One Man Dancing

by Patricia Keeney

  They have all heard soldiers brag about chopping people down to size in order to cram them conveniently into conveyances. Into coffins.

  They all know their tall graceful actress is doomed. And Byron with her.

  The National Theatre sinks into silence.

  Amin is on the warpath.

  Robert is with them again. He seems to know more than anyone. He speaks to both groups of actors with no expression in his voice. “You were very brave.”

  “They will give him urine to drink,” says one of Byron’s actors, distraught. His eyes glaze over. He cannot look at them when he says it.

  “They will burn his body in Namanve so that no one will recognize who has been destroyed. And so his soul can never return,” another actor adds.

  Robert’s head is down. He is in tears.

  “Why are they doing it to artists?” barks Joseph with disgust. “Byron is only a storyteller. Like us.”

  “Byron has spoken the truth more than once,” Robert answers. “Truth is dangerous in Uganda.”

  “So are we now all in danger?” asks Charles.

  “Yes,” says Robert gravely. “And I am not so sure anyone can help us anymore. Not Byron. Not me. We must try to continue our work, all of us, but you each have to decide for yourselves. It is dangerous. It will be dangerous.”

  The next day, they arrive to find a lock on the door of the theatre. A small item in the newspaper announces that the National has been officially closed until further notice. Lower down in the story is an announcement that Byron Kawadwa has been relieved of duties as Artistic Director of the theatre.

  No word about Abafumi. Yet.

  The wider national theatre of Idi Amin is just beginning. And Abafumi is drawn into its deadly melodrama.

  Amin has decided to invite the presidents of the Organization for African Unity to meet in Kampala. He wants to show off before them. Abafumi is told to prepare one of its shows as part of Uganda’s contribution to the evening’s entertainment.

  Robert makes the announcement and then leaves them to talk among themselves.

  “He trots us out for the dictators but he won’t let us perform for the people,” Joro says.

  “He is afraid we will contaminate the public,” Charles agrees.

  “He’s right,” says Joseph. “We would shine a light through this nightmare.”

  “I remember,” adds Joseph “at another official performance in freer times, the Nigerian writer Chinua Achebe telling us that theatre goes beyond language. He said mere talk gives us the lie of certainty. But the song and story travel like thought, without boundaries. There is the spirit of redemption in every moment. You can make artists of the oppressed!”

  They agree to play Renga Moi for Amin and an audience of kings and prime ministers — dictators mostly — from across the continent.

  Robert remains tight-lipped and tense through the rehearsal period. There is no joy in the enterprise. They have been allowed to use the National again. But walking through the dark building is like walking through a cemetery.

  The performance, however, will not take place at the National but at the massive Nile Hotel a few streets away. Abafumi will be one of three companies performing that night, the only company from Uganda. Each troupe has an hour or so. Renga Moi is 80 minutes. They must cut it down to time. “If we don’t cut the play,” grunts Robert, “they will cut us.” They agree on a shortened version.

  They will be sharing dressing rooms at the hotel with artists from other countries. Robert objects and gets permission to have Abafumi dress at the National and walk the two blocks to the hotel in costume and makeup. Robert cautions them more than once to be careful what they say backstage, even to other artists, especially to other artists. They can expect police and military everywhere.

  “There will also be spies in each company,” he tells them. “Some forced to report under threats to their family. They will ask you questions. Say nothing. It is safest.”

  As the international event approaches, headlines report who is withdrawing: the few democratic leaders. It seems the only leaders coming— the ones who will attend their show — are the worst of the butchers, men who have opened fire on students during demonstrations, who have killed dissenters and now rule from thrones set upon the mountains of corpses they have made, burnished with gold from property and possessions they have appropriated.

  “Amin loves these men,” Robert warns gravely. “Be on your guard.”

  “How can we perform like that?” Charles explodes.

  “Perform as though your life depends on it,” Robert advises simply. And then adds, “Because it does.”

