by David Vernon
“It’s going to start, mec. Any minute.”
“Niyongabo?” Kwizera ducked into their bivvy. Rested his gun across his thighs. His boots squashed mud to either side, midgies rose.
“In fine form.” Emanuel’s fingers scratched mindlessly at the rusty bandage circling his bicep.
“And the Kenyans, they’re still in?”
Emanuel nodded. “Of course. And the German.” A grimace crossed everyone’s lips.
“Australia?” Kwizera asked.
Emanuel stared at him, and Celestin laughed. “Don’t be silly. Australians cannot run.”
Kwizera touched at the folded letter in his shirt pocket. Wherever you are, brother, he knew it word for word, but he kept it anyway, for luck, however you can, drop everything and come to us in Brisbane.
But what would a Burundian soldier do in Australia? Why should they take him: they had no need for soldiers. Runners, though. He sucked in his bottom lip. Maybe they needed runners.
They are lining up now, the radio announcer said between gusts of static, Bitok, Kororia; the Kenyans seem relaxed. The air Kwizera breathed in was the same temperature as that he breathed out: blood warm.
Celestin edged closer holding the wedding ring on its neck-chain tight in his fist. “Hey Kwizera, where is Atlanta?”
“America, Celestin. Haven’t you been listening?”
“Yes, but where? America is big.”
Kwizera’s forehead wrinkled. “By the sea, I think.”
“Shh!” Emanuel elbowed him.
… Venuste Niyongabo, from Burundi, in lane three —
The jungle erupted with hisses of delight. Kwizera smiled. None of the platoon were moving, every man transfixed by the announcer’s words.
… In lane five, Bob Kennedy the American, cross country world champion; in lane eight, Olympic gold medalist Dieter Bauman —
“Burundi, Burundi,” Emanuel started the chant under his breath, but Celestin joined him at once.
“What the hell is this?” Sarge crashed into their shelter.
Each man jerked to his feet, straining to attention.
Sarge shoved them forward. “Get your arses out there and keep your stinking mouths shut!”
Emanuel held out his radio. “But Sarge —
The sergeant knocked it to the ground. It splintered beneath the sergeant’s heel. “You think the war will stop for a goddam race?” Emanuel’s mouth opened but Kwizera grabbed his arm. Emanuel winced.
“Remember our president. Remember your families. Now move!” Sarge strode on to the next bivvy. Dark waxy leaves shuddered in his wake.
Celestin shouldered his gun and filed out after Sarge. Emanuel’s round eyes were still on the wreck of a radio, half-sunk into the thick mud. Kwizera pulled him on.
“Like a mad elephant,” Celestin whispered, nodding towards the Sarge. Emanuel didn’t crack a smile. They joined the forming thread of soldiers, stepping through the spear grass.
Kwizera’s body moved in automatic silence. The night stuck to his skin, his shirt to his back. His eyes flicked: up, down, right and left. Bat. Machete blade. Moonlit-bark. Moth. His mind drifted.
Olympics. He’d never heard of them before Venuste Niyongabo. Burundi had never had an Olympian. Now the whole country could talk about nothing else. That, or the coup. Hutu, or Tutsi? Who would live through the night? Most people preferred to talk about Niyongabo.
The human line stilled. A finger held before lips passed down the queue.
“What is it?” Kwizera breathed in Emanuel’s ear.
“You can’t hear it? Talking, up ahead.”
Kwizera stretched his ears.
… won’t be long now, all are in position along the starting line —
Kwizera let go of his breath. Emanuel grinned. “It’s just —”
A gunshot snapped the silence. Soldiers shouldered weapons instantly, dropped to their knees. Kwizera’s blood pounded in his ears. His gunsights encircling a leaf, a hand. The trigger pressing solid beneath the pad of his finger.
Celestin waved at them. “Starter’s gun,” he hissed. “For the race!”
A hushed wave of nervous laughter flowed down the line as the soldiers got to their feet.
Kwizera’s breaths dizzied him. Enough, he thought suddenly, staring into the black mud, the familiar ache in his mind. He couldn’t stare death in the face any more. He would burst. But when Emanuel looked back for him, he got to his feet and followed.
