Gorilla Dawn

by Gill Lewis

  Mama tells me this is where I belong.

  She has spread a sleeping mat for me on the earth floor of her hut, next to Embe, the sister I had not met before. When I sleep, Mama lies beside me in the darkness and soothes the night terrors that wake me. She tells me I am safe here.

  She tells me this place is home.

  For the first few days I stay inside, curled in darkness, facing the walls with my eyes closed. I hardly eat or drink. I hear villagers call by. Babu, my father, talks to them and tries to persuade me to come outside, but I don’t want them looking at me. The scar is my history written on my face. There are things I don’t want anyone to see. I just want to be alone. The devil no longer speaks to me. He has left and in his place is silence. An unbearable silence. I want to lie my head in the dust and sleep. I just want to sleep forever.

  But Mama won’t let me sleep. One morning she opens the door and lets the early morning light in. She sits beside me, stroking my forehead. “Come,” she says. “Come and help me pick beans for market.”

  I feel her hand slip into mine and let her lead me out into the bright, bright sunshine. My legs feel weak beneath me. I follow her up through the fields, the broad cassava leaves brushing my legs. I walk close behind Mama, wanting to reach out and hide myself in the folds of her skirt, but I am much too big for that. Embe runs ahead, hiding behind the tall banana plants to peer out at me, at the sister she has never known. The villagers stop in their work and I feel their eyes on me as I pass. I keep my head down, watching my feet tread into Mama’s footprints in the rich dark soil.

  Mama stops in her field, beside a row of beans, her basket propped against her hip. She tilts her head to one side. “Do you remember this, Imara? Do you remember picking beans with me?”

  I stare at the basket and shake my head. I don’t remember anything. My mind feels empty. Stripped bare, like fire-scorched earth.

  Mama puts her hand on my cheek. “Then we will start again,” she says. She picks a long green bean and drops it in the basket. “We will start again.”

  I fall into her rhythm, reaching for the beans and filling the basket, as she works her way along the row. The sun warms my back and the air is filled with Mama’s soft humming. It feels familiar. Safe. I have been here before. But it was so long ago it feels more like a dream.

  We finish picking the beans and Mama sits down, patting the earth for me to sit next to her. I sit down and wrap my arms around my legs and look down to the village. There are women working in the cassava fields below us, their bright skirts like flowers against the dark green leaves. Babu is working away, building roads farther north, and Kitwana is in school in town. He proudly tells anyone willing to listen that he is the first person in our family to go to school.

  Mama takes my hand in hers and holds it tight. “I never imagined this day,” she says. “We are blessed to have found you, Imara.”

  I try to smile, but I’m not sure I have yet been found. I shade my eyes against the sun and stare down the long dusty road that runs next to the village.

  The road where my old life ended.

  I try to remember the day Innocence died. I try to remember for how long I have been lost. All I know is that Kitwana was a small boy then, but now he is as tall as me.

  I became lost the day my world was lost to me. I can only see it now through my brother’s eyes, but as I retell his story inside my head, I am not sure if they are all his memories or if some of mine are finding their way through. I try to find my way back to that day. If I close my eyes, I can see the midday sun high, high in the sky. I can feel the trickles of sweat on my forehead running down the sides of my nose and in the creases of my mouth. The basket is heavy on my head as we walk home from market where I sold our cassava and tomatoes for a small bag of rice and three ripe mangos. The sweet smell of the mangos is heavy in the air. Kitwana is like a bothersome fly. He runs circles around me, trying to knock the basket from my head.

  “Tsk!” I say. “These are for Mama. The baby will soon be here and Mama wants mangos. Babu said to make sure we bring some home from market.”

  Innocence, our neighbor, is far ahead. She has grumbled all the way. She says she has better things to do than walk with us to market. We are too slow, too noisy, too lazy. She says we laugh too much. Maybe she forgets Kitwana carried her bag of potatoes six miles to the town.

  “Innocence has a thunderstorm in her head,” says Kitwana.