  Performance night. The cast of Renga Moi walks majestically from the National Theatre through the street in leopard skin robes, beaded caps, and ostrich feather headgear, carrying swords and drums. People on the street stop, stare, and applaud.

  As a body, Abafumi enters the hotel Conference Centre to more applause and ascends the stairs towards what has become a communal Green Room for all the artists. At the door, the other artists start applauding. The applause grows as they step inside.

  “Bravo,” says the director of the troupe from Zaire standing to greet them. “We honour you. We know of your success abroad. We have been asked to entertain here so we will sing and dance as they wish us to, in the traditional ways. But we know that you are the real creators, the brave ones, and that you do something very different from us. And the world has understood. We admire you and we wish you luck.”

  But Robert is suspicious. What is it that these people know? Are they sending a message? What have they heard?

  In the chilled hotel air, Charles feels his skin contract. Everyone in the group is now sure that Robert is involved somehow with the anti-Amin resistance movement, based in Kenya. Such secrets needle them, sharp as sudden showers.

  But direct confirmation never comes.

  In the dressing room, Charles sits gazing into glass trying to read the future, decipher the meaning of it all. Others lie on the floor beneath racks of street clothes — white shirts, beige pants, pretty ruffled dresses — for the official party afterward. Several stand, arms over chests, listening to the presentations already going on, boom through squawky soundboxes above them.

  The auditorium is full. Fifteen hundred people. Charles hears clapping. And laughter. The stomping of feet. He knows this audience is primed for entertainment.

  Will they accept Renga Moi?

  What will Amin think? Does he have any idea what it is about?

  Extended clapping wakes him from reverie. They now have twenty minutes to get the stage set.

  Robert rises, resplendent in his priestly regalia, stern and severe. “It is our turn. Play the piece as you never have. Play for everything you’ve ever believed. Perform this sacred duty with all you’ve got.”

  Charles does not quite know what Robert means by this but he does know that he cannot pretend. That what they will dance and express over the next hour must be nothing but truth.

  And so it starts.

  A high altar surmounted by a cross with the Priest bowed before it. A body beneath him held in chains.

  The audience gasps audibly. Not the image the assembled heads of state expect.

  Charles looks into the darkness. Is Amin frowning already?

  The cast whirl and dance their way into the story. The stage is ablaze with colour, chanting and stomping, eyes rolling, sound everywhere accentuating the violent emotions of this ancient allegory. The village of the Seven Hills trembles on the brink of disaster. Now it is held together by the machinations of the fearful Priest and Renga Moi. Glory shrinks and darkens before the village can be saved.

  Charles assumes that Amin is focused on the women. He knows that all the attractive females in Uganda belong to him merely for the asking. His Beth, Kiri, Mara, and Susi. Gleaming in the
ir beaded skirts and tops, their strong bodies taunting him, their inner concentration irresistible.

  What must Amin be making of Nakazzi, brimming vessel of double life.

  Renga Moi prepares to perform the necessary rituals. They must be observed.

  But Renga Moi must defend his village in battle before he is able to complete the rituals. He must shed blood before purification is finished. The Priest’s dreadful decree.

  The bereaved mother makes a special point of falling to her knees before Sese Seko Mobuto, the dictator of Zaire, begging him to save her babies. He chuckles down at her.

  “You are a beautiful woman,” he whispers in her ear. “I will do anything you want. You do not need to suffer this way.” And brushes his hand across her chest.

  She leans forward and whispers in his ear, “Do not touch me.” He is surprised.

  But not as surprised as he is after the impaling of her babes on spears a few minutes later. Mobuto stands. The audience goes silent. The actors suddenly freeze.

  He glares at Amin and says, “I do not find the murder of children entertaining. I am leaving.” His delegation quickly follows.

  Charles expects the soldiers in the theatre to open fire on them all. The company has flaunted the sins of power-mongers. Surely this is the reason for Mobuto’s dramatic exodus. Should they continue?

