather than risk a painful death in crocodile jaws. Risto couldn’t wait; after their experience with the thieves, he felt that each second brought death closer. Better to face it than wait for it.
They entered the river praying. Merci, who had refused to drink the water he was offered in the hut, cried with thirst while in the canoe. Manuel took a piece of coconut shell and scooped water from the yellowish river. Merci again refused to drink, but Risto drank two coconut shells of the stinking water. There was no other way to survive, better to die from disease than from thirst. Risto had survived harsher situations than these when he was a child soldier.
The river was overflowing, just as the old woman had said. The current pushed the wooden canoe in the wrong direction. It brought back memories of the boat on the Tanganyika, but Risto believed history wouldn’t repeat itself. The heavy currents were not as frightening as the strange thing that moved up and down in the murky water close to the Mozambican shore. The strange creature entered the anger of the boiling current and approached the frail canoe. Risto’s heart had left his quaking body. He had been close to death so many times and had escaped, but this terror was so real that he told everyone his home address and the name of his parents; whoever survived, he said, should send word of his death.
The crocodile was so frightening that Merci’s screams brought a small crowd of villagers to the edge of the river. They began shouting and casting stones into the river. More shouting, more stones; the crocodile finally retreated. The fight with the river currents carried on until suddenly they were in the shallows, and to his amazement, Risto found himself on Mozambican soil.
Risto wanted to pay Manuel for his help, but the man refused. They were refugees, and it was his duty to help them, he told them. So Risto told him that he needed to change dollars into meticais. They walked past small straw houses as people followed them through the village. They stopped at one larger hut and entered it as Manuel and his friend chased away the curious crowd. Risto and Merci were introduced to the owner of the house, Eduardo, and his two friends. Manuel winked at Risto, and the local men all left for another room. When they returned, Eduardo sent one of his friends to fetch a man they called the ‘businessman’, as he placed a pot on the fire. A few minutes later, the friend came back with a man wearing plastic sunglasses; this was the ‘businessman’. The money exchange began. A huge, bony tasteless fish, with brown cassava pap on a dirty grey plastic plate, was served to seal the business. Merci refused to drink the water; it was full of dirt. They brought him three cups of water, and he refused all of them. He refused the food as well, saying it looked strange. It was enough for Risto.
The money exchange didn’t go smoothly. The exchange rate was reversed three times in favour of the man with the plastic sunglasses. There were also a few coins that he refused to give them. Risto could not argue, and took the money.
They were told that a large and risky forest, which linked Moçimboa da Praia with Palma, lay ahead, full of dangerous wild animals. One of the men wore Congolese-style shoes. They had been found on the body of a Congolese refugee who had been killed and eaten by a wild animal in the same forest. It was a warning sign; death was close by, said one man. He added that he wished he could pick up another two pairs of shoes, but when he scrutinised Risto and Merci, he reversed his words, saying that he doubted if these two were Congolese. ‘Congolese wear brands, they have American dollars and always have gold and diamonds.’
The boys were in a need of a guide. Eduardo went and fetched Edmundo, a well-known bicycle driver; he would guide Risto and Merci as far as the little town of Palma. The forest was majestic; life and death were in its dark leaves, Edmundo told them. He said that he had walked the same forest his entire life; he was twenty-five years old now. He had come across wild animals several times, but the power of his ancestors had fought for him. With his smile and the Swahili that fell from his lips in slow motion, his seemed to be the face of a good guy. He wore broken sandals and had a very old bike with ropes holding some parts of it together. He was paid the equivalent of 5 000 shilingi.
Along the way, his song was the same one: Congolese meant money and clothes, gold and diamonds. They were not the first people from Congo to come that way; many had passed through, and what the locals had heard and seen of them suggested that the stories were true: Congolese had nice clothes, they paid well and they had American dollars. Edmundo echoed all this, but he admitted that this pair looked poor. With their broken sandals and dirty, torn clothes, they portrayed misery. Maybe they didn’t want to wear expensive clothes this time, Edmundo said. Risto frowned, but he hid his anger.
Edmundo added that there were only two things he was still waiting for – gold and diamonds. He said Congolese didn’t want to give away their diamonds and gold, but everyone knew very well that they had them hidden somewhere. As he was helping them, Edmundo expected some gold or a diamond, even just a little gold dust; it didn’t matter which, he said. He just wanted enough money to marry his fiancée.
Merci looked at him like a ghost; his face showed his contempt for the man’s words.
‘We are very poor. If we had money, we would hire two bikes for our transport to Palma,’ said Risto with bitterness.
Edmundo laughed at Risto, his eyes astonished. ‘But you guys … you had money to travel. I know you even have gold and diamonds, but you don’t want to give them to me.’
Risto thought Edmundo had lost his mind; his twenty-five years were not reflected in his words.
It would take them ten hours to reach Palma if they walked fast. Merci was in tears of exhaustion and thirst, suffering from the burning sun, his swelling legs and huge fear as they passed by what Edmundo said were rhinos. Risto’s body had become a fountain of sweat, but showed no sign of fatigue or pain. Edmundo refused to allow them to rest, as this would delay the journey, and the forest was dangerous at night. To allow Merci to keep up, Edmundo decided to give him a ride on his bicycle that would take them ahead of Risto; then they would rest until he caught up with them. Risto didn’t mind, even though it was eerie to be alone in the forest. Soon it became like a game – ride, stop, sit and wait for Risto; ride again and repeat the whole sequence over and over again.
At last, Edmundo drove so far ahead that Risto’s eyes couldn’t reach him; he only knew that they had stopped somewhere ahead to wait for him
. After half an hour of walking alone in the frightening forest, he finally found Merci, who sat alone on the ground. Edmundo had lied, saying he was going back to find Risto; but he had run away and left them, having grown weary of waiting for a little piece of gold or a diamond which he believed the two boys didn’t want to give him. He had his money already, and there was nothing more to get from Risto and Merci, so he decided to abandon them and go home.
The boys were alone in the forest. Soon the sun would disappear and darkness would fall; if they didn’t reach people soon, they would end up in the bellies of some wild animals. Getting lost was another option that would lead straight to death. Merci did not take this news well; he held his head in his hands and sobbed for a few minutes, but Risto knew that crying wasn’t a solution.
Merci had received a tip from Edmundo; the way to Palma was the larger path that looked like a muddy road. But every single movement of leaves made their bones shake to death; they knew that in each empty clearing lions and leopards were gazing, waiting for the right moment to strike. Their own footsteps frightened them; many times they hid behind shrubs until finally realising they were hiding from their own noise, their own shadows.
Everything happened as if in a dream. As darkness fell slowly, the two boys heard human voices. Merci thought it was monkey sounds; Risto thought they were mystical spirits. But when they saw the roofs of huts, they knew they had found a village. Help was close, they thought. Soon they met people, but help was far from being found. The people wanted money; they knew the same refrain about Congolese: American dollars, smart clothes, diamonds and gold. Of course, these Congolese boys looked poor, but surely they could pay a few dollars or some gold dust. The boys were told about crooked policemen on the main road leading to Palma; they targeted refugees, arresting them and seizing their money and belongings. If those policemen heard that the villagers had shown the way to the foreigners, they would be in real trouble.
The Great Agony & Pure Laughter of the Gods Page 16
