Bonaventure Kokolo had arrived at Loango the same year as me, and because we had grown up together, and been cosseted by the same cleaning woman, Sabine Niangui, we had always sat together in lessons, as well as in catechism, when, if he was absent with a temperature or diarrhoea – the two things he suffered from most often – Papa Moupelo would express his concern to me, as though in the whole twenty dormitories that made up our sleeping quarters, out of the three hundred other boys, I was the only one who might have news of my small friend.
I would say that Bonaventure had gone to the infirmary, and was resting in bed, and Sabine Niangui was looking after him.
Reassured, Papa Moupeelo would joke, ‘Well he’d better take his medicines then, I don’t want him polluting the air with his diarrhoea!’
I don’t know why I always felt I was much older than him, and had a duty to protect him, even to raise my voice to him when necessary. Maybe because he was a bit of a coward, since every time another pupil moved in to box against him, he’d fling himself down on the ground and shut his eyes, so as not to see their fists coming down on him. I would intervene on these occasions, to extract him from this humiliating position and remind him that at least once he must show the others he was capable of being mean and pretend to get nasty even with the toughest and roughest boys in the orphanage. He knew full well that his aggressors stopped their bullying whenever I turned up because they had not forgotten how I had taken my revenge on the twins, Songi-Songi and Tala-Tala, the big shots who had terrorised the entire twenty boarding rooms. They had had the dumb idea of pinching Bonaventure’s mattress, and switching it with that of Songi-Songi, who’d spilled peanut butter mixed with palm oil all over it, and was afraid he’d get into trouble with the corridor wardens. Bonaventure went and told the Director everything, and the twins had the worst fifteen minutes of their lives, because they were beaten both by the caretaker, Petit Vimba, and by the wardens, Mpassi, Moutété and Mvoumbi, in the Director’s study, which meant they’d done something serious. The twins waited a week, time for their misfortune to be forgotten by the other boarders, then went into action. They beat up Bonaventure in the playground in front of a dozen other boys, who were all yelling for joy, instead of calling for the corridor wardens. I waited a further week before smuggling some hot chilli powder into the refectory and avenging the honour of my friend without him knowing.
My bed and Bonaventure’s were in dorm 4, with eight of our comrades, who were all sleeping like dormice the night I rose from my bed and tiptoed to dorm six to scatter the hot chilli powder onto the food that pair of gluttons left beside their bunk beds, to eat around midnight or one in the morning. I knew where they hid it, and it was easy to flatten myself on the floor just outside their block, extend my right arm, lift the lid on the plastic plate and sprinkle my hot chillies inside.
At two in the morning I pretended to sleep and was sniggering under the bedclothes as the two of them almost got into a fight over it.
‘Was it you that spiked the food? There’s so much chilli on there, I can’t even taste my antelope meat!’
‘It wasn’t me, it was you!’
‘No it wasn’t, it was you!’
Before the first cock’s crow or chirp of cotton-bird, the twins dashed off into the toilets, disturbing the whole orphanage. The next night was worst of all: they stayed in bed with dysentery, and the warden Mvoumbi, not Sabine Niangui, had to bring them medicines…
Attacking these two tough nuts was a daring undertaking, even if I had done it behind their backs. But I knew the boomerang would come back and hit me in the face. Songi-Songi and Tala-Tala weren’t just anyone. Four years older than me, they had come from a little orphanage in Pointe-Noire, and been transferred to Loango in order, it was said, to receive an exemplary education so they could then be reintroduced into society. At our orphanage, instead of just waiting around for couples to come and adopt them, the twins would benefit from proper teaching. But they were uncooperative, constantly challenging the authority of the Director and the wardens, and not a day went by when they weren’t punished or humiliated in front of everyone, like when they were tied up like dogs to the foot of a filao tree and left there even in the rain.
The Director would say, ‘That will teach them life’s no tarmacked path!’
