by Luz Gabás
“And you? What are you in for?”
“Someone accused me of complaining about my salary.”
“Oh, very serious,” Gustavo joked bitterly.
The civil servants never knew when they were going to get paid or exactly how much. When it suited Macías, he took out some of the nation’s money, which he kept in a bathroom in his house, and made government employees attend a mass meeting to give them whatever amount he fancied as fruit of the benevolence of the “untiring worker at the service of the people.”
“We know one who was imprisoned for criticizing the quality of Chinese rice … Isn’t that right, Waldo?”
“And what happened to him?” Maximiano asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.
“They took him from our cell,” Gustavo lied.
Waldo leaned against the wall. It had been weeks since he had shed tears of pain and rage like Maximiano. Only one idea allowed him to put up with the beatings and whippings.
He did not know how yet, but one day he would find the chance to escape.
“Let’s see, Laha. Who expelled the imperialist and colonizing Spaniards from Equatorial Guinea?
“His Excellency, Macías Nguema Biyogo Ñegue Ndong!”
“Very good. And who defeated the Spanish imperialist plot of March 5, 1969?”
“His Excellency, the Grand Master of Popular Teaching Art and Traditional Culture, the Untiring Worker at the Service of the People!”
“And who has built Malabo’s magnificent new buildings?”
Laha remembered reading a board with the name of a construction company.
“The Transmetal Company,” he replied without hesitation.
The teacher gave him a smack with his cane. Laha yelped and rubbed his shoulder.
“No. His Excellency built them. Be careful, Laha. In a few days, he will visit us in person and will ask you these same questions.”
The following week, Laha and his classmates, perfectly dressed for the occasion, stood waiting for the door of the classroom to open and the object of their reverent praise to visit them. Outside, the line of elegant cars that made up the presidential cavalcade could be seen. The minutes passed, and nobody came to the classroom. Suddenly, they heard shouts and voices. The teacher was the first to go over and look out the window. Several bodyguards were forcefully taking away the school principal and three of his colleagues. One of the bodyguards waved a photo of the president, like the ones that hung in every classroom, so that all those who were looking out the windows could see. Someone had drawn a noose around Macías’s neck.
The teacher sat down at his desk and continued the class in a trembling voice. Laha and his classmates felt disappointed at not being able to meet the country’s “one miracle.”
A few minutes later, Laha looked out the window and saw someone he recognized. He jumped to his feet and called the teacher. They went back to pushing their noses against the glass. Another teacher who taught older children was giving instructions to four or five boys, one of whom was Iniko. Laha’s teacher left the room. A short while later, he joined the group in the yard. Laha did not understand what was happening, but the adults were making nervous gestures as they talked to the boys, who, after nodding several times, disappeared. Laha placed his hand against the windowpane. Where could his brother be going?
The teacher came back to the classroom and went directly to Laha. He leaned down and whispered, “Tell your mother that Iniko has gone to Bissappoo. It’s best that he stays there for a while.”
“Hey, you! What are you doing there?”
Waldo, overwhelmed by Madrid’s high buildings and the hundreds of cars that drove along the widest avenues he had ever seen, came out of his hiding place and stood in front of the police officer with his eyes fixed on the ground.
“I only wanted to sleep a little.”
“Oh! Your Spanish is very good. Where are you from?”
“Equatorial Guinea,” he repeated for the umpteenth time since arriving in Spain.
“Show me your papers.”
Waldo took out a small laminated card he had found near the dock in Bata and handed it to him, confident that the man would not notice the difference between his face and that of the photograph.
“This is no longer valid. We have been told by the General Headquarters of Security to take away the identity cards from those Guineans who have one.”
“I’ve nothing else.”
Waldo rubbed his upper arms. He was cold, and he had not eaten in days. His eyes filled with tears. All his efforts had been in vain. He still had not recovered from the exhausting journey that had begun the day a two-and-a-half-meter-long boa caused confusion in the reed beds at the airport and started an argument between the guards to see who would kill it and take it as a present to the warden of Black Beach so he could eat it. Waldo had dragged himself along like a snake, crawling without breathing to get away from the horror, for hundreds of meters until his skin bled. Hours later he had continued his escape from the island in a canoe to the continent and later, the terrifying nights in the jungle, the dangerous crossing to Cameroon, the odyssey as a stowaway in a merchant ship to the Canaries and from there in another one to Cádiz.
He had worked there for a few days on the dock to get enough money to pay for the bus fare to Madrid, a bus on which he had had to put up with suspicious looks from those who avoided sitting beside the shabbily dressed black man who spoke Spanish. He thought things would be easier, that when he told them they had once all been Spanish, they would open their arms to him.
“I’ve nothing else,” he repeated bleakly.
The police officer raised his cap with one hand and scratched his head.
“Well, we don’t want vagrants or beggars. I’ll have to take you to the station.”
Waldo looked at him in surprise. Had he taken such a terrible risk to end up in the same situation? He felt tempted to run away, but his strength was beginning to fail him.
“There you will at least get something to eat and clean clothes,” continued the officer. “Later we’ll see what will happen to you.”
