by Imbolo Mbue
I turn to Lusaka. He’s looking at Kumbum, trying to decipher whether he agrees with what the driver has just said.
“How do you know all this?” Lusaka asks the driver. “Why are you so sure?”
The driver perks up as if he’s been waiting for years to pontificate on this topic.
“You think you’re the only ones suffering?” he says. “Villages and towns all over this country are suffering for one reason or another. You have no clean water. The village over there has soldiers raping its daughters. That other village has some other corporation cutting down its trees; the soil is eroding away. Or maybe precious stones were found under their land, and soldiers arrived with a government decree to secure the area and in the process killed people because…Do they need a reason? My wife—her ancestral village, it’s not far from mine, in Bikonobang District—the government says they want the entire village for some project about protecting animals, everyone in the village needs to pack up their things and go find somewhere else to live. What do you think the people there can do about that? Nothing. Dozens of them travel to Bézam and cry and beg for help—you know what happens? They’re told to go home and wait, help is on the way. So they go home and wait. And wait. Sometimes they return to Bézam, countless times. But nothing’s going to change. Not for them. Not for you. You can go build a new country if you don’t like this one; the people who own this country, they like it just the way it is.”
I look at the driver but I can’t figure out why he’s saying the things he’s saying. Is it spite? Is it anger? Is he inflamed that we dare dream of a new life when he has resigned himself to the belief that an idyllic future is not the birthright of the likes of him and us? He must be convinced he’ll never be more than a driver, a small man who picks up scraps of food falling off the plates of big men. His father must have shown him how to pick up scraps; soon he’ll teach his son how to do the same—smile, nod, take whatever they give you, thank them profusely, ask no questions, let them know they own the air you breathe.
“There is one thing you can do,” Kumbum says.
“What can they do besides make more room for graves?” the driver asks.
“Help me sit up,” Kumbum says, grabbing my arm. Given his condition, I wonder if it’s time to unbind his hands, but I banish the thought—we have everything to lose if my attempt to show mercy leaves us outwitted.
When Kumbum winces in pain, Lusaka dashes out and returns with a pillow, which he puts against the wall for the sick man to lean on.
“I have a nephew,” Kumbum says, looking at me. “He can help you.”
“Is he with the government or with Pexton?” I ask.
“He’s not with anyone. He’s a newspaperman. He can write your story.”
“How’s that going to help us?” I ask. “Your driver just said that no one in Bézam cares about our story.”
“The people who’ll read the story are not in Bézam. They’re in America.”
“America?”
“Yes, America, the country of Pexton. My nephew works for a newspaper that is read by many people there….” He pauses, as if, having used too much air, he needs to await a new delivery. “American people like to hear stories of what’s happening in faraway places, so my nephew tells them stories about what’s happening in our country.”
“So your nephew is a Bézam man who works for American people?” Pondo asks.
Kumbum shakes his head. “No, he’s an American man….It’s a long story. His father is an American man, his mother was my sister….He moved here from America a few years ago….His story’s complicated. Please, just trust me, go see him.”
“Why should we trust that he’ll write the truth?” I say.
“Because that’s the kind of person he is. When you meet him, you’ll see for yourself. If there’s a story that he thinks needs to be told, he’ll tell it. He’s not afraid. He attends all sorts of meetings in Bézam to learn about people and write their stories….”
“And if he writes about us and the American people read our story—”
“When the American people read about what a corporation from their country is doing to children in our country, they’ll be angry. American people like to take action. Some of them might want to help you. I don’t exactly know what they’ll do, but—”
“But the Pexton people in America, they’ll read this story too, won’t they?” my uncle Manga asks. “What if they read it and tell their friends who also read it that our story is a lie and that your nephew is perpetuating falsehoods? The people in America have never seen our suffering with their very own eyes. No one from there has been to Kosawa, so Pexton can claim that they don’t even know us.”
Kumbum thinks for a few moments. “Yes,” he says. “That could happen.”