  I poke him in the back. “And a tongue like lightning. Don’t get too close, or she’ll strike you dead.” I jab Kitwana in the arm. “Like that.”

  Kitwana laughs and runs ahead. “Look, Imara. It’s true. See the clouds swirling around her. She is a thunderstorm.”

  I stop and steady the basket on my head.

  Kitwana is right. Farther along the road a cloud of dust rises high into the air. It swirls in a column of red and yellow into the clear sky. It’s moving fast toward us, like the dust devils that scoot through our village, but this cloud is bigger, much bigger. The drone of an engine fills the air. Through the haze, I see metal glinting and a jeep emerges, green and solid, bumping across the rough ground. There are men in the jeep, men with guns.

  I haven’t seen these men before.

  My mouth is dry like dust.

  “Kitwana, come back,” I call.

  The jeep is almost level with Innocence now.

  It stops and I see the men talking to her, jabbing their guns into the air.

  Time slows down. Innocence spins around. She drops her basket and it falls, the tomatoes exploding on the ground, staining it red, like blood.

  And she is running toward us.

  Running and running.

  And all I can think is that I have never seen Innocence run before. Then she is lost inside the cloud, it swirls around her, swallows her in a burst of sound, cracking like thunder and then we see Innocence falling to the ground.

  Falling

  Falling

  Falling.

  But still the cloud of dust moves on, toward us.

  “Kitwana, RUN!” I scream.

  Kitwana can’t move. His legs are rigid and his eyes are wide, wide open. I drop my basket and rush forward and push him toward the scrub. “RUN!”

  The jeep is flying across the ground, not slowed by the potholes. The men have seen us.

  Big men with guns.

  Strong men.

  Men who will outrun us.

  I see Kitwana running into the scrub, his heels kicking up high behind him. The crackle of gunfire follows him, but I don’t see him fall. He’s a good runner for his age. The fastest of his friends.

  I am running too, my legs pumping across the dirt. The low bushes whip my face and arms.

  Maybe Kitwana and I can get away.

  I run after him.

  But I see him crouching in some bushes, his red T-shirt glaring through the dry leaves and branches.

  “Kitwana!” I slap him hard in the face. “I told you to run.”

  I can hear the thud of heavy boots in the scrub behind us. Kitwana grips me and won’t let go. I can see pee trickle down his leg.

  “Hide,” I order. I grab his hunting knife and shove him deeper into the base of the bush, kicking dry leaves to cover him.

  The men are near us now, but I won’t let them find Kitwana here.

  I turn the other way leading them from Kitwana’s hiding place. I run and run, but they are faster than me. I can hear their breath and smell their sweat. I turn and face them, holding Kitwana’s knife out in front of me. The big man with the snake-bone bracelet stops as if he can’t believe I’m tackling them. A smaller man walks forward and circles me, his hair braided like rats’ tails. A smile curls on his lips, amused. He swings his panga around his head like a sword. But I fight first. I plunge my small knife deep in his leg.

  The big man laughs out loud, but the rat-haired man’s face turns from shock to anger. I see the blade of his panga come singing through the air, cutting a line from my forehead
to my chin.

  That day, they took me with them.

  I learned to hide my heart and keep my tears inside when they opened me up, for the devil to climb in.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Imara?”

  I feel Mama brush away the tears that run down the line of my scar and drip from my chin.

  I lean into her, but can’t stop the tears from falling.

  Mama wraps her arms around me. “Time will heal,” she says. “And we have plenty of time.”

  I want to believe her, but though the scar has healed, the wounds still feel raw. The war still rages deep inside me.

  “Come,” says Mama. “We have picked enough beans to take to the market.”

  I follow her back down through the fields. Mama takes me around the back of our hut and shows me a small tree growing in the yard.

  “We planted it as a small sapling, the year we lost you,” she says.

  I reach out to touch the dark shiny leaves. Heavy green fruit hangs from the branches, heart-shaped, sun-blushed with red. “Mangos,” I say. “Your favorite.”