Waldo resignedly agreed. The officer put him into his car. During the short journey, Waldo shut his eyes and sank into a light sleep until they got to the basement of a gray multistory building where the station was located. There, in the waiting room, he was told to wait.
After what seemed like forever, the officer returned with another.
“You’re in luck,” he said. “My colleague here has told me he knows someone who looks after people like you. We’ll take you to him.”
The other added, “We’ll walk. Father Rafael’s parish isn’t very far.”
Waldo felt his hopes renewed. Could it be possible that it was the Father Rafael from Sampaka? When he saw the priest’s bulky frame, his limp, and his bushy gray beard, Waldo gave thanks to God.
It was not until after long minutes of sobbing and blubbering that, sitting on one of the church benches, he could narrate the calvary suffered by the priest’s abandoned children.
That same day, Father Rafael called Manuel and told him of Waldo and the terrible news he brought from Guinea. Manuel sent an urgent telegram to Kilian, telling him to get in contact.
“I know how I can help Bisila,” he wrote.
The path leading up to Bissappoo had been cut open with machetes and trampled by many pairs of boots. José had a bad feeling. When he got to the buhaba, out of breath, his suspicions were confirmed. It was then, more than ever, he regretted that his hunched body had lost its agility. He had not gotten to the village in time to warn them that they were looking for his son Sóbeúpo, something he had just learned from Simón. A penetrating smell of smoke came from the other side of the entrance arch. He approached carefully and saw the flames. Bissappoo was burning among the anguished cries of its neighbors, huddled together and threatened by the guards’ guns. José brought his hands to his head, now covered completely by gray hair.
Something stuck in his r
ibs.
“You, old man. Walk.”
They put him with the rest. The first one he recognized was Iniko. But he was still too young! He motioned to them all to keep quiet. A quick look round showed him that according to the mass recruitment plan to substitute the Nigerians on the plantations, men of working age included old men, sick people, and children. José located the commanding officer and approached him to show him the document he always carried in his pocket.
“I’m in charge of the Sampaka plantation.”
The officer read the document and returned it to him in a condescending manner.
José frowned. He took some banknotes out of his pocket and gave them to the officer.
“Sorry, I forgot the other papers.”
The man smiled. “That’s better.”
Once again, José silently thanked Kilian for his help. If he could only tell him how essential the money he was sending for him and his family really was!
“I came up to look for workers for the plantation,” José lied. “I need a dozen.”
“You can take five. The rest are going somewhere else.”
“Why are you burning the village? Isn’t it enough to take the men away?”
“They didn’t want to tell us where a conspirator was hiding.”
“So you didn’t find him?”
“No.”
José breathed a sigh of relief. They would not find his son Sóbeúpo so easily if he had hidden in the forest. With a broken heart, he saw how the flames devoured his house. The women gathered together what they could in bundles and said tearful good-byes to their men. Some of them came over to José.
“And where do we go now?” they asked him.
“Go to Rebola. They’ll help you there.”
“And the men? What will they do with them? When will we see them again?”
“I’ll try and find out which plantation they’re being sent to. They need workers. They’ll be fed. Nothing will happen to them.” Not even he believed what he was saying. “Someday, all this will end.”
He pointed to Iniko and four nephews around the same age and motioned them to come with him. They walked over to the officer.
“I’m taking these.”
“Very young. You’re not stupid.”
“They’re strong, sure, but they’ve no experience. It will take me a while to train them.”
“Don’t forget the two daily hours of military training.”
The six of them gave a last look at what remained of Bissappoo and walked away not knowing if they would ever again see the men who, disconsolate, waited between rifle barrels for the moment of their last good-bye to their mothers, wives, and daughters.
The radio began its usual daily broadcast with a litany of the positions held by Macías. That was followed by the playing of the first songs praising his person. Bisila turned the thing off.
“Don’t you like the music?” the doctor asked with a friendly smile.
“I’m trying to concentrate.”
Edmundo smiled.
Bisila was fed up with many things. There had never been such a shortage of everything, even basics like sugar, salt, milk, and soap. There was no electricity, water, roads, or transport. To top it off, a few days ago, some police officers had searched her home when Laha was in school. They were looking to destroy any reminder of the colonial period, and they had been informed that she, specifically, had been very friendly with the Spaniards. She had hidden the pith helmet in a gap in the wall, which she later closed up. She still remembered the officer’s look when she foolishly asked, “Isn’t it a lot of work to go around to all the houses on Fernando Po?”
“It’s no longer called Fernando Po but Macías Nguema Biyogo Ñegue Ndong Island.” The man leaned over. “Or is it because you miss your Spanish friends?”
Bisila had been forced to resort to bribery once again, risking giving them the excuse to return another day and ask where she had got the money from. And that was how things went on, alternating between fear and uncertainty, surviving thanks to her guardian angel.
“Are you coming in?” asked Edmundo. “It’s expected to be a difficult delivery.”
