A Dancer In the Dust

by Thomas H. Cook

  “By all measures, they are a very self-reliant people,” he concluded after demonstrating his impressively thorough knowledge of the Lutusi.

  I nodded.

  Early took a sip from his glass, looked at me very solemnly, then said, “So, is it your opinion, Ray, that they are happy as they are?”

  “Yes,” I answered truthfully, since they certainly seemed so to me.

  “Hmm,” Early said. “You may be right, but it’s a risky supposition, don’t you think?”

  “Risky for whom?”

  “For the Lutusi,” Early said. “And our conviction that they are happy may easily be a very convenient one for us.” He looked at me pointedly. “And so when I hear talk of the poor in the underdeveloped world being happy or content or whatever soothes our consciences and relieves us of responsibility, I’m reminded of my antebellum Virginia ancestor’s opinion of a people he affectionately called ‘darkies,’ and whom he believed to be happy with their lot.” He paused briefly to let his remark sink in, then added, “My point is that if you believe a people content with their misery, then you can be content with their remaining in it.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” I said, “but those “darkies” were slaves. The Lutusi are free.”

  “That’s true,” Early said. “But frankly, I doubt that it’s possible for people like us to know if a people as different from ourselves as the Lutusi are actually happy or unhappy. Do you share that doubt, Ray?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course you do,” Early said with a quick smile, “because any other view would be arrogant. The fact is, a man with water can never comprehend another’s thirst. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I nodded.

  Early looked out the window and let his attention follow the drift of the river. “It is all a mystery,” he said. For a moment, he continued to watch the river. Then, as if suddenly called back to his purpose, he turned to me.

  “We are concerned about the Visutu in the north,” he said. “Particularly Mafumi, because he is gaining power and calling for a Visutu takeover of Lubanda.” He crushed his cigarette into the glass ashtray before him. “We fear that it has not sufficiently dawned on President Dasai that he has a real problem on his hands with this fellow.” He sat back slightly, and folded one long, Lincolnesque leg over the other. “So tell me, Ray, what have you seen from your vantage point up there in Tumasi? Any dangerous activity?”

  “A week or so ago I saw some government troops heading north,” I told him. “And I know that people are being moved into the north of the country. Besai people. Truckloads of them.”

  “Resettled, yes,” Early said. “The hope is to create settlements to hold against Mafumi. In my opinion, it’s a doomed effort. Those people, unfortunately, are in Mafumi’s path, and my guess is that they will be the first to feel the panga.”

  “And that can’t be stopped?” I asked.

  “I certainly hope so,” Early said. “But the fact is, it will be hard for President Dasai to control the far northern part of the country if he cannot maintain his authority in Tumasi. It is Lubanda’s central region, after all. If it falls to Mafumi, then Rupala will eventually fall as well. It may take one year or two, but it will fall.” He let me ponder this disturbing prediction, then added, “All you have to do is look at the map, Ray. The savanna is the buffer between north and south Lubanda. Whoever has control of it will have a staging area in the heart of the country. That’s why the savanna needs to be secure, developed, and contributing to the nation’s economy.” Early‘s attention now followed a military truck as it rumbled along the road that bordered the river. “We can’t get projects approved without stability in Lubanda, Ray,” he said. “And Lubanda cannot be stable without its central region being secure. We’ve made that clear to President Dasai.” He smiled. “This is why I asked you to meet me here in Rupala. Because I need your help with regard to President Dasai’s plans in that part of Lubanda.” He leaned forward, and I could see that he was quite sincere in his concern. “I need your help because, frankly, there isn’t a lot of wiggle room now.”

  With this assertion, Early’s voice softened. “I wish things were simple, Ray, but they’re not. It’s not a choice between this government or that one in Lubanda. If Dasai falls, it will be at the hands of Mafumi, and we all know what will happen after that.” He paused a moment and looked at me quite sympathetically. “Bill says you have developed a relationship with a woman in Tumasi.”