  President Amin registers surprise for a moment. Charles tries to imagine what he is thinking. Maybe he sees that Renga Moi, the warrior, is the people’s hero. Maybe he thinks that he is Uganda’s own Renga Moi. But Amin is not. He is the dictator. The Priest who holds pure power.

  With a broad grin, Amin motions the actors to continue.

  In a breath, the hysterical spectacle of grief returns to life. Renga Moi sheds his own ritual blood. The Priest comes forward, like vengeance itself, exhibiting to the great warrior the corpses of his infants.

  And Renga Moi strangles him. Kills the dictator. The play ends.

  Then, ominous silence.

  Applause beginning slowly but defiantly. Continuing hesitantly for some minutes. Then Amin stands. And disappears behind the curtains of his elevated box, reappearing in a moment on the stage. There, he shakes the hand of each cast member.

  “Your actors risk everything for you,” he tells Robert. “I remember supporting your first tour with state money. I thought your work was just fine gymnastics. But I see now that you are being … what is the word … provocative. We must speak further about all this. You must explain it more to me. You know I don’t understand such things. In any event, you must come to the reception afterwards. Oh yes, do bring all your theatre soldiers with you. I will arrange for a bus outside the National to take you over to the palace.”

  In the showers following their performance, Charles, Willy, and Joro exchange nervous words. “We’ll probably be assassinated for dessert,” says Willy, trying to laugh. A rush of water muffles his voice.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t go,” says Joro as he steps out of the shower. All three stand in white towels peering at each other through cloudy air.

  They stride to the changing room. Clang doors. Gaze at press shots of themselves. Slick back hair with small flicking wrist actions. Put on confidence with their clothes. Crisp shirts, perfectly creased pants, shiny shoes. Aromatic aftershave wafts around them.

  “C’mon,” says Charles. “Let’s party. We will be the toast of the town.” They head to the Green Room.

  It is in this cocky attitude that Robert finds them, along with the others, squeaky clean, expecting accolades now and flowers. But Robert is not smiling. He is a thundercloud. Behind the rumpled scowl, they catch flashes of lightning, crackling sporadically. “We are going to be killed,” Robert says flatly.

  “Killed?”

  Firing squad? Bomb? Poison? The questions hang in the air, visible to everyone.

  “I thought he liked the play,” says Willy. “I thought he liked us.”

  “You thought wrong,” says Robert hotly. “Because we embarrassed him, criticized him publicly in front of his peers, he cannot let us go free. There is more but that is enough for now. Our bus to the reception will meet with an accident. I have been told so by a friend, a soldier. If we get on that bus, we will all die. If we stay in the country, we will all be dead by morning. One way or another.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Leave. Leave Uganda,” says Robert. “Leave now.”

  “Where?” asks Charles.

  “Wherever you can. It will not be safe for your families if you go home. You must each take your own route out. I will meet you in Nairobi. In a week. When you get there, go to the offices of the Ford Foundation. They will tell you what to do.”

  “The Ford Foundation?”

  The actors stand motionless. Robert takes a large wad of U.S. dollars from an envelope. Fifties. Hundreds. He counts out a thousand dollars for each one. When he has distributed sixteen thousand dollars there are still many thousands left.

  A thousand dollars, thinks Charles, is four months salary. Where did Robert get so much cash? So quickly? Is he really leaving them? Or are they leaving him?

  “This money is for travel, yes, but it is also for bribes when required. Do not take risks. There will be more money for you in Nairobi. Hitch rides where you can. Don’t take obvious routes. Get across the border any way possible and quickly. Godspeed. I will meet you there. Now go. Go.”

  Susi and Willi ponder chartering a private plane. Mara, Kiri, and Beth decide to take buses right to the Kenyan border and will try to walk across. Joseph and Kasa will travel by bicycle hoping to leave without detection.

