Radiance of Tomorrow: A Novel

by Ishmael Beah

  “Good evening, students and teachers.” The principal parked his motorcycle and walked onto the veranda in between the two groups of children separated by an opening for the teachers to be able to walk on and off the veranda.

  “Good evening, Principal Fofanah,” the children said in unison as they did in school and turned their heads to the blackboard. They had to tilt their heads to properly see the raised board. They stared at one blackboard that had two different lessons. Benjamin flanked the board on the left and Bockarie on the right, with a thick white line in the middle of the board separating the teachers’ handwriting. They had wanted to saw the board in half but the carpenter had asked for too much money for the task.

  “I have never seen this sort of efficient usage of a blackboard before. Two teachers using the same board to teach two separate lessons? Carry on, gentlemen,” the principal said and walked to where the elders sat.

  Bockarie eyed Benjamin to keep calm. Benjamin was teaching grammar and Bockarie was teaching Shakespeare’s King Lear.

  “You, stand up and give me a sentence using a reflexive verb and pronoun.” Benjamin pointed his long cane at a girl, who stood up and made a sentence. He pointed at another student, a boy, who stood to point out which word in the sentence just made was the reflexive verb and which the pronoun.

  Immediately outside the veranda were young boys hanging around, mostly orphans, former soldiers and currently not in school. They enjoyed the lessons and quietly guessed the answers to one another, sometimes betting money. The older people were seated in the yard. Pa Kainesi, who didn’t know about what had transpired between the principal and the two teachers, greeted him.

  “Principal, welcome, sir. It is a good thing that you are doing for all the children in this area. Please make sure they don’t close our school.”

  “Thank you, Father, it is great to get my small work acknowledged by such wise elders as yourselves. I will continue to work hard for our children.” He pointed toward the veranda and made a show of his support for what Benjamin and Bockarie were doing. When he was done, he went behind the house to urinate. Benjamin told his students to write a sentence so as to turn their attention to their notebooks. He also made sure that no one was looking when he climbed over the stoop and threw a stone at the motorcycle. Bockarie’s eyes caught him just when the stone was about to leave his fingers. It landed on the petrol tank and the motorcycle fell on the ground, its side dragging in the dust. The principal came running and knew one of the teachers was responsible but couldn’t prove it. He said nothing, just picked up his motorcycle and left. Bockarie eyed Benjamin hard, and he shrugged, indicating the principal deserved it.

  The lessons resumed with the voice of a boy reading out loud a line from King Lear, “‘When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.’”

  “Again.” Bockarie pointed his ruler at the boy, whose voice the wind carried until the appointed time when nature began its call for the departure of that day’s blue sky.

  5

  IT WAS A SATURDAY that everyone in Imperi would remember. They were woken by a sound that wasn’t part of the daily call for the arrival of morning. A siren began to wail around 5:00 a.m., and people came outside onto their verandas and into their yards with inquiring and confused faces. They looked at their neighbors for some explanation, but no one knew anything. The women began packing a few things and preparing the children to run away if it came to that. Meanwhile, the men hurriedly dressed and gathered at the compound of the acting chief of the town.

  “I do not know what that is, my people,” the old man, who had barely been present as a chief, told the men before they even had a chance to speak. They all stood around listening to the siren that resumed every five minutes. After an hour, they saw dark smoke rising in the distance. Some guessed that it was coming from the place where a mining company had tried to set up before the war. As they whispered among themselves, they heard many vehicles coming toward town. This was unusual, so the men dispersed, running to their homes to get their families and depart. However, they stopped as they soon saw that the vehicles were filled with nervous-looking white men, more nervous than they were. Behind the convoy of about ten vehicles were several trucks filled with machinery, equipment, fridges, and boxes of food. Most of the town’s population came to the main road and watched the convoy go by to the hills beyond town, where the mining company later built one of its staff compounds.

  They had come to mine rutile, a black or reddish-brown mineral consisting of titanium dioxide, which forms needlelike crystals in rocks in the earth. Rutile is used as a coating on welding rods; as pigment in paints, plastics, paper, and foods; and in sunscreen to protect against ultraviolet rays. And wherever rutile is found, you also find zircon, ilmenite, bauxite, and, in the case of Lion Mountain, diamonds. Not that the mining companies reveal they are mining all of these minerals. They obtain permits to dig up only one—rutile. So it is rutile alone that is mentioned in the reports it sends out, but the workers come to learn the truth.

  Soon after the convoy passed, and people had returned to their homes, still on alert and making sure all their family members were within arm’s reach, chiefs from the surrounding towns arrived to meet with the chief of Imperi. None of them had been advised of the arrival of the mining company, and they wanted to collectively send a message to the paramount chief demanding an explanation. At the very least, the fearful population should have been spared the anxiety of thinking war had returned. The chiefs decided to pay a visit to the paramount chief the following day.

