Gorilla Dawn

by Gill Lewis

  Imara shook her head. “It’s not like that. She wants us,” she said, glancing across at Kitwana, where he sat rummaging through pots and ladles by the fire.

  “She wants power,” said Bobo.

  Don’t listen to him. The White Lioness wants you. She wants to love you. She wants to make you beautiful.

  “Kitwana will be safe. We’ll have as much food as we can eat. It will be better than here.”

  “You will not be free,” said Bobo.

  “What do you know of freedom?” spat Imara.

  Bobo stared into the fire. “I know that it isn’t this. Look around you. We’re no more than slaves while the world steals what’s beneath our feet. It’s people like us, and the animals, who suffer. Kitwana deserves his freedom. He belongs with his family. He belongs in the forest.”

  Imara glared at him. “Really? Big words from the boy whose father traded gorillas and chimpanzees!”

  “No,” said Bobo softly. “My father is not that man.”

  Imara put one hand on her hip. “Who is he then?”

  “My father is a good man.”

  “Then why doesn’t he come to find you?”

  Bobo pushed a stick into the fire and stared into the flames. “I don’t know,” he said. “But if he came, I don’t think he would recognize his son.”

  * * *

  Imara sat down and stirred the hot water into the ground coffee. She reached for the tin of sugar syrup, but it wasn’t where she had left it. She looked up at Bobo. “Someone has taken the syrup tin.”

  Bobo shrugged his shoulders.

  Imara glanced around her. Kitwana had disappeared too. She could feel panic rise inside her. She hadn’t noticed him slip away.

  She stood up and spun around. “Where’s Kitwana?”

  Bobo pointed to the log pile and laughed. “There! There is your thief.”

  Kitwana was sitting on top of the log pile, holding the syrup tin to his mouth, poking his tongue inside.

  “Kitwana!” scolded Imara.

  Kitwana shrieked on being found out, and held the tin high above his head.

  Bobo scrambled up the log pile, but Kitwana threw the tin at him and scuttled down the other side. Bobo looked inside the tin. “At least there’s some syrup left.” He grinned. “The White Lioness will have her work cut out with Kitwana.”

  Imara nodded. “But he still needs me. I can’t stop her from taking him, and that’s why I’ll go with her when she takes him next week.”

  Bobo nodded in the direction of the White Lioness. “So why is she still here now? Why doesn’t she leave?”

  “She’s waiting,” said Imara. She scraped the remaining sugar syrup into the pot.

  “For what?”

  Imara hooked her fingers through the handles of tin coffee cups and picked up the pot of coffee. “The White Lioness wants official papers to say the Black Mamba is good to his workers and doesn’t fund the rebels.”

  Bobo snorted. “And who will provide that documentation?”

  “Him,” said Imara. She pointed the spout of the coffee pot toward the forest path where a large man in uniform emerged from the trees, surrounded by bodyguards. He was puffing and panting, holding his sides to catch his breath.

  Imara glanced at Bobo. He had stepped back into the shadows, but his eyes were fixed on the man. Imara could see Bobo’s teeth clench together, the muscles tightening in his jaw.

  He knows him, whispered the demon. He knows this man. Find out who he is.

  Kitwana crept close to Imara and reached up for her. She crouched down and let him clamber up onto her back, feeling sticky sugar syrup still coating his fingers.

  The man stopped to pull out a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe sweat from his forehead.

  “He doesn’t look like a man who walks in jungles,” said Imara.

  “He’s not,” said Bobo, lifting his rifle to his shoulder. “He is used to being driven around in a car.”

  Imara glanced at Bobo. “Who is he?”

  Bobo’s face had hardened. “He is Mr. Mutombo, the chief of police.”

  So this is Bobo’s battle. This is why he’s here.

  “Help me carry the coffee,” said Imara. “Let’s listen to them talk.”

  * * *

  The White Lioness stretched her legs and glanced at the gold watch on her wrist. “You have delayed me,” she said to the police chief. “Surely there isn’t that much traffic in the jungle?”