He was referring to the tarmacked road that ran from Loango to Pointe-Noire, and which for him was synonymous with a nice smooth ride. In fact the Director incited us to hate these two young kids and encouraged us, without actually saying so, to thrash them at the least provocation. He had personally allowed the corridor wardens, in particular Mvoumbi and Mpassi, to put it about that the twins had been transferred to Loango after a fight during which they’d gouged out the eye of a boy who was older than them – but it was unclear which of them had actually done the gouging as the victim wasn’t sure and the two brothers admitted their actions without revealing which of them had been responsible. The poor boy had owed them food, and I couldn’t see how you could owe someone food, like you might owe money, or how it could take such a dramatic turn. Songi-Songi and Tala-Tala went even further, threatening their comrades’ lives till they agreed to promise them their meals for the next day, and the day after that, so that some of them actually went without food for two or three days. Partly because of their size – they were at least two and a half heads taller than us – and partly because of their history of precocious banditry, they established themselves straight away as leaders of the dorms, and trained us in the ways of the kids of Pointe-Noire. They rummaged in the orphanage bins, retrieved cigarette stubs that had been dropped by the staff, especially the Director and the corridor wardens, who would throw down almost half an unsmoked cigarette, and straight away light another. We too had become little smokers, giving Songi-Songi and Tala-Tala food in exchange for dog-ends that got us so excited we’d laugh like hyenas. That was the first time I swallowed smoke, and I’d cough and feel like I was about to regurgitate my own lungs. It baffled me how the Director and the caretakers could like this drug, and consume it with no difficulty, while I felt like I was suffocating, like my thorax was on fire. The twins taught us how to act like grown-up people smoking; your head had to be a bit to one side, right eye half-closed, cigarette between your index and middle fingers, the end of the filter just balanced between your lips. You had to leave gaps between your puffs, and wave your arms around, as though deep in conversation with your friends.
I wasn’t in fact permanently at war with the twins. On the contrary, they appreciated my ability to keep quiet, and deep down they were confident I wouldn’t denounce them to the corridor wardens, unlike Bonaventure. And if they asked me to recite the latest speech by the President of the Republic, so they could learn it and avoid getting into trouble with the Director again, I would do it just for them, to please them, in a monotone voice, with my chin lifted high. This meant I could keep my food or even get an extra ration, which they’d taken off another pupil. This was my reward for not reacting when they laughed at me for copying the Head of State, imitating his tics and stooping a little, to be as small as he was. I didn’t enjoy doing this, because it made me look like a penguin, in my white shirt and short black trousers. Having found their little game, and a star actor, they could just point at me and off I’d go, though I didn’t know why they laughed so much when the words I was reciting were not in the least bit funny. Standing stiff as a ramrod, I’d intone, implacably:
‘The President of the Republic and head of the Congolese Workers’ Party announced to the delegates of the federations of the heads of the Congolese Confederations of Trades Unions: It’s irrelevant whether the leader comes from the north or the south. No region is sufficient unto itself, no tribe can live in isolation. The interdependence of tribes and regions will build a Congolese nation which cannot be put asunder. Only national unity in work, democracy and peace can assure our people certain victory over imperialism and under-development…’
I knew I could easily lose
an eye over the business of scattering the twins’ food with chilli pepper. Even though I’d done it all for him, Bonaventure felt so sorry for them that I no longer had an easy conscience.
‘Moses, it’s serious, very serious! They’re really ill, they’re going to die! Someone’s poisoned them and they’ve got even worse diarrhoea than I often get! We have to do something, I don’t want them to die! It’s not normal diarrhoea!’
In his head he had a list of possible culprits, and suspected the personnel of the institution, in particular the Director, who made no secret of his displeasure at having the two brothers in his orphanage, and would sometimes rant:
‘They’ve sent me a pair of Siamese delinquents, because they know I’m very strict and will set them back on the right track, but they’ve already been badly educated elsewhere! They take my orphanage for some kind of penitentiary, and I end up with hoodlums like these! Those two don’t belong here! They’ve brought their bad ways with them from Pointe-Noire to Loango!’