The Leader, who hasn’t said anything for a while, chuckles. “You all amuse me. You really do—do you know that?” We pay him no attention.
“Leave for Bézam first thing tomorrow morning,” Kumbum says. “Meeting with my nephew is the best chance you have. I’ll write a letter to him, introducing you. I’ll tell you how to find him. But first, please…you must let us go home. I’m begging you.”
Lusaka gestures for me to step outside. Manga and Pondo follow us. The four of us confer for several minutes and agree on what we must do. I must leave for Bézam the next morning to find the newspaperman. Lusaka and one other man will come with me; we’ll decide who later. For now, we have to get Kumbum healthy. We must move him to somewhere more comfortable: Woja Beki’s house. Pondo, as the husband of Woja Beki’s sister, is best positioned to go to Woja Beki and ask him to take in Kumbum. Pondo will remind Woja Beki that if a Pexton man who’s been declared missing were to die in Kosawa and his remains be found here, it wouldn’t portend well for Woja Beki’s relationship with the government and Pexton; he must do everything to keep the man alive.
The other two Pexton men and the driver will remain in Lusaka’s back room. My uncle Manga suggests that my cousin Sonni be responsible for making sure that the captives are well taken care of in Lusaka’s absence. I’ve never thought my cousin to possess much wisdom—he walks sluggishly and talks far too slowly—but this isn’t the time to declare that. I nod and pray Sonni doesn’t fail us. We carry on with the planning. A meeting of the men needs to be held immediately, so that everyone knows what’s going on. But first the Pexton men have to be told that they’ll soon be free. We must keep their hopes alive, lest the other three suddenly fall sick like chickens that have pecked on poisoned corn. We want them to walk with their own feet out of the back room. As soon as our delegation returns from Bézam, after having connected with Kumbum’s nephew and received a guarantee from him that our story will be told to people in America, and that such a telling will indeed make a difference, the men will be captives no more.
We re-enter the back room and tell the men our decision. They’re not happy about it, but they have no recourse.
* * *
—
In the hours that follow, everything we discussed outside the back room happens as we’d hoped. Woja Beki is shaken when he hears that Kumbum might die on us. He asks Pondo many questions about the sick man—are his symptoms contagious? is there a chance the stranger could get well and do something sinister to one of his wives or daughters? he needs to keep his family safe—and Pondo replies that he has no answers, he can give no assurances, we’re all forging ahead with questions that cannot attach themselves to responses, at which point Woja Beki stops asking. He’s learning, just as we’re unlearning, that sometimes the best way forward is to do as commanded and offer no resistance.
Before I head to bed for a rest, I pack my raffia bag. Yaya does not cry when I kneel before her and ask for her blessings. She blesses me and wishes me a safe journey. She promises she’ll take care of my brother’s family in my absence. Sahel wraps up food for me and fills my wa
ter bottle. Juba gives me a long hug. Thula sits alone on the veranda and ignores my attempt to assure her that I’ll return in a few days.
* * *
—
We meet in the square before dawn—Lusaka, myself, and Tunis. The decision to make Tunis the third man was an easy one: Tunis’s sense of direction is the best in Kosawa, and we’ll need it to help us find the newspaperman’s office, much as we had relied on it to help us navigate the city when we went to search for Malabo.
We are about to head for the bus stop in Gardens when we hear a rustling. I think it to be no more than the sound of an early-morning breeze bothering tree leaves, perhaps warning of a coming rain, but it is not stirring air. It is Konga. He’s back in his spot, under the mango tree. Our thoughts solely on Bézam, we hadn’t seen him sleeping under a brown sheet. I move a finger to my lips, and the other men nod, a signal that they too have seen him. Together, we lift our feet off the ground slowly and return them with deliberation—we do not want to awaken the madman and be forced to reckon with whatever is bound to come out of his mouth when he opens his eyes and sees us.
Too late.
