By morning Risto was half-dead. He hardly breathed; sweat had left marks on the white T-shirt he wore, his chest made a whistling noise when the forced breath pierced the thick block that had built within. With the help of two men, Merci rushed Risto to the camp clinic that he himself had come to hate when he heard that the attendants, whom the poor people trusted and believed in, had no university degrees. Syringes penetrated Risto’s body, a drip with endless drops brought no change. Merci was very worried that he might lose his only friend, a boy who had become a brother to him.
Risto was transferred to a hospital in Nampula, the third biggest city of Mozambique. It boasted old Portuguese construction, police on each street corner, and well-trained doctors with fairly modern medical tools. But their expertise could not help because they were unsure of what they were treating. The boy went into another world and came back as a drowning swimmer looking in vain for rescue. He kept screaming about Néné and Benny and Kahuzi-Biega. The sweating kept coming, and it was a struggle to keep him breathing. But a hospital was too expensive for the tiny pockets of Merci and Risto. Merci sought help from the United Nations, who insisted that they had invested in a clinic in Marathan; the boy could get free treatment there.
There was never such disappointment as when Merci brought his friend back to die in their hut. Risto’s state seemed to infect many people in the camp; wherever they went and whatever they did, his fate was always the topic. They waited for the breaking news of his death and the end of his curse. Some became energetic; there was a potential business opportunity in the death of a boy who had emerged as the most successful tomato farmer in the camp; the coffee-seller used his string-knotted calculator to count the number of mourners who would be at the funeral, while rival grave-diggers gathered in bunches with their tools to show how ready and serious they were.
Mama RFI was no longer an authority on his state; fewer and fewer people asked her about the dying boy, so she decided to take action. She visited the boys’ hut and cursed Merci for having taken Risto to powerless doctors with none of nature’s wisdom, nurses who used Western syrup and aspirin instead of seeking the messages of the gods and ancestors.
She dragged Risto to see the feared witchdoctor Balaba, who was known for watching the world in his magical calabash. Balaba enclosed Risto’s body in his secret chamber, away from everyone’s gaze, then rushed to the marketplace, frightening people, as he was almost naked except for tiger-skin shorts and many necklaces with rare feathers and scales, bones and horns. He shouted warning words to rivals who might try to block his path as he travelled in his magical calabash to far countries, far continents. Even though the sun was still at a bitter strength, a sudden shower followed, and two thunderclaps were heard. In this part of the world, witchcraft spoke through thunder, and now it signified Balaba’s journey to places where only chosen spirits could go, communicating with ancestors who handed him the power of healing. But Balaba was unable to get any answers to explain Risto’s illness, or to drive it away. He too was defeated.
Finally the church tried its hand at healing the boy, believing that his miraculous deliverance would come from God. Everyone was ready with their strongest faith, and some had fasted for several days. First songs started with a few stretching hand movements, then the best vocalists followed one another with their most spirit-compelling songs. There were strings of incantations. Songs shook the roof straw of the mud house, poems were recited, drums and flutes called, the tam-tam answered. The pastor’s voice silenced the sweating dancing women, waves of rhyming words and incantations followed, casting out spells and evil spirits. Then the vivid melodies of flutes and djembe drums and guitars blended with the pastor’s voice. The healing, the returning, the claiming, the awakening of a soul never came; Risto never woke. He was doomed to death.
. Chapter 18 .
The news of Risto’s arrival back in Bukavu travelled faster than the plane; people seemed to know the time of the plane’s landing better than the pilot himself. Risto did not feel the warm welcome of his family and friends upon his arrival at Kavumu airport; he was quickly rushed to an ambulance his family had organised and straightaway transported to Panzi hospital.
Here family members waited impatiently for the words of the senior doctor. It wasn’t until three days later that the doctor allowed Risto’s parents to visit him. No talking was allowed; they just took a brief look at where their son lay between strings of drips and ticking machines. His eyes were open, but he was unaware of what was happening. His mother broke the absolute silence by greeting her son; she received no reply.
‘So how do you see the boy?’ asked Papa François, who had been greatly affected by Risto’s sickness. He seemed to be the only one with a bit of strength for questions.
‘He is responding well,’ said the doctor.
This answer attracted the attention of the entire family, and they flocked closer to the doctor.
‘He is in a stable condition,’ he added. Those were his only words; he patted Risto’s mother on the shoulder and walked away down the corridor.
On his fourth day in the hospital, Risto spoke his first words. They troubled his doctor as they had no meaning, and the language was a strange one. It was mere mumbling that led to an injection to make him sleep. Doctors consulted other doctors, and it was declared that Risto’s illness might be cerebral malaria.
In this section of the hospital, no family guard was allowed. While limited family visits were permitted, a doctor supervised the ward constantly while a nurse looked after the patients. Fear rose in the family when after a week, the doctor called Risto’s father to discuss the progress of his son.
‘The boy is doing well,’ he whispered.