As soon as they were better, Tala-Tala confronted me on my way over to the showers:
‘Pleased with yourself?’ he asked.
‘Should I be?’
‘Aha, you think I didn’t see, do you? You know what I mean! That’s why you’ve got your head down! Look me in the eye and tell me you had nothing to do with our diarrhoea!’
Since I didn’t look up he concluded, ‘Every single thing you do, by day or by night, appears to me and my brother in a dream! Just because you were here first doesn’t mean we have to respect you. And so what if Sabine Niangui protects you like she was your mother, we’re going to teach her a lesson, so you don’t do anything stupid again!’
‘No, not Sabine, you leave her alone!’
‘OK then, so why did you put those chillies in our food?’
‘Bonaventure’s not a bad boy, but ever since you got here he’s been terrified, you beat him up in front of all the others, and he is a bit like my brother and…’
To my great surprise, he was rather conciliatory:
‘Songi-Songi agrees with me, we’ll let this one go, we’ll lay off your little chicken-friend, but you have to make amends, because we had the worst time, for days and days…’
‘Make amends? But I didn’t do anything bad…’
‘Moses, for now I’m being nice…’
‘And besides, I…’
‘Don’t push me too hard, Moses… You know my brother, Songi-Songi, he’s not going to be too happy when I tell him you refused to help us when we nearly died from your chilli peppers…’
As I was already well acquainted with Tala-Tala’s character, I capitulated, with an image in my head of the machete he’d tried to smuggle into the orphanage. Mvoumbi, the caretaker, had seized the weapon, thanks to Louyindoula, who had spilled the beans. It would be an understatement to say that this particular pupil didn’t care for them one bit, and his hatred went back a long way. Louyindoula had younger twin sisters himself, and when they were born he quickly realised his parents had eyes for no one but their two little fairy dolls. He went off and sulked alone, on fire with rage and jealousy, until one day they came across him, aged four, asphyxiating his two sisters while they slept. Four months later, he savagely bit the left big toe of one of the twins, and the thumb of the other. He had to be watched the whole time because with his big red eyes and microcephalous head he fitted the profile of the criminals spreading terror in the streets of Pointe-Noire. The father decided to put his name down for Loango orphanage, hoping that with time, growing up surrounded by other boys, he would learn to be more sociable and less jealous. Unfortunately, he arrived the same year as Songi-Songi and Tala-Tala, and these two boys reminded him of his own situation. The war between them in the dormitory was vicious on both sides, but the twins always came out on top.
Tala-Tala broke in on my thoughts.
‘So, to cancel out what you did, you have to work for us…’
‘What kind of work?’
‘Louyindoula’s pinched Monganga’s soap and my brother’s toothpaste. You have to go and find him and work out a way to bring him round to the back of the storehouse, where we can teach him a proper lesson, we’ve had enough, it’s gone on too long…’
The twins already had well-developed muscles and a fine down on their upper lips. I often found it hard to tell one from the other. I had to peer at their faces closely to see that Songi-Songi – born a few minutes earlier – had a little black mark in the white of his right eye, and Tala-Tala had the same in the white of his left eye. Every time I got it the wrong way round, thinking that Songi-Songi’s black mark was in his left eye and Tala-Tala’s in his right eye, when in fact it was the other way round. And in any case, what was the use of telling them apart when they were constantly together and wore exactly the same clothes?
So it was for Bonaventure’s sake that I took the risk of becoming the twins’ accomplice in their campaign against Louyindoula. The only way they managed to corner him near the store at the far end of the main building was by me acting as bait, persuading Louyindoula to follow me to a place where I’d promised he’d see something amazing, something he’d never seen in his life before and which had to be kept a secret. Curious, he swore not to tell anyone and followed me at once. We arrived round the back of the store to find Songi-Songi and Tala-Tala already there, each with a piece of wood in his hands. They leapt on poor Louyindoula and beat him before my eyes, while I faked surprise at the ambush, so as not to attract the anger of the unfortunate victim, who was yelling for help, asking me to intervene and ‘do something’. Alas his cries were drowned by the shouts coming from the play area, where a football match was taking place, watched by Old Koukouba and Little Vimba, with three corridor wardens acting as referees.