“My guess is that you’re heading somewhere important,” he says from behind us.
We stop. Should we turn around or keep walking? The voice is his, but which Konga is speaking? Our newfound sage, or longtime menace? Should we listen to what he has to say? Lusaka decides we should; he turns around to face Konga.
“Good morning, Konga,” he says, moving toward the madman. Konga flips off his sheet from over his body and stands up.
“May I ask where you’re all heading to?” he says. His politeness is uncalled for; from it I discern little about his current state.
“We’re going to Bézam,” I say.
“Bézam,” he repeats. “And are you going to tell me why you’re going to Bézam?”
I look at Lusaka. I decide it’s better to let him do the rest of the talking, so I remain silent, looking toward Gardens; I hope we don’t miss the bus. Lusaka says nothing for a while, clearly searching for the proper response to Konga’s question.
“I’m waiting and waiting for a response and I’ve got nothing to do but more waiting so I’ll wait until I have nothing else to do but wait,” the madman says. He’s speaking in a singsong manner, smiling. Patches of dried saliva are in the corners of his mouth. A large crust of snot is visible in his nostrils. I dare not avert my gaze from his face lest he think me afraid of him. I’m not afraid of him. If I’m to succeed as the leader of this operation, I cannot be afraid of anyone, sane or insane.
“We received some advice last night,” Lusaka begins. “We were given the name of someone in Bézam who can help us, so we’re going to meet him.”
“And this person is…”
“This person is an important person. We were given very good advice.”
“Would you like my advice on if the advice you got is indeed very good advice?”
Lusaka looks at me, and I nod, and he proceeds to tell Konga all what Kumbum had suggested we do. Konga does not blink as Lusaka speaks. He stares at Lusaka as if Lusaka has traveled a great distance to deliver stale news. I grow even more concerned we’ll miss the bus—Lusaka is going into every detail of what Kumbum told us.
Konga continues staring at Lusaka after Lusaka is done talking. When he finally takes his eyes off Lusaka’s face, they land on mine.
“You won’t find what you’re looking for in Bézam,” he says to me.
“We might not,” Lusaka agrees, “but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”
“Why try when you know you’re going to fail?”
“Isn’t it better to try and fail than to do nothing?”
“What we need isn’t one more failure, Lusaka Lamaliwa. The world is crumbling under the weight of failures. Look around you. What do you see besides failures? Do we need more of them?”
“No, but we need people bigger than us to join our fight.”
Konga throws his head back and laughs. “Someone bigger, someone smaller, someone neither big nor small, which is better?” Lusaka looks at me—should we attempt a response to a madman’s riddle? “You call yourself small,” Konga goes on. “And you say it with no shame.”
“There’s no shame in admitting that we’re in need of help from those with the power to free us,” I say.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Konga says, as if he’s heard such rubbish too many times. “But let me tell you something, sweet child. Something you may never have heard before and might never hear again after today: we are the only ones who can free ourselves.”
Right, I say to myself—the children die on, the gas flares rage on, the pipelines spill on, we’re in danger of annihilation, and we’re fully capable of freeing ourselves.
“That is all true, Konga Wanjika,” Lusaka replies. “Our ancestors passed on to us great powers, and we can indeed do much for ourselves, but the thing is that we haven’t been successful at it with Pexton. If we can tell our story to the people in America—”
“They came from America and destroyed us, and now you want to go to them and beg them to come save us?”
“It’s not the same people,” I say, though what I really want to say is that we have to leave now. “The people who own Pexton and the people who’ll do whatever needs to be done to make Pexton stop hurting us are two different kinds of American people.”
“But they’re not different, beautiful young man,” Konga says, walking closer to me and looking into my eyes—for the first time in my life, I feel as if he’s seen me, not merely noticed me as one of dozens of young men in Kosawa. “You do understand that all people from overseas are the same, don’t you? The Americans, the Europeans, every single overseas person who has ever set foot on our soil, you know they all want the same thing, don’t you?”
