by Gill Lewis
“I was worried,” she whispered. “There has been talk of rebels in the mountains.”
Bobo held his breath, straining his ears to hear them talk.
Papa stroked the head of the baby cradled in the shawl. “Mbeze is right for once. There have been killings on the other side of the mountains. Rebels have crossed from the lowland sector of the park. These are new rebels, a different group. Some call them the Black Mambas.”
Mama shivered. “I have heard of them. They say the Mambas have a Spirit Child who speaks the devil’s tongue and gives them power. Mbeze said if you kill one man, two more rise up to fight.”
“Pah!” Papa shook his head. “Men die only once.”
“Did you see them?”
Papa nodded. “They didn’t see us.”
“Are there many?”
“About twenty-five, maybe thirty.” He took a deep breath and pulled Mama and the baby closer. “They have kadogo too.”
Mama sucked air sharply through her teeth. “Ay ay ay!”
“We are safe in town,” said Papa. “But keep the children close to home.”
Bobo felt his heart thump inside his chest. Kadogo! Child soldiers. Killers. They feared nothing and followed their leaders to the death.
Mama shook her head. “There haven’t been rebels in this part of the park for a long while now. What are they doing here?”
“Maybe they are passing through the mountains,” reassured Papa. “Kambale has asked me to return with him tomorrow and move the Tumaini group away from them, toward this side of the mountain.”
Mama cradled the baby close to her. “And what if they see you this time? What will you do?”
Bobo stepped out into the light. He picked up the house broom from behind the door and held the broom like a gun, firing imaginary bullets into the room. “Ak . . . ak . . . ak . . . ak . . . ak! I will come with you and shoot them dead.”
“Bobo!” Papa snatched the broom from him. “If you want to be a wildlife ranger, use your head, not a gun. Rangers use guns for defense only.”
Bobo tried to snatch back the broom. “Why not kill them? Shoot them first before they shoot you.”
Papa held the broom high out of reach. “Only a weak man needs a gun to make him strong, Bobo. These men are cowards. Do you want to be like them too?”
Bobo clenched and unclenched his fists. “They have no right in the mountains. What if they are here to kill the gorillas, what then?”
“That is why I must move the Tumaini group away from the rebels. We need to keep them safe.”
Bobo shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his shorts and paced up and down the room. “What about Heri? Has she given birth yet?”
Papa smiled. “Not yet. It could be tomorrow, it could be next month. It is hard to say. But she is well, and that’s what matters. Come,” he said, pulling a camera out from his rucksack. “Let me show you the photos I took today.”
Bobo sat down next to Papa at the table and held the camera, scrolling through the images on the screen. He loved looking at the photos his father took for the researchers while he tracked the gorillas.
Papa pointed to an image of a large gorilla with his fists against his chest. “Hodari was not pleased to see us today. I think he was unsettled by the rebels in the forest.”
Bobo stared at Hodari, the huge silverback gorilla, and the leader of the Tumaini group. Bobo had seen him in the forest on a trip with Papa. He remembered feeling dwarfed by the size of him, his huge domed head and powerful back and shoulders covered in fine silvery fur. He remembered the smell of him, a musty, sour odor that reached through the forest. Yet, despite their size, Papa always said gorillas were the gentlest of creatures. They would only ever attack if members of their family were threatened.
“And here is Heri,” said Papa, flicking to the next image. “She is keeping herself away from the others. See, Hisani, the oldest female, is interested in her. I think she is checking she is okay.”
“And where is Hisani’s son?” said Bobo, keen to see his favorite gorilla.
Papa laughed. “Wait till you see. He is nearly eighteen months and getting more daring every day.” He flicked to the next image of a young gorilla holding a notebook, trying to rip the pages from it. “He loves my notebook and tries to eat it. He thinks the pages are strange flat white leaves he can chew. Today Enzi, the young blackback, chased him round and round and round to try to get the notebook for himself.”