  “A friendship, yes,” I said.

  “We’ve been asked to intercede on the president’s behalf,” Early told me. “Hope for Lubanda has been asked, I mean. And by Hope for Lubanda, I mean you.”

  “Intercede in what way?”

  Rather than answer, Early said, “This woman, she’s a small farmer, I understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “And, unfortunately, I’m told that she’s acting rather foolishly.”

  “In what way?”

  “Refusing to grow coffee,” Early said starkly, though with the sense of truly having Martine’s interests at heart. “Which would be better both for her and for Lubanda.” Another pause while he watched this latest of his assertions gather force in my mind. “Bill says you can help her see this. He doesn’t think anyone else can.” He waited for me to respond, but I could think of nothing to say, so after a moment, he said, “I understand she has no deed to this farm of hers.”

  “She doesn’t need one,” I said. “Her family has owned that farm for over fifty years.”

  “And it is your opinion that this insures her against what?”

  I stared at him silently.

  “Against… pangas?” Early asked pointedly.

  The stark nature of what he’d just said settled over me.

  “Who would be wielding these pangas?” I asked.

  The question clearly made Early uncomfortable, but he had no choice but to answer it. “There are people here. People in the capital, close to Dasai, who are very impatient. If Mafumi succeeds, they will be hacked to death on Independence Square, and they know this. We’re not talking about their losing their posts. They will lose their lives, and the lives of their wives and children. The streets of Rupala will run red with their blood. At the moment that is politics Lubandan style.”

  It was a chilling assessment. A dark cloud was gathering over Lubanda, and everything and everyone was at risk.

  “It’s the critical nature of the situation that brings me here, Ray,” Early added. “And it’s why I want your help with this woman.”

  “Why is she so important?” I asked. “She’s just a small farmer in a—”

  “It’s not that she won’t grow coffee,” Early interrupted. “One farmer, who cares? It’s that she’s a woman, and more important, a white woman, and she is defying a government of black men. She is making them look weak and helpless, and Mafumi can use this against Dasai. That is a fact that we must face. This is a sexist society, Ray, and there is no small element of racism as well. In such a society a man in government cannot be humiliated by a woman—especially a white woman—and expect to maintain his position. No matter how well-meaning, a nice, chuckling president cannot afford to lose face. Dasai knows that. And more important, the not-so-chuckling people around him know it, too, and believe me, they are in earnest.”

  “Gessee.”

  “Among others, yes,” Early answered frankly. He leaned back slightly. “Your friend is taking a position that there is simply no time to indulge. By taking it and holding to it, she is making Dasai look weak. No. Worse than weak. Impotent. And this cannot be tolerated, Ray. Not with Mafumi daily building strength among his fellow Visutu in the north. The rest of Lubanda has to unite like the fingers of a hand. You can tell your friend that. You can put it in whatever persuasive way you wish. You can appeal to her patriotism. But, Ray, she has got to grow coffee.”

  “I’m not sure I can make her see it your way,” I told him.

  Early peered at me intently. “If she
doesn’t, she’s taking a very grave risk.” His eyes took on the darkness of the truth he stated. “I hate to sound so dire, but Lubanda has reached that point where, as we say, the pedal meets the metal, and in such circumstances, as everyone knows, people easily become ruthless.”

  We talked on for a few more minutes. I floundered about, using Martine’s arguments, that the crops she grew were the ones the region required. A region had to be self-sustaining, I told him, it had to grow what its people needed, crops that would always be of value regardless of the fluctuations in world markets. What if the price of coffee suddenly plummeted? What would happen then? Didn’t we already know? Tanzania had instituted ujamaa, and disaster had ensued.