Sarge led them in a wide circle around the farmer’s hut, and every man strained to hear a few seconds more.
“The Moroccans are in the lead,” Celestin whispered, passing it on from the man in front.
“They started fast,” Emanuel continued.
Now the Kenyans have broken away from the pack — Kwizera tilted his head to catch the last words as his feet carried him out of range of the announcer’s voice. Where was Niyongabo?
“Niyongabo’s in the second group,” Emanuel whispered, “with the American.”
Sarge stopped, a hand slicing at his throat. Every whisper died. The cicadas continued their keening. The soldiers walked on.
So far away in Atlanta, was Niyongabo thinking of them? He must know about the coup, surely. He must wonder who of his friends were alive, and who dead. Would it make him run faster? Kwizera scanned the trees. If Niyongabo ran well, Australia would like Burundians. He took in the tiny farm plots beyond, the darker shadow of huts. Where, in this darkness, was Niyongabo’s family? What if the blood that ran tonight was —
Again, the line stopped. The Captain stood in the shadows, waving them into position in a semi-circle around the village. Hunters circling a herd.
All thoughts left Kwizera’s mind. He knelt behind a tobacco plant, mud sucking at his knee. He eased the fastener away from his machete, ran his fingers over the leather handle, slid the blade out, tested it against his thumb. He shouldered his gun. Focused. Listened to his heart-beat slow.
A voice inside the nearest hut, irritable and old. “Turn it up, son, turn it up!” and the announcer’s voice slid back into his ears.
... The Kenyans are definitely tiring, Niyongabo and Kennedy moving up —
Together with his brothers, Kwizera held his breath.
— Kennedy has taken the lead —
Kwizera’s grip tightened on his rifle. Who cared about the American? Where was Niyongabo?
There’s still 500m to go, and the pace is really picking up now —
A murmuring rose from the huts, swelling.
Now it’s Burundi, Kenya, Kenya, Germany —
Fifty breaths sucked in and held.
Niyongabo — forging ahead — can he maintain this pace? My god: a phenomenal lead: five or six metres —
Kwizera glanced at Sarge, but his face was glazed, his eyes in Atlanta. Run, man, run! Kwizera begged.
Niyongabo is tiring! The Kenyans reeling him in —
Howls from inside the huts, beseechments and orders.
Fifty metres to go, the finishing line in sight —
The soldier beside him stood. His mouth open, silently praying. Around the semi-circle, others followed.
Morocco is moving up! And the Kenyans are strong, but Niyongabo is keeping his lead, he’s holding on, he’s just holding on —
Like fruit in an orchard, guns fell from hands. Inside the huts, screaming, screaming. Kwizera couldn’t breathe.
They’re taking it right to the line — but it’s Burundi! Kenya! Morocco!
The village erupted. Cheering, shouting, echoed into the night. Soldiers jumped around madly, crying, hugging each other.
He’s got the gold! Venuste Niyongabo has the gold medal for Burundi!
“Burundi! Burundi!” The chant grew louder and louder. “Burundi! Burundi!”
Kwizera found he’d dropped his gun, and was standing too, open-mouthed, tears tracing his cheeks. A gold medal for Burundi! Olympic gold!
The butt of a rifle slammed into his belly. Sarge’s fist c
rushed around his throat. “Get a hold of yourself, soldier! Get into position!”
Kwizera could only stare at him. “We won,” the words slipped from his choking throat, thick with wonder, even as blood beat to bursting in his brain. “We won, we won!”
Sarge’s free hand raised, open-palmed. Kwizera steeled himself for the blow.
The Captain shouldered Sarge away. “Let them be, Sergeant. We move on.”
Sarge gaped. “But these are Tutsis, Captain —”
“Not tonight, Sergeant.” The Captain’s grip sank into his shoulder. “Tonight we are all Burundi.”
And the chant rose louder into the darkness, as every voice shouted as one. “Burundi! Burundi!”