Bobo smiled at the young blackback trying hard to be like the mature silverback, but unable to resist playing chasing games with the younger gorilla too. “Is there a name for Hisani’s son?” said Bobo.
“Not yet. Kambale is trying to see if we can find someone to sponsor him and give him a name. It could bring much-needed money to the park.”
Bobo flicked through all the images of the day. His face became serious. “There is one missing.”
Papa frowned. “No, there can’t be. I took a photo of each gorilla of the Tumaini group.” He held out his hand for the camera. “Let me see.”
A smile twitched on Bobo’s mouth. “There is definitely one member of the group missing. The ugly one!” He lifted the camera to his eye and pointed it at his father. “Smile, Papa!”
“Be careful with that camera,” Papa said sharply. “It belongs to the national park authorities, not to us.”
Mama laughed. She pushed the green beret toward him. “Tsk! Put this on and let Bobo take a picture of his father.”
Papa relented and pulled the new beret onto his head.
“Smile, gorilla-man,” said Bobo.
Papa’s face broke into a wide, wide smile.
Bobo clicked the shutter. “Done.”
Papa reached across and put the beret on Bobo’s head and pulled it down over his eyes. “One day, you might be wearing one of these too.”
“Then let me come with you tomorrow,” begged Bobo. “You promised me I could come with you again one day.”
“No, Bobo.”
“Please!”
Papa shook his head and lifted the cloth from the bowl of food Mama had saved for him. He looked tired and weary, too tired to argue. “Bobo, it is time for you to go to bed. You have school tomorrow. One day you can come with me, but now is not the time. It is not safe at the moment.”
“I’m not scared, Papa. I am fourteen already. I don’t need school. I am old enough to carry a gun into the forest.”
Papa sat back in his chair and looked Bobo in the eyes. “Boboto, my son. The gun has caused too many deaths, too much sadness in this country. Go to school before you become a ranger. It is books and learning that will make you strong.”
gorilla
Hisani’s son pulled more leaves around him and pushed his fingers into the fur of his mother’s back. He could hear her soft breathing and feel the steady rise and fall of her chest. He closed his eyes, but sleep would not come. The night’s quickness was replaced by a long dark waking, filled with racing images of the Tall Apes in the forest.
These were new Tall Apes. They were not the harmless Watchers who kept their vigil on the gorilla family. They were not the Hunters who moved silently through the forest with their dogs. These new Tall Apes were not of the forest. The thunder from their fire-sticks had silenced the birds and sent the animals deep into the undergrowth.
They had arrived, bringing their noise and sweat with them. Hisani’s son had stayed close to his mother, hidden in the thick leaves. He had watched the new Tall Apes pass, their feet sliding and slipping on the mud, their fire-sticks swinging on their backs. The young gorilla hadn’t seen so many Tall Apes before, but this group wasn’t a family group. It was a big troop, a male group, of adults and young. There was one female too, but she showed no bond to the other Tall Apes. She kept her head down and distanced herself from the others. They had passed almost close enough to touch, but his mother had held him, and wrapped her great arm around him, willing him to be silent and still.
Hod
ari, the silverback, was wary of these new Tall Apes. His fear odor, pungent in the damp air, had sent a warning to the other gorillas. Even with his strength and back of silvery fur, he didn’t confront the new Tall Apes. He didn’t mock-charge them like he did to the Watchers when they ventured too close. He sensed a greater danger. Instead, he had moved his family higher up the mountain, where he settled them for the night, pulling leaves and branches around himself, a sign they should do the same.
But the female Tall Ape had come close again, swinging a cutting stick through the forest, bringing down the vines and small branches. Hodari had woken his family and moved them on again in the darkness. But Hisani’s son had stopped for a moment, hidden in the vines as his family moved away. He had wanted a closer look at these strange apes. This female Tall Ape looked wary, casting her eyes around. She stood still, listening to the sounds of the retreating gorillas, keeping low to the ground, her muscles tensed and ready to run, like she was prey.
