Beneath the Lion's Gaze

by Maaza Mengiste

  “Give them room,” Daniel instructed. “Come over here.” He pushed himself deeper into a corner, tucked his legs tighter.

  The prisoners were all shaved, still dressed in the same clothes they’d been arrested in, now torn, stained, and hanging limp on thin bodies. A thick rope snaked around and between their hands and legs, connecting one man painfully to the next. The rope cut each time the truck jerked over a rock.

  “I can’t move,” Mickey said. He tried to get closer to Daniel and looked up to find himself staring across heads and straight at Hailu’s friend Kifle. The long scar on the side of the man’s face glistened in the moonlight like a string of oil as it curved over his jaw. Mickey felt his throat tighten and he dropped his head, ducking out of view.

  “My shoulder might be dislocated,” Kifle said, his whisper carried by the wind to Mickey. “I can’t breathe.” Kifle tried to raise his hand to his chest, but the man sitting next to him whimpered.

  “You cut me when you move,” the man said.

  Some of the prisoners tried to hunch into themselves and further away from Kifle.

  “Someone help me,” Kifle said, starting to cry. “There’s a mistake. They arrested me last night. What did I do wrong?” He tried to rest his head on his own shoulder.

  “Sit up,” an angry voice commanded. “Die like an Ethiopian.”

  Mickey recognized the sharp tones of famed war veteran Colonel Mehari. Next to him, he saw the stoic, grim profile of ex-prime minister Aklilu Habtewold, dressed in a tattered suit and shoeless, sitting upright and gripping the hand of his brother, the former minister of justice, Akalework. Mickey flattened himself against the glass plate and hoped Kifle would stop crying. In front of their truck was another truck, and in front of that truck, another, then another. All were packed with prisoners, and Mickey was sure each prisoner was surrounded by vengeful angels who sat amongst the soldiers and memorized their faces. He hunched as low as he could, dipped his head into the heat trapped by the sweating bodies, and gagged from the stench of fresh urine.

  Some of the men were biting the rope that was mercilessly tight around their wrists, splicing bloody stripes across their mouths. He caught the frustrated sobs of one man who couldn’t curl himself into a ball, every move he made knocked his companions over. Mickey saw the silhouette of the heaving man, a body squirming on its side. Then he closed his eyes to blot it all out.

  The truck lurched into a pothole. Prisoners screamed. Mickey opened his eyes. All he could make out were tumbling arms and legs connected by the steady straight rope.

  “Slow,” Daniel whispered, his hands cupped over his face. “Go slow.” He tapped on the driver’s side window. Tears were rolling down onto his neck. “Do you see the men who are here?” he said to Mickey. “We’re not worthy of their company.”

  “Why is God punishing us?” a man said.

  Mickey saw a man old enough to be his grandfather start to move in the huddle of bodies. Prime Minister Aklilu and his brother shifted to their knees so he could kneel. The old man faltered, then slowly raised his hands. His movement lifted the others’ arms.

  “Let him hear all his children,” the man said. One by one, hands closed around each other in the dark. Mickey imagined a thick-rooted tree pushing through dirt. Kifle moved with the men next to him, and it was then that he finally saw Mickey.

  “Help us!” Kifle said, his arms spreading, moving with the men next to him. “Mickey!” he pleaded. He knelt with his hands in the air, arms wide like naked wings. “Mickey,” he repeated again and again, sobs shaking his thin frame, digging rope into skin.

  “Our Father, who art in heaven …” The men prayed loudly, their voices drowning out Kifle.

  Mickey felt shivers run through his body and put his hands over his ears and turned to Daniel to say something, to cower with him, but saw that he, too, was kneeling with his lips moving rapidly, his head shaking from side to side in his own private protest.

  19.

  THE OLD WOMAN was dressed in black and carried a small horsetail fly swatter on a handwoven leather handle. She stood at the door of Hailu’s house silhouetted by a bright moon, knocking.

  “Emama Seble, please come in,” Hailu said. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you. I was listening to the radio. Mogus called and said he heard shots near his house, but there’s no news about anything like that.” He bowed to the woman.