The facts:
In July 1996 Burundi’s Venuste Niyongabo qualified for the finals of the 5000 metres in the same week that a former president (a Tutsi) downed the current Hutu president’s plane with surface-to-air missiles and civil war broke out. Reports range from 6,000 and hundreds of thousands of people being butchered over the next week. But of the night on the final, Burundi stopped and listened. According to some reports, even the rebels refused orders as they listened to the race and the whole country celebrated as one when he won, becoming Burundi’s first (and still their only) medalist.
Sophie Constable is based in Darwin and loves stories — reading, writing and dreaming them up. Her stories can also be found in the Stringybark anthologies, Yellow Pearl and Behind the Wattles.
The Paterson Boys
— Kerry Lown Whalen
“This is it.” Dad turned left, tyres crunching on the blue-metal driveway as he pulled up beside the house. My sister and I scrambled out and stretched. Bracken, wattle, bottlebrush, saplings and gums crowded around us. The bush swayed, cockatoos squawked and an earthy odour hung in the air.
I wrinkled my nose. “What do kids do in the country, Dad?”
“They explore. Climb trees. Enjoy nature.”
My sister looked at me and shrugged.
Without telling anyone, Dad had bought a weekender in the Southern Highlands. Topped by an iron roof, the white fibro house slumbered under a burning sun.
He held up the front door key. “Let’s have a look inside.”
Fay and I trailed our parents up three wooden steps to the verandah.
Searing heat punched the breath out of us when he opened the door, the smell of linoleum and fly spray remaining in our nostrils long after opening the windows and switching on the pedestal fan. The combined kitchen-living area had a fuel stove, table and four chairs. A floral eiderdown covered a double bed in the main bedroom. Uncurtained windows framed a wall of gums in the room I was to share with Fay.
She threw herself onto a bed. “This is mine,” she said.
I checked the bathroom. From the water tank outside, a pipe led to a single tap over a metal bathtub.
I followed Dad out the back door and turned full circle. Green, grey and brown vegetation surrounded me. I couldn’t see any houses. Or people.
“Who am I going to play with?”
“The bush telegraph will be working overtime. Everyone within cooee will know we’re here.”
“But there’s nothing to do.”
“Why not collect some twigs and leaves for the stove?”
It was hot, thirsty work snapping sticks to size and stacking them in a pile. Mum had poured a cup of tea from the thermos and sat sipping it on the verandah.
“You okay, Mum?” I asked.
She sighed. “I’d have preferred a weekender at the beach.”
“Me too.”
When we heard a shrill whistle, Fay and I rushed down to the road. Three olive-skinned boys waited there, the eldest about my age.
He scuffed the dirt with his bare feet. “I’m Donny. I’m nine.” He pointed to the middle boy. “That’s Pete. And Richie’s five.”
“I’m Fay and I’m eleven. Katy’s your age.”
“Any boys?” Donny asked.
Fay shook her head.
“There’s four boys in our family. The baby’s at home with Mum.”
“Where do you live?’
He pointed across the road to a barbed wire fence. All we could see was bush.
“Can you show us?” Fay asked.
“Yep.”
We trooped across the road and peered through the foliage. Tall gums dwarfed a tiny dilapidated shack.
“Is it big enough for six people?” Fay asked.
He nodded. “We share a bed.”
Wood smoke filled my nostrils as the sun slid below the treetops.
“Tea time!’ Dad’s shout split the air.
“Will we see you tomorrow?” I asked Donny.
“Yep. Give us a shout.”
We went to Donny’s place the next day. Mr Paterson worked as a fettler on the railway and wasn’t home. Mrs Paterson handed the baby a stick to play with, plonked him on the red earth, and pegged out the washing. She nodded and smiled when Donny told her our names. Her dark wavy hair and pretty face reminded me of Snow White, but that was where the fairytale ended. The family’s one-room shack was cobbled together from corrugated iron. A mis-match of rickety chairs huddled around a chipped table beside a double bed. A tin bucket caught the drips from a cold-water tap. Within twenty feet of the door, flies buzzed around a wooden structure curtained by hessian. It hid the dunny. The stench made my eyes water.