‘Okay …’
‘But … I’d like to tell you that it might be more than cerebral malaria.’
Mahuno rested his head in the palm of his right hand.
‘It is not really bad … he responded positively to our medications at the beginning. But he has not stopped mumbling. He wakes from sleeping and speaks endlessly until we inject him with something to calm him.’
‘You are the doctor …’ said Risto’s father helplessly.
‘Well … we are suggesting a psychiatrist.’ The doctor’s eyes were fixed on Mahuno, watching each slight movement his body made.
‘Do you think that …’
‘Not madness, but you know … well, we all work together; sometimes we need the advice of others. If the mumbling doesn’t stop in two days, we will advise you to take him to Heri-Kwetu centre to see Dr Zongo. But let’s see what happens in the meantime.’
The doctor could see Mahuno’s confusion; with his right palm covering half of his mouth and his eyes fixed in a corner of the doctor’s office, there was no need of words to describe his pain.
Picturing Risto among mentally ill patients was an agonising thing for his father. It hurt him so much that whenever he thought about it, tears fell uncontrollably. He knew the prejudices associated with mental illness in his society; he knew it was easy to be admitted to a mental hospital, but difficult to get out of it. Sometimes those who went in came out tremendously damaged. He feared for his son.
He avoided sharing this bad news with his wife. Papa François advised him to wait for an ideal moment to tell her. But this ideal time never came, as Risto’s mother suffered more each day. She spoke less and ate less. She could not find consolation in the beauty of a bouquet of flowers, or the personal letters friends sent to her; even their physical presence did not bring her solace. Instead, she infected each person who came to console her; they would come with an encouraging message, but would leave in tears.
The two days went by with no positive change in Risto’s health. The doctor concluded that Dr Zongo was the only hope. Risto continued to mumble about the Kahuzi-Biega forest and Amani, a man he hated and needed to kill. The news of Risto’s transfer to the Heri-Kwetu centre destroyed his mother; she intensified her cries and went without food all day.
Risto was considered a dangerous individual. All the housekeepers and sentinels had been warned. Upon his arrival, he had objected to too many things: his clothes being stripped off, the strict sleeping schedule, the injections and pills. The report from the hospital said that he was angry and wanted to kill a certain Amani; no visitors were allowed until they had watched him for a few days.
Three days of medication did not cure the mumbling and the strangeness. Risto would walk in his sleep at night; he would speak endlessly about Amani and how he was going to kill him. He even threatened to break down the door of his room.
Risto’s roommate was an endlessly smiling man in his early thirties, with a razor-bald head. His name was Bingwa Maurice, and he was not afraid of Risto, so he said he would stay with the dangerous boy during the day to see how he would react to other people, how he would manage his anger.
‘What is your name?’ Bingwa asked the first morning.
‘Risto, and you?’
‘Bingwa Maurice, son of Maurice Makwaba and Angela Maurice, born and raised in Bukavu.’ A hysterical laugh followed.
‘Risto, why are you here, are you mad as well?’
‘No, are you?’
‘No, but you are not mad either.’
Bingwa told Risto a story he wouldn’t wish a fly to hear. He criticised the centre’s management for forcing him to mix with mad people. Two days earlier, they had called together those who could differentiate colours, those who knew their own names and the names of their relatives, those who could differentiate between a man kneeling down and a shrub. All these were simple tests for Bingwa. Then the psychiatrist had drawn a nice swimming pool on the lawn with white paint. He told all the mad patients to go for a swim. All of them jumped into the drawing except for Bingwa.
‘So why didn’t you jump?’ asked Risto.
‘Would you if it were you?’ Bingwa sounded very serious.
‘But it wasn’t me. Why didn’t you swim?’
‘After ten other people had jumped in the swimming pool? Even if it was a river, just think about it, Risto! I am not racist or tribalist or any of those things, right. But the water was dirty; I couldn’t wash in the dirt of ten people, no, no, no!’
Risto felt free in the daily company of Bingwa because he knew his listener would forget everything he told him after a few minutes. So he would speak openly of his deepest secrets of unfulfilled love. He told Bingwa the reason for his unstoppable tears, the story of the bracelet and the vow of love, as well as the haunting betrayal of that love. He wished only one thing, he confessed. To get out of that centre and travel to the Kahuzi-Biega National Park, whether with a gun or empty-handed, to free Néné. He would face the evil Amani and would leave him dead. He had only one thing to tell Néné, how he loved and continued to love her. But it was always a difficult story to tell; it reopened old wounds and usually left Bingwa in tears too.
‘Love is the most precious thing in life, isn’t it so?’ Risto asked Bingwa, who had no answer, and only nodded his head.
‘It is a mystery that every human being wants to learn about; but when it came to me, even though my heart craved it, my eyes were closed; my mouth was too shy to welcome it. Now I cry because I let go of the one thing the human spirit would die for – love.’