  The next morning, as though whoever had given permission from the government anticipated dissent from the people of Imperi who owned the land that the mining company would start operating on for minerals, a number of private security personnel arrived carrying heavy weapons and ammunition. The sight of such uniformed and armed men aroused fear and anger in the dispirited people. They didn’t want to return to anything closer to what had happened here not so long ago. When women and children who were on their way to the river, to farms, and to markets saw the 4 × 4 vehicles filled with armed men, they dropped whatever they were carrying and ran either toward town to alert their families or into the bushes. The foreigners in the front seat of some of these vehicles laughed at what they considered an uncalled-for and silly reaction. By the time the armed men and foreigners passed through town, people were already packing up whatever little they had acquired and running away. The commotion of women screaming for their children and hurried footsteps filled the air. When some of the men learned that these were personnel for the company, they ran about town calling for calm, but half the population had already made it far into the forest and only returned days later. The town was tense that night and some days that followed.

  The ease that some of the young boys and girls who had been in the war had started feeling was immediately replaced by the habits of survival because of the guns and uniformed men that passed through town every so often. Most of these children no longer slept; their eyes became more vigilant and they spent nights in the bushes at the edges of Imperi.

  The paramount chief was the head of all the local chiefs in various towns around Imperi and was the direct representative of the people to the minister of the province, who resided in the capital. Thus, all grievances beyond local matters went through the paramount chief. All the local chiefs who had agreed to ascertain why the arrival of the mining company hadn’t been discussed with the people, or at least announced to them, made the journey to visit the chief two days earlier than they had planned because of the arrival of the armed security.

  She lived in one of the dilapidated villages, her house the only one in good condition and with a generator. When the chiefs arrived, having walked five miles from Imperi, where they gathered for the journey, they were treated to cold water, a rarity in this part of the country and sometimes enough to distract people from pursuing their grievances—and this was exactly what happened. The paramount chie
f told her guests, while supplying them cold water and soft drinks, that she would take up the matter with whoever was in charge. She added that they should be happy for now, as the mining company’s arrival was a good thing.

  “They are bringing jobs!” she exclaimed, but no one shared her excitement. She had no intention of looking into the complaint and wouldn’t mention anything to anyone. She knew of the company’s arrival and had received her bribe and some of the supplies the foreigners had brought. Nonetheless, the chiefs had faith in her and believed that she would represent her people. Perhaps it was because of what had happened during the war in their land that they thought no one would work against their people in the very early wake of that madness, or perhaps it was something else. Whatever it was, they were mistaken.

  The week that followed brought about changes that no one anticipated so soon. Starting that Monday, very early in the morning before the cock crowed, until deep at night when the world shivers from the cloak of darkness, the machines rattled as they were assembled and tested. Each time the engines started again after a quick interval, it seemed their sounds chased silence farther out of the land. The ugly din interrupted the chanting of the birds so much that they stopped singing and instead listened, bobbing their heads on the treetops as they looked around inquiringly. The sounds of the machines were followed by thick smoke from the bowels of their engines; the smoke quickly blanketed the clouds and cast a dark glow around town. The smell made even the dogs sneeze, some chewing on plants perhaps to cure themselves.

  The people of Imperi were beginning to believe in the new life of their town. They no longer leapt up when children suddenly shouted in joy while playing. They remained relaxed on their verandas when strangers emerged from the paths. But the town’s revival was fragile. If the elders had been asked, they would have advised the company to let Imperi become stable before beginning operations. But this wasn’t the case, and the presence of the mining company took the town and its people in a direction of “many crooked roads,” as the elders said, softening the truth about the devastation that gradually became accepted as the only condition possible for the inhabitants. The direction to the crooked roads began with the arrival of mostly men, including the foreigners, as employees and those looking for work. They were everywhere in their hard hats—surveying the roads with long poles and equipment, while the children gathered around to marvel, waiting to be picked up by vehicles for work, sitting by the roadside to eat their lunches.

  Then, older students, mostly boys over eighteen, stopped going to school and sought employment. The possibility of an immediate salary was enticing in a place where it was difficult to find any way to earn income. Soon, some of the teachers followed their students to labor in hazardous conditions for just a few more leones—not a significant difference from what they had earned, but at least it was steady pay.

  Machines were everywhere grading only the roads that the company needed to use for its work and nothing more. Water pipes were laid past the town to the quarters for workers. At the end of the day, the same workers who had laid the pipes all day would send their children to look for water miles out of town for them to wash their dirty bodies. They would buy cold water to drink, if they had money; otherwise, they drank the same water that they washed with, which made their bodies itch.

  Electricity poles with live wires passed through the town to power mining operations, headquarters, and living quarters. The electricians were issued flashlights to navigate the darkness back to their homes after work, where their children studied under dim kerosene lamps, their eyes struggling to see their old notebooks.

  “Here, son, use my flashlight and move that lamp away. I can see the dark smoke settling inside your nose,” a father said, setting his light on the stoop of the veranda. The boy smiled up at his father and resumed his work, writing neatly in his notebook on the lopsided table that he propped up with his foot to keep straight. The next day his father walked home in the darkness; his battery had died and he was warned that next time he would be sacked if he used his flashlight for any purposes other than walking home after work or going to dark areas where they needed electric cables laid out. Therefore, he didn’t sit next to his child on the veranda that night, and nights after, afraid that he might not be able to restrain himself from turning the light on for his son.

