The Order of Nature

by Josh Scheinert

  “If I had a sibling who cared about me as much as you say Lindsay cares about you, I would try hard to work out our differences. I would want to.”

  “Of course. That’s what I hope. But if she’s not going to come around, if she can’t be reasonable, it’s not going to be so easy.”

  “I don’t like how I’m making problems between you and her. It’s not right.”

  Andrew saw an earnestness in Thomas’s expression. It bordered on guilt.

  “You haven’t made any problems,” he tried to reassure him. “I think this difference between us was always there. Now it’s revealing itself.” Andrew could see Thomas wasn’t entirely convinced. “Don’t worry. Her arguments aren’t winning me over. This isn’t changing,” he proclaimed, playfully pushing at Thomas’s shoulder.

  “Good,” Thomas said, smiling.

  “Part of it is her lack of understanding from not being here. When you’re back home you can’t appreciate the context. Our images of Africa are so fucked up. But through my pictures and stories, she, and actually my parents, are starting to see past that. I’m still healthy, out of trouble, and there aren’t any scars on my face from tripping in the jungle as I run away from animals or wild tribes.”

  They took a few steps in silence. Andrew started to say something but stopped himself. He wanted to be careful about what he was about to say. Thomas didn’t know, but the last time Andrew and Lindsay spoke she asked him why he was setting himself up to be hurt. Between the country’s laws and the fact that there was a finite timeline to whatever relationship was taking place, how did Andrew think it would end? You’re not bringing him home with you, his sister said, and you’re not staying there forever.

  “Why can’t it just be about now. And about me being happy?” he asked her.

  “Because you’re not thinking clearly, Andrew.”

  “I just wish she could be happy for me,” he said taking Thomas’s hand as they kept walking. “I mean, she might have a point, but who cares, right?”

  “What do you mean she might have a point?” Thomas asked.

  “That our situation isn’t ideal. That this doesn’t end with us together. That sooner or later, I have to go home.”

  It was nothing Thomas hadn’t thought about himself on several occasions. Even still, he felt compelled to respond. “You could stay longer.”

  “Yeah,” Andrew puffed dismissively.

  They both retreated into their thoughts as they continued walking into the dimming light. Andrew watched Thomas struggle to contain his expression. The truth stung him, leaving Andrew regretful for having said anything.

  “I’m sorry...”

  “No,” Thomas cut him off. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. You are right,” he spoke softly but resolutely. “It is still some months away, but you do have to leave.”

  As they kept walking, Thomas’s comment was making Andrew think the opposite. No, he couldn’t move to Gambia. Even he knew that much. But if he was finally happy in life and with himself, maybe he could stay a little longer to enjoy it. Why rush back and lose it all?

  When they reached the cove, Andrew stayed standing as Thomas sat down.

  “Why don’t you come over now for a bit?”

  “Where?”

  “To my place.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” he answered confidently, slowly nodding his head. “Only Alex and Liv will be there. It’s dark. No one will see. I can go up ahead and text you to make sure things are clear. I’ll leave the gate open for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Great. We can go up from Bakau.”

  They pushed their bikes up towards the Bakau market, which was empty by then – just a smattering of cracked and worn wooden tables laid out on a concrete slab, lingering smells from the day’s catch stuck in the cracks. A weak, buzzing streetlight hung overhead. Andrew said it would take him about ten minutes to bike home, and then he’d text Thomas to confirm everything was fine and that he should come. He pushed his bike forward and hopped on, only to stop, put his left foot back down on the pavement, and turn to face Thomas.

  “It’s not the worst idea, you know.”

  “What idea?”

  “Staying.”

  Thomas smiled. Andrew smiled back for a second and then turned away.

  While Thomas stood waiting, he took his phone out from his pocket. There was a text from his brother.

  where are you hiding from us

  A lump formed instantly in Thomas’s throat. The message could’ve been a joke, or it could’ve been serious. There was no way for Thomas to know.

  I’m sorry. I know I wanted to come c u today. Next Sunday. I promise.

  Father wants to know if u will come 2 church

  I can’t in the morning. I’ll come to visit in the afternoon, and stay for dinner.

  14

  Andrew tried to do as much research as he could into Gambia before he left the U.S. Information was scant, reflective of the country’s minuscule size and economy. Beyond a few pieces about its bizarre president – who had little tolerance for political dissent and claimed he descended from a line of traditional healers that allowed him to cure AIDS – Gambia was almost non-existent. That is, except for Roots.

  In the course of his research, Andrew sat at his desk one day in his dorm room, and googled “Gambia history slavery”. He wondered whether Gambia was associated with the transatlantic slave trade like so many other African countries. It was. A small town in the country, Georgetown, contained a fort used in the slave trade. He made a note to visit it. Digging deeper into Gambia’s association with slavery, Andrew also discovered an apparently well-known book written about an American family that traced its lineage to a slave, Kunta Kinte, who was brought over to America from Gambia in the 18th Century. Andrew googled “roots gambia”. Several hits came up about a Roots Festival held each spring in Banjul. It was one of the biggest events in the capital, and Andrew wanted to see it.