Hisani’s son moved a little closer, pushing vines aside to get a better view. For a moment the Tall Ape’s face appeared close to his. Her smooth brown face was scarred like the fighting face of a silverback that had seen many battles. For a brief moment, her eyes met his, and they stared, each one taking in the other. Then Hisani’s son pulled away, scrambling through the undergrowth, hooting for his mother. He climbed on her back and clung to her as they followed Hodari to higher ground.
As he curled up with his mother in their new nest of leaves high in the branches, he could hear Hodari stirring on the ground below. Not even the great silverback could find sleep tonight. Maybe the images of the new Tall Apes unsettled him too.
Hisani’s son closed his eyes and saw the face of the female Tall Ape in his mind, bright in the darkness. It stared right at him.
Right into him.
His fur prickled with fear.
He had put his family at risk.
He had let himself be seen.
CHAPTER SEVEN
bobo
Bobo knew the snake was somewhere in the undergrowth. He could hear the rattle of dried seed heads as it wound its way between the brittle grasses. He caught glimpses of the curves of its body, of its rippling dark-gray scales.
A black mamba.
The deadliest snake in Africa.
Its defense was its attack.
Death’s shadow was sliding toward him.
Bobo couldn’t move. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t scream.
He stared, transfixed as the snake flowed toward him. It rose up in front of Bobo.
Up
and up
and up,
until its coffin-shaped head was level with his. Its tongue flickered, tasting Bobo, tasting his breath. Bobo stared into the small black eyes.
Time slowed down.
The world stopped turning.
Bobo watched as the black mamba lunged forward, opening its wide black mouth.
Fangs glistened with droplets of venom.
Death was coming.
* * *
Bobo sat up, sucking air deep into his chest. His heart hammered and he gripped the edges of his bed, trying to pull himself out of sleep, out of the nightmare.
A blue dawn light lifted the darkness from the room. He could make out the usual shapes inside: his sister curled up on the mattress next to him, the cotton curtains, and the cupboard, his school bag slung across the chair.
Everything looked the same but he felt different inside.
The tight knot of worry from the night before stayed with him.
The smell of coffee sifted into the room and he could hear Mama patting cassava dough on the table.
Bobo swung his legs off the bed, pulled on his T-shirt and shorts, and went to find his mother.
He looked around the room. “Where is Papa?”
Mama looked up from her kneading. “He left early. Kambale’s wife called round late last night to say Kambale is sick, so April, the receptionist, is giving Papa a lift to work instead.”
“He’s gone already?”
Mama nodded. “Just now. April is picking him up from the end of the road.”
“You should have woken me.” In two leaps Bobo was at the front door. “I have to see him.”
“Bobo!” called Mama.
But Bobo was already running, his bare feet slapping on the cracked tarmac, flying down the street toward his father.
“Papa! . . . Papa!”
Bobo saw his father standing at the end of the street beside the market. The sun had not yet risen, yet the stallholders were arriving in the pre-dawn light, setting up their stalls. Steel drums were burning charcoal, the embers glowing red hot, ready to cook hot snacks of plantain fritters and grilled corn. Bobo’s father stood on the street corner, stamping his feet in the cool morning. His new green beret sat at an angle on his head, and he was wearing the cape and rubber boots he would need in the mountains.
“Papa! . . . Papa!”
Papa turned toward him. “Bobo, what are you doing here?”
“Don’t go, Papa. I had a dream. A black mamba . . . maybe it is a warning.”
Papa put his hand on Bobo’s shoulder. “A dream is just a dream, nothing more.”
“Well let me come with you then.”
“Bobo, I have already told you that one day I will take you with me, but not today.”
“But you will need me,” pleaded Bobo. “Mama said Kambale is sick. You can’t go into the mountains alone.”
“I will be fine. The Tumaini group knows me better than anyone. It will draw too much attention if many rangers go in. Bobo, I know these forests. These rebels are clumsy.” Papa smiled. “They will not see me. You know me. I can move as silently as a leopard.”