  Susi and Willy quickly run through the stage door, hand-in-hand. Charles watches them leave. They are immediately stopped by soldiers. Within full view of the theatre, they are shoved into a police vehicle.

  Charles and Joro head out a back door. Their home villages are near one another. They decide to try and walk home. They will say goodbye to their families. They will borrow bicycles and they will cycle away from Kenya, go in the other direction, to the Rwandan border where they will try to leave Uganda.

  Charles arrives home two nights later. Kekinoni and Kanyunya offer to hide him with friends, insist he remain nearby. They are looking so old to him now. Father is without energy. Mother is without spirit. Debra sits silently. They eat together before he leaves, knowing finally that he must, for their own safety. He will not divulge the route he is taking out.

  It takes him two torturous days, slinking through forest heat and insects, avoiding cars and the many military checkpoints. Nights, alone on the forest floor, tormented by animal cries and his own bad dreams.

  He arrives at the Rwandan border at dusk the third day. Joro has been there for several hours waiting for him. Their escape plan seems to be working.

  But the Rwandan guard — a Hutu — is suspicious of these young men who look more Tutsi than Ugandan to him. So many Tutsis had moved there in the early 1960s. Could he have found not one but two of the hated enemy? A supervisor is called. He, too, suspects they are Tutsi. More so, when he makes them empty their pockets and sees how much money they have.

  The cash is removed and put into a paper shopping bag. The guards roughly dump the rest of their belongings into another bag. Six hours pass in a locked, stuffy little room where the two are held and given only a cup of water and some stale cooked rice to eat. They have already despaired of ever leaving this airless prison, when the door crashes open.

  “Stand up and follow us,” they are ordered. Charles is hurried off one way. Joro another.

  They are jailed as Tutsi spies.

  The makeshift prison wall against which Charles crouches glares yellow, from a severely angled sun. It is like cold fire on him. Flies swarm the light. Sweat beads his skin. Suddenly the wooden door bangs open and the two guards haul him to his feet. “Where are we going?” Charles a
sks.

  “Shut up. We ask the questions, not you.”

  He is thrown down in the yard beside a stone fireplace. And kicked in the ribs. Again and again. Clutching his side, he vomits onto what he realizes is a charred football left lying in ashes.

  “Sick like a girl. You even look like a girl.”

  After an hour lying in the hot sun, they bring him to another room, empty except for two wooden stools. He is ordered to sit. He does so, painfully. The door opens again and they drag in Joro. The moment the two men are alone, Joro says gently, sadly, “They’ve hurt you.”

  Charles winces each time he breathes in deeply. “I think they have broken a rib,” he says.

  “And you, Joro?”

  “I’m okay. Probably because I have a face like theirs. You look to them like the enemy, so they abuse you more.”

  “What do they think we’ve done?” asks Charles, anger and frustration straining his voice. But the protest has taken all his energy and he sways on his perch like a lame bird.

  “I’m not sure what they know or don’t know,” says Joro. “There is such hatred between Tutsi and Hutu, it could just be that. Or maybe Amin is involved in it. We should play dumb and say nothing. If we want to live, we must not reveal anything. Only that we are actors on our way to Kenya.”

  For another two days they are interrogated, several hours at a time. Alone. Together. They are given one meal each day. They are made to eat in the hot sun. To stand for hours in its glare.

  On the third morning, the guards return, now all smiles.

  “We have had a call from the American Embassy in Nairobi. You are free to go. You have been arrested by mistake. Sorry.”

  Sorry? They have been sadistically mistreated. Nearly starved.

  “I would like something to drink, please,” says Charles.

  The guard leaves instantly and returns with a glass of juice, all bubbles at the brim. Charles wonders for a brief, fearful moment whether it might be poisoned. Then he takes it and drinks it down. He has never tasted anything so good.

  The guards laugh. “So who are you really? Why are the Americans calling our government? Why are they interested in you? Why were you trying to get out of Uganda so badly?”