  This year’s festival was on a Saturday, and many of Andrew’s expat friends were going. Thomas couldn’t go because of work. It may have proven too much anyway, as soccer on Sundays was so far the only time they’d been seen together in public. They also thought it might be unusual if Thomas joined in an outing like this and had not gone along with his friends. Maybe they were overthinking it, but better to be safe.

  Andrew never saw the streets so busy. It felt like the whole country made its way to the city, packing the grandstands set up along the parade route. Striped red, blue, green, and white Gambian flags hung from every tree and post. Most people were wearing bright, traditional clothing. The men in their dashikis and the women wrapped in elaborate dresses and headdresses made out of bazin, the shiny polished cotton used to make nicer clothing that always appeared too hot for the climate. The sun beat down and produced an energy-sucking heat on the tightly packed crowd lining the streets. It wasn’t long before everyone was gleaming, coated in sweat.

  As with most large Gambian gatherings he’d been to, this was one of organized chaos. There was an order to the crowd and the layout that most others seemed to understand, he just couldn’t decipher it. They kept walking along the side of the streets, swept up by the crowds, figuring they were headed somewhere. Small children snuck around Andrew’s legs, parents nowhere he could see. He was glad he left his knapsack at home. He checked his watch; it was almost noon. The parade was scheduled to start at eleven, but they were told they’d be lucky if it started by one.

  “Where are we going?” he asked Alex.

  “I don’t entirely know. Hopefully we get near the arch.” The arch Alex referred to was the July 22 Arch, Gambia’s Arc de Triomphe commemorating the president’s coup over two decades earlier. “That’s the central area.”

  The arch, like almost everything associated with the president, was larger than life. Its sun-washed columns towered over the main thoroughfare, far above anything around it. An unmistakable proclamation of strength whose purpose
seemed split between a reminder of the past and a warning for the future. They finally made their way within sight of it just before one o’clock.

  “Has the parade started?” Andrew asked a woman as he walked past her.

  “Not yet. Maybe it will start soon,” she responded, completely unfazed by the tardiness or the oppressive heat. “First the president will speak.”

  Andrew had never heard the president speak.

  “Have you?” he asked Alex.

  “Nope,” he shrugged. “Have you?” he asked Liv.

  “No.”

  They pushed their way to the front row only to discover they were within sight of the president’s podium, a Gambian flag hanging behind it. He could see a white hat on a man diagonally behind the podium and assumed that was the president. Soldiers with automatic rifles stood at its corners. The Gambian national anthem played and suddenly everyone in the crowd stood still, singing loudly. There was something enviable about how Gambians sang their national anthem, Andrew thought. Far less bombastic than the Star Spangled Banner, but with an understated yet palpable sense of pride and commitment to their homeland.

  Let justice guide our actions,

  towards the common good,

  and join our diverse peoples,

  to prove man’s brotherhood.

  Silence followed the anthem. A few more armed soldiers spread out into the street between the podium and the crowd. When all was still, the white hat started to move closer to the podium. The president was tall. The flowing white robes, hat, and black sunglasses he wore made him appear larger and more imposing. In one hand he carried a ceremonial staff he always took with him.

  His voice was markedly less accented than Andrew thought it would be. From his imposing appearance, he figured the president’s voice would be intense and guttural, emanating from deep within his belly. Andrew was surprised to hear that it was actually a little high.

  He began with the customary Gambian greetings Andrew had grown so used to, but moved quickly into his main theme – the Roots Festival was an important step in the reclamation of an African identity and culture that was uprooted by colonialists, by racists. It was true, Andrew knew. But it stung to hear it laced with such vitriol. The president was not trying to heal a wound. He was trying to deepen it.

  “Africa, and The Gambia,” he continued, “must stand tall and must stand proud. We have nothing to be ashamed of. It is the West who must atone for the sins it committed yesterday, and the sins it continues to commit today.”

  The crowd listened attentively as he continued. The list of transgressions was long, beginning with the slave trade and colonial carve up of the continent. It continued into the post-independence meddling by the West into the new states, including the imposition of brutal dictators against the will of the African peoples.

  “The Roots Festival, and the celebration of our African and Gambian heritage,” he proclaimed, “means we do not need the West to tell us how to grow. We do not need to keep swallowing their poison. Today they pretend we are all equal but do not stop with their lectures, with their arrogance towards those whom they consider inferior.”

  Andrew and Alex turned to each other and sighed. Andrew had learned a lot over the past three-quarters of a year about the West’s involvement in Africa that he didn’t know before. There were many valid grievances, for sure. It was just how the president was speaking. He was riling people up, extolling examples of injustice to further entrench the people’s faith in him as their protector. And in the process, he seemed to be making them angry.

  “And I want to speak directly to those in the West who have criticized The Gambia recently because we are defenders of African values.” He paused before beginning again, speaking his next sentence slowly and clearly. “You are not welcome in The Gambia.” The crowd burst into applause.

  “We do not need your values – your immorality, your promiscuity, and your homosexuality. These are not welcome here. They are not welcome in The Gambia!”