Bobo shook his head. “Francois was killed by rebels last year. He knew the forests too.”
Papa sighed. “I know. Francois was a brave man, but there were many rebels that day. Francois was confronting them over illegal charcoal burning. All I am going to do is to move the gorillas to this side of the mountain. I have no intention of coming into contact with the rebels.”
“Will you be back tonight?”
Papa shrugged his shoulders. “It depends. I may be several days if the Tumaini group are slow to move.”
Bobo held on to his father’s arm. “What about the black mamba? What about my dream? I don’t want to lose you.”
“Bobo.” Papa smiled. “I am your father. Nothing can change that.”
Bobo felt a pit in his stomach. He thought of the Black Mamba and the Spirit Child. These were new rebels. Powerful. They had dark magic on their side. “They have a Spirit Child, Papa. She can put a curse on you.”
Papa shook his head. “The rebels’ greatest weapon is fear, and I choose not to be afraid.”
“Don’t go, not this time. I have a bad feeling about today.”
“Boboto, my son. I have to go. Look, there is April waiting for me.”
A car horn beeped and Bobo could see the receptionist drumming her fingers on the steering wheel.
“Why? Why you?” Bobo clung to his father, furious with the hot tears that ran down his face. He felt more like seven years old than fourteen.
Bobo’s father put his arm around him. “Do you remember me telling you why I must do this? Do you remember what I told you, when we sat and watched the dawn together in the mountains?”
Bobo frowned and wiped the tears away with his hand. “That was a long time ago.”
Papa smiled. “Then let me tell you again.”
“Papa! I don’t want a lecture. I don’t want you to go.”
“Listen,” said Papa. “I tell you this because it is important that you know. It is important that you know your father.” He pointed to the rim of golden light brimming above the horizon. “Bobo, my son, what do you see?”
Bobo stared hard, remembering his father’s words from before, knowing them by heart. He clung to his father. “Papa . . . I see the sun rise.”
&nbs
p; “Now close your eyes and tell me what you feel.”
Bobo closed his eyes. “I feel the whole world turning beneath my feet.”
Papa pulled his son to him. “And as it turns, we turn with it. You and me . . . we are all part of it. Everything we are, everything we do connects us with it. Breathe this air. Drink this rain. The earth pulses with the life it gives us. But if we lose our love of it, then we lose everything. But most of all, we lose ourselves. We lose our souls. So, Bobo, what gives me the right to sit back and do nothing to protect it? With every dawn, I must ask myself: Who am I? What is my part in this? How am I going to use this day, to make tomorrow a better world?”
The car horn sounded a second time.
Papa held Bobo’s face in his hands and looked into his eyes. “Do you understand why I must go?”
Bobo nodded and closed his eyes, trying to stop the tears from falling.
“You see,” said Papa. “I have no choice.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
bobo
The horn beeped again and Bobo’s father gave him a quick hug and hurried to the waiting car, waving once before he shut the door. Bobo watched until the car’s red taillights disappeared into the line of traffic.
“Hey, Bobo!”
Bobo turned around. Lamu was walking toward him, his school bag slung across his shoulder, kicking a ball along the ground.
Bobo wiped his tears, hoping Lamu wouldn’t see.
Lamu scooped up the ball and bounced it to Bobo. “What do you think of this one?”
Bobo caught the ball and turned it over in his hands. It was one of Lamu’s home-styled soccer balls, made from plastic bags and tied with string. “What’s so different about it?”
“This is an improved design.” Lamu grinned. “Old bicycle inner tubes for extra bounce.”
Bobo bounced it on the ground. “Cool,” he said. He dribbled it forward, in and out of people walking along the street.
“Hey,” called Lamu. “Give it back.”
“Come and get it,” yelled Bobo.
Bobo sprinted along the road, kicking the ball ahead of him. He could hear Lamu close behind, his flip-flops slapping on the ground. Bobo knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it. Lamu was the best soccer player in school. Lamu whacked his bag against Bobo, knocking him aside.