  More bars opened in town, and at night music blared out and drunken men harassed the young women who walked by. The elders no longer told stories in the town square, as the fracas from the bar prevented the quiet necessary for stories to pierce the hearts and minds of the young. With nothing better to do, the younger people went to the bars and stood around observing the white and black workers. They called it “going to watch television.” Most nights ended with heated conversations and bottles thrown at walls or heads; or else swearing accompanied by laughs so hurtful to the ears they could come only from wounded souls. Sometimes one of the senior workers—he could be black, he could be white—would stagger out of the bar and, barely able to stand, urinate in public, shaking his penis at whoever was around. Then he’d climb into his Toyota Hilux and, not caring if anyone was in the way, drive away fast.

  One night, one of the white workers around the age of thirty-five (or so he looked; one could never tell with sun-beaten white men) pissed all over the town hall where the elders gathered. He had a bottle of Heineken in one hand, and the other hand controlled his privates as he turned around in circles, soaking benches, chairs, the ceiling, and the floor, shouting, “I am Michelangelo and I am making my masterpiece.” The young people watched in amazement and shock. The man threw some money at them and demanded, “Clap, clap for me,” as he went on. The young people scrambled for the money and clapped for him. Pa Moiwa had heard the commotion and come to the scene. With his presence, the young people ceased clapping and the man stopped to see why they had suddenly gone quiet. His eyes met the old man’s.

  “You clearly do not know what comes out of your mouth. If you want to be funny, you could say you are Jackson Pollock, not Michelangelo. But you are neither of those people.” Pa Moiwa shook his head in disgust. “Do you behave in such a manner in the land you are from?”

  The man burped. “You speak good English, old man. I was just painting here a little bit!”

  “In your land, do you urinate in public spaces? Isn’t it a public health violation?”

  “Are you getting smart with me?”

  “Not yet. I am not sure if I should waste my words on an idiot who thinks he can paint with his piss.”

  The man zipped his trousers and brushed against Pa Moiwa as he turned back toward the bar. “I am going for more paint, my work isn’t done,” he said loudly. “When I am finished, you will always remember John.” He laughed.

  Pa Moiwa turned to the young people standing around, who wiped the smiles off their faces, ashamed they had laughed at the man’s actions. “Why do they always give good names to such misguided spirits? And why do you watch such behavior?”

  Pa Moiwa mumbled to himself. He had wanted to explain to the man that he was pissing on sacred ground where wise men and women had sat for generations to discuss important matters about this land. But it was not worth telling him these things.

  “Go fetch some water and wash this place clean, all of you. This is your punishment for standing by and encouraging the white man.”

  As the young people set about doing what they had been ordered to do, Pa Moiwa went to see his friends and recounted what had happened. Pa Kainesi and Mama Kadie agreed that they should speak to one of the senior supervisors in charge of all the foreign and local employees, a stocky light-skinned fellow by the name of Wonde. Wonde was easy to find in town—he parked his vehicle outside the house of whichever woman he spent the night with.

  Colonel had arrived at the end of John’s misbehavior. He stood in the dark, away from the gathering by the town hall, and waited until everyone had dispersed. He knew the arrogance of the fellow would bring him back after mor
e beers at the bar.

  Hours passed, and most people were already in their beds when screams rang out. Men came running with flashlights. The elders came, too.

  On the ground, in front of the hall, was the splayed-out figure of John. His face was swollen from blows and his hands had been tied behind his back with his own shirt, which had been torn to make a rope. He couldn’t speak—a beer bottle had been stuck in his mouth and he was struggling not to swallow the liquid in it as he lay on his back. When someone removed the bottle, he spat out repeatedly.

  “I am going to find that savage and kill him,” he shouted.

  “Who are you speaking of?” Pa Kainesi asked.

  “One of you attacked me for no reason! I was just joking around…” One of the armed men who had arrived untied him and took him away, the crowd’s eyes following them as they climbed into the company vehicle.

  “It is urine in the beer bottle that he was drinking,” Miller said, sniffing, as he held the bottle at arm’s length. The crowd turned their eyes away from the vehicle and regarded Miller.

  John had urinated in the bottle with the intention of throwing it at the walls inside the town hall building. But before he completed his task, someone had turned the tables on him.

  In his room, Colonel lay on his back, his eyes fixed on the spiderweb in the corner of the ceiling. The veins on his forehead came alive and his teeth clenched as he fought to hold at bay the tormented images dancing in his mind. The spiderweb had a calming effect on him. He admired how resourceful the spider was in catching prey and living without any external help.

  That morning, the elders sent some boys to look around town and locate Wonde’s vehicle. They quickly found it and relayed the message to the elders, who waited for Wonde by his Toyota.

  Emerging on the veranda, yawning, he stopped in his tracks when he saw them, then he turned his back to them to properly zip up his trousers and button his shirt. Turning around, his body language and face projected cunning, so the men knew that whatever he said wouldn’t be the truth.