  It was like Andrew was kicked in the stomach. He assumed the president might say something along these lines, as he had on similar occasions in the past. But hearing him actually speak was different. It was hearing him while surrounded by thousands of people who agreed. Even though Andrew was with Alex, Liv, and some other friends, his thoughts were back under the tree in the schoolyard months earlier, when he first arrived and when Mr. Jalloh first brought up the question of homosexuality. He looked around at the unfamiliar faces in the crowd and each one projected the same sense of agreement as his fellow teachers did when Mr. Jalloh spoke negatively about gays. No one disapproved.

  “Let us be clear. There is no room for these criminals in this country. If I find them, they will not be seen again.”

  Andrew jumped when he felt a hand on his back. It was Liv’s. Her face was despondent. He appreciated her gesture, but still thought to himself, easy for you, before nudging himself away from her hand, not wanting to appear in need of sympathy at that moment.

  “And no white man can save them!”

  Andrew didn’t actually hear the applause he witnessed taking place all around him. Instead, he raised his gaze up to the bright, blue sky, closed his eyes and let the sun hit his face while he breathed deeply. As the applause continued he thought about opening his eyes but didn’t. He didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want to see men and women, young and old, smiling and clapping. He didn’t want to see people who he liked and otherwise had tremendous respect and admiration for, turn away from him so sharply. His heart beating, palms clammy, he wanted to go home. Home home.

  The speech continued, turning to a positive note. The president went on to declare Gambia was doing just fine and did not need saving. He went on to celebrate the numerous achievements and advancements his leadership had ushered in. Leaps in development, greater prosperity, and the respect for the rights of all Gambian citizens by repudiating the intolerance that saw so many Kunta Kintes taken from these shores.

  “I want to thank the organizers of this year’s Roots Festival for showing the true Gambian and African spirit. Thank you.”

  It was over.

  In the applause, both Alex and Liv turned to their friend. Enveloped by the cheers of the crowd, he felt smaller.

  Seconds later, loud drums drowned out all the noise. Guitars and bass followed. Then singing. The parade was beginning.

  They stayed in their places watching the parade for the better part of an hour, facing the street and not speaking to one another. Alex and Liv occasionally turned to some of their other friends, but Andrew was positioned in a way that he didn’t have to talk to anyone. He didn’t even have to look at them, and he didn’t. He simply stood, facing forward as floats streamed past him.

  It was an endless celebration of different ethnic and tribal groups, and the full expanse of Gambian civil society. Traditional dancers danced their way through the streets in straw skirts, gyrating their whole bodies in a trance-like state. Men and women walked past in chains, slaves from another time. A women’s literacy group marched behind their banner. School children in uniform. Musicians in marching bands blended new and old music and instruments filled the air with upbeat and rhythmic soundtracks that instinctively moved one’s body. The lively crowd cheered for each passing group. It was as much a celebration of diversity as Andrew had ever seen in the country. The last banner they saw, carried by a group called the Gambian Historical Association, announced “WE ARE ALL GAMBIAN!”

  Liv tapped Andrew on the shoulder. “Let’s go,” she said. “There’s a VIP area up ahead. Some of my colleagues are there and said we can get in.” She was smiling and casual.

  When Andrew didn’t immediately react, Alex gently slapped his back. “Come on,” he said as a way to tell Andrew to put the speech behind him. It was an innocuous slap. And for precisely that reason, Andrew couldn’t decide if Alex was being sensible or insensitive. Maybe Alex didn’t quite get it.

  They pushed through the crowds to get clos
er to the arch. The VIP area was covered and roped off but easily penetrable. All Liv had to do was namedrop her colleague, say they were together, and they were in.

  As they entered, Andrew heard his name shouted so gregariously it could have only originated in one man’s belly. He turned to his side.

  “Mr. Jalloh!” he said as his face widened. They made their way towards one another, hands extended.

  Of course Jalloh was there, he thought to himself. He’d never miss an opportunity to rub shoulders with anyone in a VIP section and always managed to get invitations to important events. He remembered that Mr. Jalloh had earlier insisted he attend the festival. It was an impressive and important commemoration of Gambian and African history. Putting the president’s speech aside, he was right, and had reason to boast.

  Mr. Jalloh was surprisingly well versed in Roots and the slave trade in general, and spent some time with his arm around Andrew talking to him about how some of the different groups that participated in the march were involved in educating Gambians about the West African slave trade. He said it was impressive to think a country could have its people plundered and then rebuild itself as The Gambia had.

  It was nice for Andrew to see Mr. Jalloh proud about something. Normally he was stressed and overwhelmed, frustrated at teachers, students, parents, and ministry officials, with whom he shared a perennial and mutual dissatisfaction. He was someone Andrew felt sorry for: well intentioned, who for circumstances beyond his control seemed set up for failure. This was the first time he displayed his hopeful and upbeat side since Andrew was over for dinner.

  “You must share with your family all that you saw today. How in Gambia we have taken a tragedy and used it to celebrate our diversity, and our commitment to a nation where everyone is free.” As he spoke those last words, where everyone is free, with one arm still around Andrew, he stuck out his other arm and swept it across the sky, reinforcing that everyone in front of him was entitled to the freedom he spoke about.

  “Of course I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them all about it.”