  The police chief glanced at the Black Mamba. “We could not come as far as we wanted by truck. We have been walking since dawn—”

  “Please sit,” she interrupted. “I am not interested in your journey here.”

  Imara walked between them and placed the coffee pot and cups on the low table while Bobo slid into the shadows behind the police chief. Imara served coffee to the Black Mamba, the White Lioness, Clarkson, Bundi, and the police chief, while the police chief’s bodyguards paced outside the door, their guns held nervously by their sides.

  Clarkson put a small briefcase on the table and opened it, showing dollar notes piled neatly inside. Kitwana climbed down from Imara’s arms and edged over to the briefcase, pulling dollars out and stuffing them in his mouth.

  The police chief leaned forward to shoo Kitwana away.

  “Don’t worry,” said the White Lioness. “There are plenty more where those came from. But what we need is documentation from you, to say rebels do not control this mine. We need tags for the coltan to say it is from certified mines.”

  The police chief’s eyes flitted between the Black Mamba, the White Lioness, and the briefcase. “It can be done,” he said.

  The White Lioness offered the police chief a cigarette and held out her lighter for him. “But it seems the mine is within the boundary of the national park. Isn’t this a problem?”

  The police chief inhaled, lighting the cigarette. He sat back, letting the smoke flow out through his nostrils. “No one needs to know this mine is inside the park. I can provide tags for your coltan to say it is from another mine, one that has been inspected and certified rebel free. No one will know.”

  The White Lioness raised an eyebrow. “Good,” she said. “The companies I deal with like to think they have a clear conscience, even if they don’t want to put any effort in to prove it.” She sat back and lit her own cigarette. “We also need to get the coltan out of Congo, to Rwanda. I’d rather not have any interference from border controls.”

  The police chief pulled a fifty-dollar note from the suitcase and rubbed it between his fingers. “I know people on both sides of the border who can make sure your helicopter has safe passage.”

  “Excellent.” The White Lioness smiled. She sat back and looked around, letting her eyes come to rest on Kitwana. “But surely the wildlife rangers will report this mine.”

  The Black Mamba sipped his coffee. “The police chief has this under control.”

  “You are a clever man,” purred the White Lioness. “Tell me, Mr. Mutombo, how have you done this?”

  The police chief nodded and smoothed his trousers, keen to impress the White Lioness. “I have banned ranger patrols in this part of the park due to rebel activity.” He smiled to himself and leaned forward. “A ranger was accused of the killing of the silverback. The rangers’ authority is tainted. People are scared. You won’t get any trouble.”

  “Good.” The White Lioness nodded. “And what if rangers do come here?”

  The Black Mamba finished his coffee in a gulp. “Then we do what we have done before. The only good ranger is a dead ranger.” He reached for a bag behind stacked tins of food and cooking oil. Imara recognized the bag from the evening when Rat had brought Kitwana into the camp. The Black Mamba emptied the bag, spilling crumpled clothes on the floor. He held up a green jacket. “Let’s have our own ranger here in camp.” He looked around and threw the jacket to Bobo. “Bobo, you can be our ranger.”

  Imara could see Bobo’s hands shaking as he held the jacket.

  Th
e Black Mamba picked a green beret from the floor and spun it across the room. “Put it on, Bobo. Let’s see our new ranger.”

  Bobo caught the beret. He placed the jacket on the floor and turned the beret over and over in his hands. Imara watched him run his fingers around the inside of the rim and push a finger through a hole in the top of the beret. The frayed edges of the material around the hole were fringed with blood. Imara saw the flicker of recognition in Bobo’s eyes. It was almost imperceptible, yet she saw it.

  In that one moment, Imara knew.

  She understood.

  She had seen a ghost’s shadow pass across Bobo’s face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  bobo

  Bobo turned the beret over, running his fingers across the embroidered name, the name he had seen his mother sew into the rim only two weeks before. It suddenly felt heavy in his hands, as if it carried the weight of the whole forest inside it. Bobo’s legs trembled beneath him. The world around him dissolved away; the Black Mamba, the White Lioness, the police chief, Kitwana, the aroma of coffee, and the thrum of the generator.

