by Dilman Dila
Indeed, the slave was starving. He watched her devour the meal with her bare hands, in a savage fashion, smearing her mouth with grease from the goat offal. She gulped down the milk, and some of it splashed onto her chin. The sound of her feasting accentuated the silence. When she had licked every bit off the bowl, drained the gourd of the milk, she lay on the bed, facedown, and promptly fell asleep.
He threw a light bed sheet made out of bark over her. After about five minutes of admiring her and fantasying about what a great time he would have once her wounds healed, he went back into the workshop to paint flowers on a vase. He remembered the gift he had given Akello on the day he had asked her to marry him, a vase. It had a circular pattern of yellow and blue, her favorite colors. That vase still survived. She kept it in their living room. He often thought that she had stuffed their love into it the way people used to put ashes of the dead in urns, as though it were something to be admired from afar, a reminder of what they once had and can never enjoy again.
Akello certainly would report his behavior, tell the abasura how he had used colonial names and that he had stopped her from performing her duties. The abasura would then throw him in jail for several days of hard labor, and subject him to the torturous sermon of a cultural teacher every evening. They would try to make him behave like everyone else, to pretend that his first twenty years never existed, that he never went to school to get an education modeled on non-African values, to abandon love and romance in the name of the reintroduction of African culture. He could not take that kind of life anymore.
He looked at the vase he was painting, at the flowers, and he had the sudden dream of dropping everything and running away with the mzungu. Fleeing somewhere far out of sight, far from the hate. They could make a paradise of their own in a little island of seclusion. But where would such a place be? Would she agree to it simply because he had saved her life?
He became aware of the dim image of his face caught in the vase, his eyes looking vacant, his beard thick on his face. Would she find him attractive? He ran into the bathroom, rummaged through the shelves until he found an old razor, and then he slashed off his beard. He cut himself a few times. In a few days bumps would form all over his chin, but he liked the fresh image he saw. The beauty of his youth once again graced his smile. He was glad to see that the dimples of his childhood were still deep and enchanting.
He peeped at the sleeping woman. She snored lightly, her eyes closed in deep peace. The medicine he had rubbed on her body had stained the bed sheets. It gave the room a faint, sweetish odor that made him think of flowers in the paradise he would create with her. Quietly, he closed the door and hurried to the vidisimu.
He punched the machine into life, called up a map and searched for paradise. He found it after two hours. A tiny island about three hundred meters in diameter, hidden away in a vast swamp in the Kyoga basin. The nearest neighbor would be ten miles away. The seller suggested it would be a nice spot for a fish farm. The price was half of his monthly earnings. A bird’s eye video showed a natural fountain in the island, sprouting into a small stream that sparkled in the sunlight as it flowed through the lush greenery into the swamp. Little trees with brightly colored flowers grew all around. Birds sang and insects chirped happily. He could see himself on a canoe, fishing in the stream, while his mzungu swam stark naked, her hair floating in the water like a separate living creature.
Before the dream could fade into doubt and reason, he paid for the island and instantly received the land title. He printed out the documents of the transaction, as well as a map and video image of the island, and then he shut down the vidisimu. He laid the video print on the table, and watched the one-minute segment play itself over and over again.
“What are you smiling at?”
The voice startled him out of his reverie. She had woken up. She walked over to the table, her footsteps so light that she made no sound as she glided over the wooden floor. She looked at the video, and then turned to him, a question in her eyes.
“I just bought it,” he said. “For you.”
Her eyes widened. She looked at the video again, and then at his smiling face. He hoped she could see he had shaved for her.
“There is no neighbor for ten miles,” he said. “You could live there forever and no one would ever find you. But, of course, you won’t be alone.” He paused for effect. His smile showed off a strong set of teeth and black gums, a smile his wife had once described as ‘dashing.’ “I’ll be with you.”
She collapsed onto a chair and buried her face in her palms. He hated himself for being so blunt, but he could not think of anything else he could have said to her. How else could he seduce her in such a short time? In the novels and films he used to enjoy, the hero had to woo the heroine with flowers and dinner dates. They had to get to know each other well before falling madly in love and living happily ever after. He did not have the luxury of time to engage in that kind of romance. He pictured himself to be in a story in which the heroic deed of the boy helps him win the girl without going through the phase of flowers and dining. He had saved her life. What could be more heroic than that?
“My mother said she once had a black lover,” she finally spoke, looking up at him. Her small mouth trembled, and he thought it was with an urge to kiss him. “I didn’t believe her. I thought all blacks were evil. But now I see what she meant when she said there are good black people.”
She paused. Their eyes locked. A green cloud of light blossomed from her eyes. His heart revved up in anticipation. It was going to be as easy as he had imagined.
“But tell me,” she said. “What happens if two years down the road someone sets up a home near the island? What happens if a bruka flies by and someone sees a white woman playing amidst the flowers?”
Kopet had not thought about that. The happily ever after of his dreams had seemed so real that there could not be a bleak possibility. He looked down at the video print again, saw the birds flying in an endless loop, the butterflies hovering over the flowers, the fountain shooting water into the sky, the stream sparkling in the sunlight.