Louyindoula couldn’t report the twins, or they’d take it out on him every day. He was aware, as we were, that since the discovery of the machete under Tala-Tala’s bed, even the caretakers and wardens, and to some extent the Director, lived in fear of the two brothers. What had they intended to do with this implement – or rather, weapon? The Director explained that they were hatching a plot to escape like the one they’d seen in a film which, despite being underage, they’d seen in the cinema Rex, and in which a character had managed to escape from the prison on the island of Alcatraz, with the highest security in the whole of the United States. He and two accomplices had each dug a hole in their cell and managed to get away on an inflatable raft which they’d made themselves. The Director made it clear, however, that the twins had not brought the machete into the orphanage for digging with; they were planning, he said, to take a warden or caretaker hostage and threaten to cut his throat if anyone tried to stop them fleeing.
Louyindoula had been congratulated by the Director for reporting the twins to the wardens in the past, but this time Louyindoula had a black eye, and so when the wardens asked him who he’d been fighting with, the poor fellow swore in God’s name that he had slipped on a bar of soap when taking a shower.
It was all because of Bonaventure that the twins now considered me their third man, so much so that people referred to us as the ‘triplets’. So there were three of us, like the fugitives from the island of Alcatraz that the Director had spoken about.
Bonaventure was not at all happy, believing that Songi-Songi and Tala-Tala were stealing the only friend he could trust. I explained for the millionth time that the only reason I was close to the twins was so I could protect him, and that from now on the two brothers would stop hitting him…
I can still see myself lying on my back, with sores all round my mouth, and blocked up with a cold. The other children are all at school, the little ones in the two buildings behind the store house where we kept our work tools, the older ones in the building next to the refectory.
I sense a strange presence in the room, as though someone’s playing at spying on me. Bonaventure often played this kind of trick, to frighten me. He’d hide somewhere, then suddenly leap into my bed, with a gre
at cry, like a rabid beast. Sometimes he’d actually pull it off, and I’d be seized with fear, and yell for help at the top of my voice, provoking a disturbance in the neighbouring blocks, until we began to laugh about it.
I poke my head out from under my sheet, hoping to catch Bonaventure at his own game, despite my enfeebled state. In fact it’s a pleasant surprise: it’s Sabine Niangui. She’s standing there with a glass of water in one hand and an aspirin in the other. My eyes take in the grey hair curling on the side of her head. She’s short-sighted, and her huge glasses intimidate me, but I admire them too, and they make me think Niangui probably spent her youth reading books in even smaller print than the Bible, which, over time, destroyed her eyesight. Like her, I long to read and re-read books written in even smaller letters than the ones I read in the orphanage library, so what if they ruin my eyes and I end up wearing huge glasses like hers…
She’s just placed a glass of water on the floor, and sat down on my bed. She says that with the departure of Papa Moupelo it’s like a page of our orphanage’s history has been torn out. She has tears in her eyes as she tells me:
‘The Director could have kept him here, he never hurt anyone… Dieudonné Ngoulmoumako already humiliated me, years ago, by making me into the person you see today. If I’d had a choice, I’d have given up this job…’
She’s silent for a moment, because she’s just realised I don’t understand what she means. She clears her throat, then continues: ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this today, when I should have told you years ago… I know you much better than you know me, and besides, do you really know me? I’m very touched that you’ve never been the slightest bit curious about my life. I suppose to you I’m just part of the furniture, a woman who’s been there since you were born and who, you imagine, will be here for the rest of your life…’
Black Moses Page 5