  It was just him and the soft green beret in his hands.

  His father’s beret.

  “Bobo! . . . Bobo!”

  Bobo looked up.

  The Black Mamba was calling him.

  The police chief leaned forward, searching Bobo as if trying to place him. Would the police chief recognize him from before?

  “Go on, Bobo,” said the Black Mamba. “Put on the ranger’s clothes.”

  Bobo pulled on the jacket. He was not big enough for it and felt lost inside it. The sleeves came down over the tips of his fingers.

  “And now the beret,” said the Black Mamba.

  Bobo gripped the beret to stop his hands from shaking. He pulled it on his head and stood tall.

  The Black Mamba laughed and slapped Bobo on the back. “How do you feel, ranger?”

  Bobo stiffened his back and nodded. “I will wear it with pride.”

  The White Lioness stood up and looked around the men. “Well, it is good to know my gorilla is in safe hands.” She glanced at her watch. “That’s all for today,” she announced, bringing the meeting to a close.

  The Black Mamba and the police chief followed her outside into the bright light. The police chief paused beside Bobo as he passed. He frowned. “Do I know you?”

  “No, sir,” said Bobo quickly. Too quickly. The police chief leaned closer and narrowed his eyes.

  Bobo continued staring straight ahead, avoiding the police chief’s gaze.

  The police chief was searching his face, trying to place him. A fly buzzed close to Bobo’s head, as if inspecting him too. Any moment now, the police chief would remember their meeting back at home.

  “One more thing Mr. Mutombo,” interrupted the White Lioness. “When I return next week, I need papers to show that the gorilla is fit and has a license for travel. I wouldn’t want to be stopped by the authorities. Could you arrange that for me?” She tapped the briefcase in the police chief’s hand. “There is more where this came from.”

  The police chief turned away from Bobo and nodded. “It can be done.”

  “Good,” said the White Lioness. “I will be back next week for the gorilla.”

  Bobo took his chance to step back into the shadows of the hut and watched them walk away. The White Lioness and Clarkson climbed into the helicopter; the pilot started the rotor blades turning, lifting the helicopter up into the sky. The police chief glanced back once at Bobo, before he and his bodyguards disappeared into the darkness of the forest.

  The camp resumed the steady rhythm of miners digging coltan, the tink tink tink of metal on stone, and the constant humming of the generator, as if nothing had changed.

  But for Bobo, his world had turned itself inside out.

  He held the beret against his chest and knew without any doubt that his father was never coming back.

  He knew deep in his heart that Papa was dead.

  * * *

  Bobo walked into the forest, slashing at the vines as he went. He walked deeper and deeper until he could no longer hear the sounds of the camp, until he was quite alone. He sank down, took the beret in his hands and buried his face in the cloth, in the smell of his father, and let the tears fall. He wanted to curl up, and become smaller and smaller and disappear.

  “Bobo?”

  Bobo sat up and spun around. Imara was watching him, Kitwana wrapped around her chest.

  She sat down near him, placing Kitwana on the ground where he pulled at some leaves and nibbled them, glancing between Bobo and Imara.

  “So, your father was a ranger?” said Imara.

  Bobo nodded. “My father was a brave man. This is his beret.”

  Kitwana shuffled close to Bobo and sniffed at the beret in his hands.

  “And this is your battle,” said Imara. “This is why you came here?”

  Bobo nodded. “The police chief lied. He said my father joined the rebels. He told a lie to stop ranger patrols near the mine.”

  “So what are you going to do?” asked Imara.

  “I am going to prove my father’s innocence.”

  Imara picked up a stick and scratched Kitwana’s back. “The police chief is a powerful man. Why would anyone believe a kadoga, a child soldier like you? They will kill you first.”

  “I will get proof,” said Bobo.

  “How?”

  Bobo put the beret back on his head. “My father’s camera is somewhere in camp. It wasn’t with his belongings when the Black Mamba emptied out his bag, but it will be somewhere. Someone must have it. I need to take a photo of the police chief with the Black Mamba. I need to prove he is corrupt.”