“I don’t want to be a fugitive for the rest of my life,” she said. “I was born in a camp. I’ve lived there all my life. But I refuse to be a slave anymore. I want freedom.”
He wanted to sit down beside her and throw his arms around her. He wanted to tell her that she would not be his slave, and that he would do everything in his power to see that she lives the rest of her life in paradise.
“I was flying to Europe when the bruka crashed,” she said. “It was an old model. It could not endure a non-stop long distance flight, especially with the abasura chasing me. But it was the only thing I could steal from the camp.” She looked out of the door, at his yellow aircraft gleaming in the sunshine. “Yours has an engine. What speed can it do? Three hundred?”
He nodded, still unable to speak.
“Mum said that Europe is about six thousand kilometers away. That means I can make it in – how many hours? Eighteen? Twenty? Twenty four?”
No one Kopet knew had attempted that kind of journey on the small aircraft. Maybe it could survive a day of non-stop flight. Maybe not.
“You could come with me,” she said. “I hear Europe is a better place.”
That’s what he heard a lifetime ago, when still in the refugee camps. He wondered what kind of life he would have had if he and Akello had gone to Sweden. He wondered even more whether he would be happier if he eloped with this mzungu. Such a flight would be futile. His wife would notice his absence sooner or later. She would then call the abasura, who would scan the air and pick out his bruka from the hundreds of millions.
Even if they somehow made it, he could not be sure that Europe was a better place, especially not for him. For ten years the Emperor had closed Africa to the world, arguing that such a blackout would ensure a proper re-indoctrination of his people. No news came in. No news went out. The last news from outside was grim. Nazis and the Ku Klux Klan had re-emerged.
Millions of blacks were expelled from Europe and America, those who refused to leave were lynched and enslaved.
“I cannot stay here,” she said. “I have to go.”
He nodded. There was no way for them to be together. No fairytale romance. No paradise. Just a dream of what it might have been if the world was a better place.
“It is impossible to escape,” she said. “But I’ll die trying.”
It hurt that his dreams were simply that, childish dreams. He avoided looking at her, as though that would bring back the happiness he derived from his fantasies just a few minutes ago. He was aware of her physical presence, of her warmth. He remembered the feel of her skin on his fingers. She exuded a pleasant scent, like a mixture of onions and lemons, courtesy of the herbal ointment he had smeared on her.
“If you set off now, you might just be able to make it.” He spoke in a voice so low he could barely hear himself. “Two solar blocks power the engine, but I suggest you do more peddling during the day so as to ensure you don’t run out of power in the night.”
She seemed surprised by the offer. She slowly rose to her feet and touched his shoulder. Her palms were warm. She kissed his cheek. Her lips were warm. Then she kissed him on the lips, a long kiss that left him breathless. She broke away, they looked into each other’s eyes for several seconds, and he saw a light sparkling in her eyes, a vision of what happiness means. She suddenly turned away from him and ran out.
He followed her to the door, and watched her climb into the bruka. The windows were tinted, to reduce the amount of sunlight getting into the aircraft. This worked to her advantage. A casual observer would not notice a hairless white woman piloting the craft. He saw her examine the controls for several seconds. Though his was the latest model, the controls were very similar to that of the first models. She would have no problem learning to fly it on the go.
He stood on the door watching the sky long after she had vanished into the blue. Only then did he realize that he did not know her name.
What he did next, how he explained his missing bruka, could help her escape or destroy her. First, he fixed the broken window. Next, he closed the door and all the windows, drawing the curtains. Anyone who came to the workshop would think there was no one home. To cement the illusion, he called home. He was relieved that their eldest child, and not Akello, answered.
“I’ve just bought land to start a fish farm,” he told the boy. “Please tell your mother that I will be out all day. I won’t return home until late in the night, maybe until after midnight.”
“Okay,” the boy said.
He shut down the vidisimu. He stood for several moments watching it, expecting it to flash into life with a call from his wife, who would demand that she serves him lunch first as was her duty. The machine stayed dead.
He went down into his secret hole. He found a rosary on the wall. The mzungu woman had left it behind, a farewell gift. Though he had not been a Catholic, he wore it. The warm wood embraced his skin with memories of her kiss.
She floated in his head as he searched through the pile of musty books. When he came upon Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café, memories of Akello flooded in, filling him with confusing emotions. He pulled the book from the pile. Puffs of dust stung his nose as he flipped through the pages. He could not remember why the book had caught his attention, that day a lifetime ago in the refugee camp. He had attempted to steal it from the library. Being the only copy, it was in the reference only section. The librarian caught him, and banned him from using the library for a month. Several days later, Akello surprised him when she ran into his tent, waving the book. She had succeeded in stealing it.
Now, he took it to the backroom and lay on the bed. The warmth of the fugitive was still on the sheets, the sweetish scent of onions and lemons still lingered in the air, the dreams that she ignited still burned in his brain. A heavy cloud enshrouded him, as it dawned that he could never find another love like Akello. His sweet Kay was now lost to him.