  During all of this, Early listened silently, but with no give in his eyes. At the end, when I’d sputtered to a close, he said, “It was nice meeting you, Ray, but I should tell you that you were brought here to generate projects, that you are an employee of Hope for Lubanda, and that as an employee, you are obligated to help us do what we need to do—in this case, to help President Dasai by making Tumasi less vulnerable to Mafumi, who is, I must remind you, the real nightmare in the wings. I need hardly add that your friend, or any of the other white people in Lubanda, would not fare well under his regime. If for that reason alone, she should cooperate with the Agricultural Ministry.”

  With that he stood up and offered his hand. “I hope you can see your way to doing the right thing, Ray,” he said. “Because you’re a good man, and I’d like to have you stay in Lubanda.” He took an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. “This is for your friend.”

  I saw that the envelope bore the sunflower seal of President Dasai.

  “Please give it to her with the president’s respects,” Early said, “and be there when she reads it.”

  “You want me to be there when she reads it?” I asked. “Why?”

  “Because we need to know what’s going on in her mind,” Early said matter-of-factly. “You are our only source for that vital information.”

  “I see,” I said quietly.

  “Please forward weekly reports to Bill,” Early said. He looked at me in deadly earnest. “We are the hope for Lubanda, Ray. You and me and Bill and the others who come all this way and do all this work.”

  With that, he placed his hand on my shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze. “Have another drink. No need to rush.” He took out his wallet, paid the check, then handed me a hundred-dollar bill. “Spend the whole weekend in Rupala. Get a hotel. Relax and think over our conversation.”

  He offered his hand and I shook it, then took advantage of his offer and ordered an American beer that was ice-cold and absolutely delicious, a pleasure I hadn’t enjoyed for weeks and which I took time to savor. Beyond the window, I saw Early make his way to where a dark car waited for him. It had a sunflower on the door, and a driver in uniform behind the wheel, clear evidence that he was being picked up and chauffeured around by the president’s office.

  It was already late in the afternoon by the time I finished that chilled, refreshing beer. I’d never stayed anywhere that hadn’t been arranged beforehand by Hope for Lubanda, so in a sense that night was the first I’d spent in the capital that wasn’t supervised. I was on my own, but in that part of the city there were a few hotels, so I found lodging without much trouble. The place was called the Rupala Arms, its name the only thing about it that suggested a Western standard of accommodation. The room was decidedly African in the way they’d long been thought of by the rest of the world, with a thin mattresses covered with equally threadbare sheets, but the air-conditioning purred sweetly and the cool was luxurious.

  The restaurant next door served two things: a saucy cassava paste for the locals and watery spaghetti for any foreigner who might wander in. I ordered the spaghetti, and as I ate, I thought about something Early had said, the question of whether I’d want this life—or the one in Tumasi—for myself or my children. My answer was decidedly no, and in giving it, it seemed to me that I’d joined the side of Malcolm Early, along with others who were bringing hope to Lubanda. Why should I—why should any of us, the fortunate ones, the ones from the West—be content with leaving Lubandans to a level of development we ourselves wouldn’t want or tolerate or, truth be told, wish on our worst enemies?

  I left Rupala the next morning, my dusty Land Cruiser having been washed early that morning. A teenaged boy had not bothered to ask me if I wanted it washed before washing it, but his hand was out for the expected tip. I gave him a few recently minted “sunflowers,” crawled behind the wheel, and headed north for Tumasi.

  “So, you came back,” Martine said when I pulled into the dusty yard of her farm a few hours later.

  “Of course I came back,” I said.

  “Most of the aid workers stay in the capital,” she said with a joking smile. “In those villas along the river, drinking cold beer.”

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on them, Martine,” I told her. “They really are here to help.” I handed her the letter Early had given me.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Something from the president,” I said. “He gave it to my boss, who gave it to me.” I smiled. “I’m just the messenger.”

  She opened the letter, read it, then returned it to the envelope.

  “I’m being ordered to grow coffee,” she said. “If I do, people will be sent out to teach me how to do it. Since we’re low on water in this region, they say I must use the dry method for processing the beans. Everything required for that method will be supplied to me. All I have to do is use it.”