How does he remember the Europeans when he has no memory?
“You’re young,” he says. “Someday, when you’re old, you’ll see that the ones who came to kill us and the ones who’ll run to save us are the same. No matter their pretenses, they all arrive here believing they have the power to take from us or give to us whatever will satisfy their endless wants.”
“Are you saying—?”
“I’m saying you should turn around and go back to your huts. Tomorrow we’ll continue fighting for ourselves.”
Tunis looks at me beseechingly. I can tell from his eyes that Konga has convinced him. He wants to return to his hut. He’s ready to abandon our mission because a madman thinks we can defeat His Excellency and an American corporation all by ourselves. I’m tempted to tell him to hurry back to his wife and children and forget about ever joining our fight. I want to assure him that if his children were to die the stain of their blood would be on his palms forever. The words almost leave my tongue, but I hold them back and breathe it out—a man’s anger is often no more than a safe haven for his cowardice.
I thank Konga for his advice and tell him that we did not pack our bags for this journey only to return to our beds, mission unaccomplished. Lusaka nods. We’ve done everything we could possibly do and considered many options, I say. Going to Bézam today seems the best viable option we have left.
“There is a way that seems right to a man,” the madman calls out as we turn our backs on him to continue our journey, “but in the end it leads to destruction.”
We keep walking. Just as we settle on the path to Gardens, Tunis says what I’d seen in his eyes. “Perhaps we should heed Konga,” he mutters, looking at the ground.
“Go home,” Lusaka screams at him before I have a chance to respond. Lusaka is pointing toward Kosawa, his voice trembling with rage. “Go home, and after you’ve buried two sons you can come back and let me know whether it’s better to listen to a madman or to listen to your heart. Turn around right now and never return.”
Tunis does not
turn around. We do the rest of our walk in silence.
* * *
We take the first bus from Gardens just as the laborers are finishing their breakfast, and the second bus leaves Lokunja at noonday. From there, two more rides on crowded buses with little moving air. I take window seats every time and look at trees rushing past as I think about those childhood days, long gone, when Kosawa was far from untainted but abundant in carefreeness, when children had few worries, when I had Malabo.
He always had his age-mates, my brother, and I had mine—we kicked balls and climbed trees in separate corners of the village—but my favorite days were the days when our groups played together and I could watch him kick balls the farthest, climb trees the highest; even if it weren’t so, it was so to me, because he was my older brother, so tall and strong, no one could ever be better than him. Whenever we went into the forest with the other boys to search for bush plums, he made sure I walked in front of him. Not just me, but also the little boys who had no big brothers—someone had to mind them, and if no one did, it was up to Malabo. Yaya said it was because he was a firstborn child, that firstborn children are innately responsible, though she could offer no explanation for all the firstborns in the village who continued playing with their friends while their siblings cried in a corner.
Malabo wanted everyone to feel safe. He was eager to protect me and desperate to make Yaya happy. Whenever our father, in his moments of fury, kicked away his dinner, Malabo would always be the one to pick it up so Yaya wouldn’t have to.
You know that’s how he is, Yaya always said with a shrug whenever I went to her to complain about my father’s uncontrollable anger; you know he’s not good at being happy. But why? I would ask. Because he was born that way, Bongo—that’s why. But how come everyone else in the village smiles and he’s the only person who never smiles? Because he’s the way he is; why should he pretend he’s like everyone else? Doesn’t he get tired of being miserable year after year? I wanted to know. Was it a curse? All Yaya could tell me was that my father’s sorrows began when he was still in his mother’s womb—a relative with whom his father had a land dispute had turned into a python and strangled his father to death. Weeks later, his mother, still in mourning, had died while giving birth to him. With no mother or father alive, his older sister had taken him to her hut and raised him as one of her children. His sister breastfed him alongside her own baby and put him to sleep on her bed, she and her husband nestling both babies so neither child would wake up at night alone and afraid in their new, confounding world.