Mrs Paterson swung the baby onto her hip. “Show them the well, Donny.”
Unlike the wells I’d seen in picture books, this one was circular and hollowed deep into the clay. A muddy pool stagnated below four steps hewn into its side.
“Is it deep, Donny?” I asked.
He looked around for something to measure the depth and grabbed the washing line prop. The line sagged, dipping a dozen tiny wet items into the dirt. He dunked the prop into the water.
“About ten feet,” he said. “If anyone falls in, they’re a gonner.”
“Can you swim?” I asked.
“Nuh. No one can.”
Later that day, while exploring a bush track near the railway line, Pete spotted a snake slithering up a gum.
“Dare you to catch him, Richie,” Pete said.
Richie picked up a stick, stood on tiptoes and pinned the snake to the trunk.
Fay and I clung to each other.
“What are ya gunna do now?” Donny asked.
Richie dropped the stick and the snake landed in a puff of dust at our feet.
The boys hooted when Fay and I took off.
On Easter Saturday, the Paterson boys wandered over to our place and stood around watching us eat breakfast.
“What’s going on, Donny?” I asked.
“Mum and Dad went to the Easter Show. Took the baby with them.”
I gasped. “When?”
“Caught the six o’clock train to Sydney. They’ll be back before dark.”
Mum stopped eating. “Had any breakfast?” Donny shook his head. “I’ll make some toast.” She bustled around the kitchen.
“They’re buying us sample bags,” Pete said.
“And toys,” Richie added.
Mum spread the toast with butter and vegemite. “Eat on the verandah, boys.”
Donny carried the heaped plate outside.
“I suppose I’ll be providing lunch too,” Mum said, frowning. “I can’t believe their mother left without telling me.”
Donny and Pete were good sports and played happily with us, but Richie disrupted our games. Although we gave him a big handicap, he quickly tired of running in races he couldn’t hope to win.
“I’m going home,” he said. Bottom lip protruding, he skulked off.
Because the Patersons wouldn’t be home for hours, we had no choice but to follow him. Richie sneaked looks over his shoulder as he mooched down the road. I could tell he was up to mischief. When we reached the house, the door was open.
“We’re going to the shop to buy ice blocks, Richie,” I called.
He did
n’t answer. All I could hear were shrill cicadas, creaking branches and the hum of highway traffic.
“Think hard, Donny,” Fay said. “What would Richie do if your parents weren’t home?”
He tilted his head. “He’d play in the well.”
My heart thumped as we hurried there. The filthy water churned as Richie’s arms flailed, his eyes huge in his face.
Fay pounded down the steps, reached out and grabbed an arm. Scrabbling on the slimy step, she hauled him to the side. “Stop struggling,” she panted, as she lifted his dripping body from the water and clambered up the steps.
“You okay, Richie?” I asked.
He coughed and spluttered, chest jerking as he lay on the ground.
“I’ll get Mum,” I said, and sprinted home.
She’d heard my shouts and waited on the verandah. “What’s wrong?”
I bent over to catch my breath. ‘Richie fell in the well.’
“Is he okay”
“He’s coughing, but I think so.”
“I’ll come over.”
She stood Richie in a bucket, sluiced off the mud and wrapped him in a towel.
“Where are his clothes?”
Donny pointed to a suitcase under the bed from which a jumble of singlets, T-shirts and jeans overflowed.
“Any pyjamas?” she asked. Donny and Pete shrugged.
Perhaps it was shock but the boys sniggered at Richie’s nakedness as he sat shuddering on Mum’s lap.
In the end she found a flannelette shirt and warm pants, tucked his shivering body into bed and heaped blankets over him. “Your mother will be home soon,” she said, patting his shoulder.
After Mum left, we paced up and down the street waiting for Mr and Mrs Paterson to appear. Eventually a red balloon bobbing on a stick emerged from the bush followed by the boys’ parents pushing the baby in a stroller. We dashed up to meet them, a chorus of voices demanding to be heard.
“One at a time,” Mrs Paterson said. “What happened, Donny?”
The words spilled from his mouth. “Richie fell in the well.”