  “Coffee,” I said quietly. “Well, next to oil, it’s the most valuable commodity there is.”

  “To the West it is valuable,” Martine said, “but not to me.” She glanced out into the bush. “And not to the Lutusi or anyone else in Tumasi.”

  “How do you know it wouldn’t be a good thing to grow coffee in this part of Lubanda?” I asked.

  “Coffee has to be processed, Ray,” Martine answered. “A lot of labor is required to plant, to harvest, to remove the cherry from the beans. All of it requires labor. Where do you think that labor will come from? It will come from the Lutusi, who will be forced to produce it.” She shook the letter in the air. “This is the first step in their destruction,” she said. “In the destruction of their world, which is also mine.” She grabbed my hand and pressed the letter into it. “My answer is no.”

  Against the force of her determination, I could only stand silent.

  “Fareem will want me to do it,” she added, almost to herself. “He says that in the end, they will take my farm. And he may be right.” She gazed out over her fields and for the first time, I saw terror in her eyes. Not apprehension. Not dread. But actual terror.

  And so, with a hesitant, almost trembling hand, I touched her bare shoulder, then drew my fingers down and took her hand. She didn’t respond, but she didn’t pull away either, and so for a few luxurious seconds I savored this small intimacy.

  Finally, she drew her hand from mine and turned toward me. “Come, let us go sit under the tree. It is cooler there.”

  And so we did, the two of us, alone, both more or less silent. I didn’t know how to approach her, and I was afraid to make an argument against her. Caught in that web, I simply lingered for a time, talking of nothing in particular until, on the pretext of needing to write a report, I headed back to Tumasi.

  It was the middle of the afternoon when I got back to the village. The market was in full swing, with a large group of nomads strolling among the stalls, buying cloth or jerry jars. The women sometimes folded a swath of brightly colored cotton over their arms or encircled their waists with it. The children played around them, chasing each other, sticks and stones the only toys they needed. The men moved slowly, and with great dignity, carrying their staffs like crosiers, hardly ever touching anything.

  “How did it go in Rupala?”

  I turned to find Fareem standing beside me.

&
nbsp; “Martine will tell you,” I answered.

  “Then it’s bad news,” Fareem said.

  “The government wants her to grow coffee, Fareem,” I told him. “It’s part of a larger plan, a way of stopping Mafumi.”

  “Nothing can stop Mafumi.” His eyes endeavored to betray nothing, yet in their grim sparkle they betrayed the hopelessness he felt. Then he smiled, but with dark irony. “It’s Lubandan Independence Day,” he said. “There’ll be dancing and a bonfire here in Tumasi. A big party. Martine is coming.”

  “She should have told me,” I said. “I would have driven her into the village.”

  “She prefers to walk,” Fareem said. “You must find that quite ridiculous, but it’s the way she holds herself together. We all have to hold ourselves together, don’t you think, Ray?”

  I nodded. “Well, I have a little work to do,” I said, and with that turned away and walked to my office.

  I was still at my desk when night fell and the bonfire was lit. I could hear the drums, the chants, the singing, the general celebratory sounds of the village. After a time, I walked to my door and looked out. The air was pitch black so that the blaze of the fire seemed all the redder, a fierce, leaping flame. The people were dancing around it, and among them I saw Martine. She seemed entirely at home, her face radiant in the firelight, her long hair swinging back and forth, her white arms swaying palely in the dark air. She turned in a slow circle, her arms going up and down her body in the same dance as the women around her, sensuous and earthy, her expression at once joyful and serene. But beautiful as it was, it was not a vision I could enjoy without peril, because in order to stay in Lubanda, I had a job to do. And so I was soon back at my desk, writing my report, the one I would send to Bill in Rupala the next day, my work now very different from any I had ever imagined for myself. For without consciously realizing its consequences or calculating its awesome risks, I had become a spy.