  Imara watched Kitwana climb along the length of a sapling. The trunk bowed with his weight until he scrambled up into another tree, staring intently into the forest. Imara followed his gaze but couldn’t see what had caught his eye.

  “Why do you tell me all this?” she said. “I could go to the Black Mamba right now and tell him who you are.”

  Bobo shook his head. “I know you won’t.”

  Imara shrugged her shoulders. “You are nothing to me.”

  Bobo let a small smile escape. “Maybe not, but Kitwana is everything to you.” He looked right into Imara’s eyes. “Help me, and I can give Kitwana back his freedom.”

  Imara turned away from him. “You don’t know me.”

  “I know you are a good person, Imara,” said Bobo. “My father once told me that to know a person is to see how they look after their animals. I see how you care for Kitwana. I see the person you are inside.”

  Imara stood up, reached for Kitwana and scowled. “I have the devil inside me.”

  Bobo scrambled to his feet and stood in front of her. “Wait,” he said. “I need to find that camera. It is the only way to prove my father’s innocence. Can you help me?”

  Imara stopped, her hand resting on the branch. She picked at some moss. “I don’t know where it is,” she said. “But if anyone has it, Rat has it. He was the one to bring your father’s belongings back. I think I saw him carry something off into the forest. But even if he has it, I don’t know where he keeps it.”

  “I know where it is.”

  Bobo and Imara spun around. Saka crept out of the shadows. Bobo aimed his gun, looking around them. “Who else is with you?”

  “No one,” said Saka, stepping out into the light. “I’m alone.”

  Bobo walked a circle around Saka. “How did you follow us?”

  “I can track anything in the forest, even you,” said Saka.

  Bobo lowered his gun. “Do you really know where Rat keeps the camera?”

  He nodded and cleared his throat. “If I tell you, you must promise to take me with you when you escape from here.”

  “Escape?” said Imara, looking between them. “Where will we go?”

  Bobo frowned. “When I have the proof, we’ll leave here for good. We’ll take Kitwana with us, too.”

>   “What will happen to him?” said Imara.

  “The rangers will look after him at the orphan center for gorillas,” said Bobo, “but if they can, maybe they will set him free.”

  “Free?” Imara held Kitwana close and ran her fingers through his fur. “If the Black Mamba catches us, he’ll kill us.”

  Bobo nodded. “I know. But we have no choice.” He looked at Saka. “The police chief will return next week when the White Lioness comes back to collect Kitwana. I need to take a photo of the police chief with the Black Mamba at the coltan mine. If you find me the camera, you can escape with us.”

  “And Frog,” added Saka. “He comes too.”

  Bobo frowned. “No one must find out about this.”

  “Frog won’t tell,” said Saka. “We are like brothers.”

  Bobo stared at Saka for a moment, then nodded and stood up. “Where is it? Where does Rat keep the camera?”

  Saka fiddled with the vine snare looped over his shoulder. “It’s in a tree not far from here,” he said, “a hollow tree, where Rat hides all his possessions. I have seen the camera in there too.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  imara

  You stupid girl, Imara. What are you thinking by helping him?

  Imara walked ahead of Bobo back to camp, trying to ignore the demon screaming in her ear. Saka had already slunk back into the forest and disappeared.

  You owe them nothing.

  Kitwana struggled in her grasp as she returned to camp, reluctant to leave the playground of the forest. Imara held him closer, stiffening when she saw Rat standing in the shadows, watching her return.

  Rat knows! Rat knows! Stupid girl. Stupid girl.

  Imara heated water for Kitwana’s milk. She watched him playing in the woodpile, pulling out sticks and tearing the bark with his teeth. He was growing stronger every day. In the forest he liked to climb the trees and vines. Sometimes Imara would play a game of chase with him round and round the trees until he climbed up so high that she couldn’t reach him. He liked to forage for his own food too, although he always loved his milk and the close comfort of being held.