Edmundo was an excellent doctor and work colleague. Since she had started work in Santa Isabel Hospital—well, Bisila corrected herself, Malabo Hospital—her life had improved. Edmundo was a prestigious doctor, and thanks to his influences, he could always get food on the black market.
They went into the delivery room. A woman lay on the bed with her eyes slightly glazed. A nurse came over and whispered, “She refuses to help. She says she doesn’t care whether she or the baby dies, that we can get it out whatever way we want, but she has no intention of pushing.”
Bisila frowned.
“Why wouldn’t a mother want her baby?” Edmundo asked.
“It seems she was raped by a gang of the President’s Youth Wing,” explained the nurse in a low voice.
Bisila approached the woman and got her attention. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Wéseppa.”
“Is it true that you don’t want your baby, now that it’s about to be born?”
The woman’s dark eyes filled with tears.
Bisila took her hand, leaned down, and whispered in her ear. Only someone like her, who had gone through the same situation, could understand.
“We have to hurry,” said Edmundo from the foot of the bed.
Bisila looked at him and nodded. “Wéseppa will help us,” she said.
The delivery was difficult, but after two hours, Bisila placed a beautiful girl on the woman’s bosom.
“What are you going to call her?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” answered Wéseppa, stroking one of the baby’s tiny hands.
Bisila remembered a pretty name from Bubi mythology. “What do you think of Börihí?” she suggested.
The woman agreed.
Suddenly, the door opened, and two police officers entered.
“We’re in a hospital!” the doctor cried, indignant. “You can’t come in here like this!”
“We’re looking for Bisila.”
“Me?” she said, startled. “Why?”
“Aren’t you the sister of Sóbeúpo from Bissappoo?”
Bisila’s heart skipped a beat. The newborn baby began to cry.
“Yes.”
“Tell us where the conspirator is.” He turned to the bed, where a terrified Wéseppa was rocking her daughter. “Make it stop!”
The woman brought the baby to her breast.
“I don’t know where he is,” answered Bisila.
The officer grabbed her arm. “You come with us.”
Bisila stayed silent. She was thankful that Iniko, who was at a difficult age, was in Sampaka with his grandfather Ösé. But what would happen to Laha? Who would collect him from school that afternoon?
Edmundo hastily intervened. “Release her immediately!”
The other policeman came over. “Would you like to come with us as well?”
“I am Edmundo Nsué. I know the president personally. Bisila is essential in this hospital. If necessary, I’ll talk to the president myself.”
The two police looked at each other. Bisila released herself and moved away.
The men did not move.
“Very well,” said Edmundo, taking off his white coat. “I’ll go with you to see our president, great master, and one miracle. He will know how to resolve this. And he will do it well, as he always does.”
The officers were surprised by the doctor’s determination. One of them made a sign to the other to go to the door. “We’ll check what you’ve said,” he said threateningly before leaving.
Bisila sighed and fell into a chair. “Thank you, Edmundo. Is what you said true?”
The doctor nodded. “Yes. Relax. You’re safe. I haven’t met a bigger hypochondriac than Macías, and your plant remedies work on him. I’ve tried them out.”
Bisila smiled. In any other circumstance, Edmundo
could have been a good life partner. It was obvious he wanted something more with her. She could not reject his advances openly. She would not be the first to be accused of conspiring against the regime because of the spite of a rejected suitor.
She got to her feet and walked toward the window. The afternoon sun tried to force its way through the mist. In a few hours, night would come and, with it, the memories. She brought a hand to her lips, missing Kilian’s kisses. Years had passed since his departure, and she could still remember his smell, his taste, and the sound of his voice. She sometimes dreamed of him, and the images were so clear she hated waking up. What would Kilian be doing at that moment? Would he be missing her as much as she missed him?
“Give me the baby.” Carmen took Daniela from Kilian’s arms. “We’re going home, Clarence. It’s starting to get cold.”
“We’re going as well,” said Jacobo.
The last rays of autumn sunlight filtered through the windows of the enormous hotel by the river. Kilian and Jacobo followed Carmen, although more slowly. Soon, they lost sight of her.
“How everything has changed, hasn’t it?” Jacobo commented.
Kilian nodded. The old path that led to the fields farthest away from the village had been turned into a wide road with blocks of apartments on either side. His mind wandered to another place where the forest and traditions had succumbed, first to foreign colonization, and then to chaos. He thought often of those people whom he had not seen in a decade and whom he had not heard anything about since Waldo’s news.
Jacobo cleared his throat. He did not really know how to broach the subject. In the last few years, much had happened. The negotiations over the transfer of lands to the ski resort were taking longer than expected. Jacobo could not attend the meetings, because they made his blood boil. Both brothers felt insulted by the condescension of the ski resort company executives, who were trying to get the neighbors’ lands at a ridiculous price, promising that, in exchange, they would get building plots at some stage in the future.
They talked to them as if they were some ignorant oafs, as if they had never left that enclosed valley and did not know how the outside world operated.
“Remember, Jacobo,” Kilian had asked him, “how the Bubis’ land was obtained? In the end, we will have to be thankful to them for the lesson.”