  Mama smiles. “This is the first year it has borne fruit.” She picks three mangos and puts two in the basket with the beans for market. “This one’s for you,” she says, holding out the smallest, ripest mango.

  I take it in my hands and feel it soft and ripe beneath my fingers. I don’t want to eat it yet. I want to savor its heavy sweetness. I slip it into my pocket and sit down in the cool shadows of the hut. Embe sits next to me, and watches me with her big dark eyes. She looks four, maybe five years old. I wonder what she thinks of me.

  “Eat,” orders Mama. She hands me a bowl of sweet potato stew from last night’s meal and a strip of cassava bread. It’s only as I eat that I remember how hungry I am.

  I sit with my back to the hut and watch the road. It’s busy with people on their way to market, baskets carried high on their heads, some with goats on tethers trotting by their sides. I begin to remember the road, how it winds through the valley, and then becomes long and straight across a flat plain, passing through more villages until it reaches the town. I remember the town too, the bustle of the open market where women sit beneath striped umbrellas selling their fruit and vegetables.

  I need to walk along the road. I need to put what happened there into the past.

  Mama takes my bowl, wiped clean with cassava bread. “Are you ready to come with me to market?”

  I take a deep breath and nod. I stand up and balance the basket on my head, needing my hand to steady it. “You stay here with Embe, Mama. I can go by myself.”

  Mama shakes her head. “It is too soon.”

  I look along the road. “See, it is busy. There are many people on the road today. I won’t be alone.”

  Mama picks at a loose stitch on her sleeve. She glances across at her neighbor, who is piling bananas into a basket. “Maybe I will ask Gladys to walk with you.”

  I shake my head. “Mama, I need to do this by myself.” The truth is I want to walk alone. I feel lonely here among people. Part of me longs for the dark deep green of the forest, for the cool nights and the trailing mists. But I don’t let myself think about Kitwana, the young gorilla. I don’t go there in my mind. It is my other half-life, and the two halves can never make the whole.

  Mama walks with me to the road. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  I nod.

  Mama holds me briefly. “Stay close to other people. Once you have finished in the market, come straight home.”

  I fall in line behind two women with babies strapped around their backs, but they are slower than me, and so I pass them, letting my feet decide the pace. I glance back once to see Mama watching me, clutching Embe’s hand.

  I try to slide into this new life, carrying beans and mangos to market for Mama. One foot after another. It is the only way forward, I tell myself. I keep up my steady pace until I reach the stretch of long straight road. Ahead of me the road is now empty. I look behind and realize I am on my own. I can’t see anyone else at all. I walk faster, striding out, heading for the distance where the road narrows to a point and I can see the beginnings of the town.

  The sun is high, high in the sky and the long road is dust dry and hot beneath my feet. The air shimmers in the heat. If I squint, I can almost see through the ripples, like the water of a lake to another life, another time. Ahead I see the place where Innocence fell. I imagine her walking in front of me, her flip-flops slapping on the road, her large bottom swaying side to side, muttering about the two children in her charge. I want to walk with her now. I want to hold her hand. I want to hug her and tell her that my brother got away. I know she was trying to save us.

  I wipe the sweat from my eyes. A dust cloud is blowing up. A swirling column of red and yellow filled with the drone of an engine. I see the jeep half hidden in the haze. I blink and blink again and try to see if this is real or in my mind.

  But it’s very real. My feet feel the throb of the engines through the ground. I can’t tell if this is now or then, but I don’t feel scared.

  I don’t feel anything at all.

  The jeep keeps on coming, until I am enveloped in its cloud of dust. I close my eyes and sway slightly in the rush of air as it passes. But I hear the brakes screech and it pulls to a stop not far from me. I try to concentrate on the smell of mangos in my basket, the rich sweet scent.

  “Imara!”

  I try to imagine biting into the rich sticky flesh of mango.

  “Imara!”

  I open my eyes. A young man is walking toward me, dressed in a green shirt and trousers. A soft green beret sits on his head.