As the friendship between Risto and Bingwa became tighter, Risto started seeing more gaps in Bingwa’s brain. There were times when he screamed, and when Risto asked the reason, Bingwa ignored him. Times came when Bingwa wanted to know Risto’s name as if it was his first time meeting him. Then a day came when they fought in their small room, and that led to their separation.
Dr Zongo was a fine psychiatrist. He was renowned for the number of troubled souls that he had managed to rehabilitate. His reputation had gone beyond the borders of South Kivu and brought him a number of patients from the eastern Congo and neighbouring countries. It was believed that his eyes could see inside an individual soul, that he was able to tell the causes of trouble at first glance. He could easily tell if the trouble was genetic, a brain defect or injury, prenatal damage, trauma, a dysfunctional family life, anxiety, substance abuse or other specific factors. And for each cause or factor, he seemed to have some therapy.
But Risto was a new challenge. Even after his third interview, Dr Zongo was still unable to diagnose Risto’s mental illness. The boy had responded correctly to all the necessary questions, and was very much aware of the little traps the doctor used to understand his mental acuity. Some of his patients, even though appearing clever, got caught in those traps.
Risto was different. He knew the names of all his family members and their exact dates of birth; he knew why he was at the centre, and what people thought about him. His only symptoms were his mumbling and the sense of confusion in his mind. He would sometimes sit, lost in thought, tears dropping down his face. At these times he looked vulnerable and in unimaginable agony. At other times, he would seem angry, fierce and dangerous as he shouted words that no one understood. He always ended up trembling and sometimes breaking down in tears.
Because Dr Zongo could not diagnose any mental illness in Risto, he could not prescribe any treatment. He wished he could get into the brain of the boy to see, to hear what tormented him. But there was always a barrier; the boy never let him get into his head. So Risto became a puzzle that he tried to solve by constantly observing him, until he even forgot his other duties. He observed him as he slept, and heard him mumbling and rumbling in his dreams. He observed him as he ate, and as he cried. But none of this brought him any answers.
One morning, Landu protested against the strict rules of Dr Zongo, and insisted on speaking to Risto.
‘He is not yet okay,’ said Dr Zongo.
‘I know. I’d love to see him though.’
‘You see … I can’t predict his reactions. He might be dangerous.’
‘Maybe he might need somebody to talk to?’
‘He had a roommate to talk to, you know that. It didn’t go well. Remember?’
‘Doctor, I’ve got some gifts for him.’
‘Let me see them.’
Landu opened his school bag. He pulled out a game of Scrabble and two photos. In one photo, ten-year-old Risto was holding a white rabbit, with a big smile on his face. The other picture showed Risto among a group of boys in soccer uniforms in a school stadium. Dr Zongo looked at each item with great interest. What captured him the most were the pictures showing a healthy Risto, a happy Risto with a world of opportunities in front of him.
Landu found Risto at a vulnerable moment; he was mumbling quietly in a corner of the garden. He cleared his tears as Landu greeted him, and greeted him back. But then he carried on mumbling as if in a trance, lost in an unknown world.
‘I’ve got gifts for you, Risto.’
There was no response.
‘Your favourite pictures, I took them from your bedroom wall. Look …’
Still there was no word; Risto was focused on a passing flock of birds. The Scrabble board didn’t move him either.
‘Néné was looking for you,’ said Landu as he stood up to leave. As he turned, he realised that Risto was staring at him with wide-open eyes.
‘Yes … Néné … she was looking
for you. She wanted to know about you.’
‘Néné?’ asked Risto, his eyes shining.
‘Yes, Néné,’ Landu replied.
Risto stood up and ran to the building. Landu followed him. He reached Risto coming out of his room, holding a bracelet in his right palm.
‘I want to see her,’ he said.
‘Yes, sure, sure. But you are not allowed to go out yet.’
‘Am I a prisoner in here?’
‘No.’
‘Then why can’t I go where I please?’
‘The doctor …’
Risto went back into the room, took off his slippers and put on a pair of shoes.
While Landu was excited to see Risto finally returning to the real world, he didn’t know whether he was in a normal mood or a crazy one. He was also afraid of how he might react outside those walls.
‘I need to give this bracelet to Néné, I don’t think I deserve it.’
‘Do you know where you are, Risto?’
Risto narrowed his eyes.
‘Landu, I have to leave.’
Landu knew that the doctor would not allow Risto to go out, but he loved his cousin and wanted to help. He decided to smuggle him out.
Néné picked up the bottle underneath her bed. She carefully dipped a dry stick into it, and let a few drops fall on a little piece of cloth. When she scratched the little cloth, it burned. She breathed in and out with relief. This test proved that the street boy she had sent to buy sulphuric acid had not tricked her; it was indeed a strong acid, she concluded. But an expert’s eye, looking at the light colour of the liquid and the tiny bubbles on top of it, would have recognised that the acid was greatly diluted. The street boy had done what he knew best, cheating by taking an innocent’s money, buying very little acid and adding water.
The Great Agony & Pure Laughter of the Gods Page 20