He began to read. The words of Flagg transported him back to the lost world, where blacks were the oppressed. He did not know if that was a better world, but he wished to go back to it, if only to once again swim in the love of Kay.
Night came. Darkness filled the room. He wondered how far the mzungu had gone, whether she was still free and flying to freedom, or whether they had intercepted her and she was now in a torture chamber somewhere, chained, or back in a slave camp. There would be no mention of her in the news. The Emperor wanted to erase white people from memory. He decreed that talking about them, for whatever reason, was a capital crime. Kopet recalled a neighbor who, while supping with his family, had talked about a German friend he once had. The man’s six-year-old son had then asked, ‘What is a mzungu?’ and the man’s wife had quickly replied, ‘It’s an imaginary creature like the flying pigs’. The next day she reported him to the abasura and they executed him at the firing squad.
Kopet switched on a small lamp, shielded the light and continued reading. When the vidisimu rang, he jumped up on the bed in fright. It was nearly nine o’clock. He was supposed to be home. He turned off the light and sat tense on the bed until the vidisimu went quiet. It erupted again several minutes later. He listened to the bells peal for long time before the caller gave up. For the next hour, there were ten other calls, then a long silence. He wondered when Akello would report his absence to the abasura. When they would scan the skies for his aircraft, trace it within an hour and force it to land. He closed his eyes and prayed for the fugitive.
They had destroyed all churches and mosques, all Hindu temples and the magnificent Bahai temple that once stood on a hill in Kampala. Yet they could not take away his faith. Sometimes he thought of the Emperor as the antichrist in the book of Revelations. Now, he fingered the rosary the fugitive had left behind, as he had seen Catholics do, and said a prayer for her protection.
The flapping of wings interrupted his prayer. A bruka shone a light upon the workshop. He sighed, relieved that it was not a police search. It must be Akello. The thought gave him hope. She had not yet reported his absence. The fugitive still had a chance. The bruka hovered about for nearly ten minutes before going away.
He could not read anymore. He was afraid to turn on the lights. He could not pray. He was afraid to breath, thinking that someone would hear and know he was hiding in the darkness. He sat still, listening to the music of crickets, to an owl on the roof. He fell asleep.
He only meant to close his eyes for a few moments and then call his wife at midnight. When he opened them, daylight filled the room. Hunger tickled his stomach. The thought that he had overslept and ruined the mzungu’s escape banged his head like a hammer. If he had called home at midnight, he might have cooked up a story that his wife would have believed. Now, she would be certain that something had happened to him. She probably had already reported it to the abasura, and they had probably already scanned the skies and found the fugitive. He staggered into the workshop, running for the vidisimu, hoping it had not happened as he feared, that the mzungu still had a chance.
He punched a button to start the vidisimu, and then he heard a voice that filled him with a sense of déjà vu.
“Hello, Mike,” a woman said.
It struck him as though someone had fired a freezer gun and turned him into a block of ice. A ghost. The ghost of Kay. No one ever called him Mike. They used to call him Michael. But it could not be a ghost. The Kay he knew and loved no longer existed. She had transformed into Akello, a creature obsessed with the Emperor’s insane indoctrination. Yet it could not be Akello. It had to be Kay. The ghost from the past. She had floated through time and spoken in a voice that tinkled in the murky light of dawn like the song of a clock. She had called him Mike.
Slowly, he turned around. A figure sat in the shadows. It wore a flowered yellow dress. He remembered that dress. He had bought it for her on her eighteenth birthday, with the first money he earned as a potter. He was now certain she was a ghost for h
e had watched that dress burn in a bonfire against white culture. Akello must have died in the night and now her ghost had came to haunt him.
“I remember your name,” she said. “I remember this dress.”
She stood up, and then he realized the dress was not made of cotton, but of paper. It was an imitation of the gift. His terror turned into confusion. She walked towards him, the dress rustling. The movement caused it to rip, and fall off her body. She had nothing on underneath. Her breasts pointed at him like mangoes. She threw her arms around him and kissed him in the mouth, the way she had first kissed him in the camp. They had been in a classroom, at night, revising their books, no other student in sight, when suddenly the lights went out in a power blackout. The moon shone through the windows, painting a magical blue world. Without a word, she walked over to his desk and kissed him, starting their romance. Two months later, he bought her that dress. Now, she kissed him again with the same passion of newfound love. He tasted her tongue, after such a long time, bit into her luscious lips, felt her breasts pressing hard against him, felt her warmth flood into his blood.
They made love on the wooden floor. He enjoyed once again listening to her groans and the sounds of pleasure that had graced his tent. He whispered into her ears, the same promises he made to her ages ago. He told her how much he still loved her. She replied in whispers and soft moans, asking him to forgive her for betraying their love, reassuring him that she still loved him. They came at the same time, the world exploding, and for a minute they lay on the floor, shuddering in the aftermath of orgasm, entangled in each other’s limbs, smeared in each other’s fluids.
He stared at the ceiling, at the murals he had painted after the old man died, at the yellow birds and red flowers in a green field. He heard her breathing slow down, felt her fingers playing with the hair on his chest, and her words flowed into his ears like a fresh stream feeding a draught stricken land.