  “Imara, I found you.”

  “Bobo?” I whisper.

  Only a few weeks have passed and yet Bobo looks to have grown into a man. “Bobo, is it you?”

  We stare at each other in silence while the dust settles around us. Bobo smiles his big wide smile. “May I have one of your sweet mangos?”

  I look down at my feet but can’t help glancing up at him through my lashes. “I am taking them to market.”

  Bobo’s face falls.

  I reach into my pocket and pull out the mango Mama gave me. “But this one is for you.”

  Bobo runs his fingers across the smooth skin of the fruit and puts the mango to his nose to breathe in its sweet scent. “Are you well?”

  “I am,” I say. It’s strange seeing him here in front of me.

  “Is your family looking after you?”

  I pick at the rim of the basket on my head. “They are.”

  Bobo takes a step toward me. “And you, are you happy?”

  I stare at the ground. I feel the silence inside, a wide emptiness.

  Bobo opens the door of the jeep and beckons me. “Come with us.”

  I see the driver of the jeep. He has the same rangers’ uniform with the gorilla badge sewn onto his beret.

  The man smiles and waves at me. “Hello, Imara. I’ve heard much about you.”

  I glance at Bobo.

  “This is Kambale, the head ranger of the park,” he says.

  Kambale grins. “Bobo is our new recruit. He is training to be a ranger like his father, although he has to finish school first.”

  I climb in and take a seat next to a small boy.

  “Imara!”

  I spin round to look at him. “Saka, you’re here too.”

  Bobo slides along the seat beside me, and smiles. “Saka is our best tracker.”

  “But why are you here, Bobo?” I say. “You didn’t come just for mangos.”

  Bobo shakes his head. “We came to find you.”

  “Why me?” I look between Bobo and Kambale.

  “Come,” says Kambale. “We will buy your beans and mangos and take you back to your village. And then, Imara, we need to ask for your help. We need you, and Bobo says that no one else will do.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  I sit outside our hut beneath the shade of dried banana leaves and wait. Mama offers water to K
ambale, Bobo, and Saka. Mateso, the village chief, is here too. He closes his eyes and rests his hands on his walking stick as if he has all the time in the world. He’s so old, his hair ash white with age and his skin wrinkled, like the bark of a tree. The villagers look to him for his wisdom. I don’t remember seeing anyone as old as Mateso in the rebel camp. A group of children have gathered in a semicircle to look at us, and I know the other villagers are watching too. I can see the questions in their eyes. Kitwana and Embe sit with their backs to the hut, pretending they are busy shelling beans, but I know they want to listen. We are all waiting for Babu to come home. The sun drops lower in the sky and the dark shadows slide across the ground. Kambale fidgets with the key to the jeep, keen to return to his home by nightfall.

  “He is coming,” says Mama.

  I look along the road and see the figure of Babu walking toward us. Kitwana jumps and runs to tell him of the visitors, and I see Babu quicken his pace to come to meet us.

  Babu nods to Mateso and looks at our visitors.

  “Sit down,” says Mateso, indicating the wooden stool beside him. “This is Kambale, the head ranger from the national park. He has come to ask for your daughter’s help. We have waited for you to be here before we hear what he has to say.”

  Babu looks between Kambale and me.

  Kambale clears his throat. “When Imara was with the rebels, she looked after a young gorilla, a gorilla she named Kitwana.”

  I glance across at my brother and see his eyes open wide at his name. A smile plays on Embe’s lips and I see her cover her mouth with her hand.

  Kambale then says, “She saved the young gorilla and Bobo says she formed a special bond with him, but now the gorilla needs her help.”

  “Is he sick?” I blurt out.

  Mateso frowns at my interruption.

  Kambale continues. “He is in our care at the gorilla orphanage, but we can’t get him to eat much at all. Kitwana is weakening every day.”

  The image of him floods into me. I see his arms reaching up for me to carry him. I feel my chest tighten inside.