  Emama Seble offered no greeting. She moved past Hailu into the living room and sat down in his chair, next to the radio. “Everything’s censored anyway,” she said. “What do you expect to hear?” She flicked the swatter and turned off the radio. “Two sick people in one family must be very hard.”

  “We’re grateful Tizita’s home.” Hailu frowned and sat on the sofa next to her.

  Emama Seble was the great-aunt of one of Yonas’s friends, and she lived alone in the compound. Childless, she’d moved in when her husband died. All of the children in the neighborhood tried to avoid the heavyset woman who, since her husband’s death ten years ago, dressed only in black, even though the mourning period was only one year. Stern mothers frightened their children by claiming she had the budah and that she would lay a curse on anyone who misbehaved or dared look into her evil eye.

  “Has she improved?” Emama Seble asked, wiping her forehead with the edge of her long-sleeved sweater. She stared at the frayed ends while waiting for an answer.

  “No.” Hailu sank into the soft cushions. “They don’t think there’s anything left to do. She eats very little that stays down.” He adjusted the pillows.

  “How is Sara?”

  “Not good. She goes to the church every day before even Yonas wakes up. She hardly eats. She doesn’t sleep.”

  Emama Seble twirled a black thread on her sleeve. “She wants to die with the little girl.”

  “How do you know that?” Hailu asked.

  Emama Seble smiled. “I was once a mother.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hailu said. “I didn’t know.”

  “These things happen.” Emama Seble met his gaze. “It must be very hard for you. There’s no logical explanation for what’s happening.”

  “Some tea or coffee?” Hailu stood up. “How rude of me not to ask.”

  “No need. I want to see Sara.” She hoisted herself up with Hailu’s help.

  EMAMA SEBLE BOWED three times in front of the prayer room. An edge of moonlight peeked through the door to her right.

  “She went to church early this morning. I moved Tizzie in my room to let her rest.” He knocked on the door as he opened it. “Sara, Emama Seble has come to visit you.”

  Sara had lost weight, her eyes stared ahead vacantly, and her skin had the ashen coat of dried tears. Emama Seble enveloped her in a hug.

  “Lijjay,” she said. “My child. You feel as if you’ve fallen into this hole alone, don’t you?” She held on despite the young woman’s stiffness.

  “Move. I want my daughter,” Sara said.

  “I’m watching her,” Hailu said.

  “No one can watch her but me.” Sara reached for the door. “Let me go.”

  The old woman’s broad hands traveled over the knots in Sara’s back. The look on her face was tender. “Let me talk to her alone, Hailu.”

  Sara struggled against her embrace, a frantic light in her eyes when she saw Hailu walk out.

  “Sit,” the old woman said once Hailu left. “You don’t think I know? Let me see your legs.” She was brusque again.

  “No.” Sara gathered her skirt around her.

  “Lift your skirt so I can see,” Emama Seble commanded. She shook Sara’s shoulders gently. “Lift it or I’ll do it myself.”

  Sara pulled the hem of her skirt up slowly.

  There were tiny punctures all over her legs, bright and deep. As Sara lifted her skirt, the holes deepened and lengthened. Pockets of pus poked through broken skin and the tiny shards of glass still embedded in her legs sparkled.

  “How many times have you crawled around the church
?” Emama Seble asked, wiping her brow, then her upper lip. She was sweating.

  “Six,” Sara said, staring at the wall in front of her.

  “What God would want this?” Emama Seble muttered. She took Sara’s skirt and pulled it higher. Sara’s knees were open wounds. “Oh no, no. You can’t do this anymore.”

  “I promised Angel Gabriel I would go seven times,” Sara said, her voice small and thin. She tried to cover her legs but Emama Seble held the skirt tight.

  “Nobody else in the family knows about this? These foolish men think you’re just walking?” Emama Seble glanced at the door. “They haven’t asked you anything?”

  “They don’t need to know anything.”

  “Let me clean these wounds for you,” Emama Seble said. “I’m not letting you go to the church again.”

  “No.” But Sara’s voice was flat; it held no force. “My daughter’s dying. Another one is dying, Emama. Leave me alone.” She tried to stand but Emama Seble pushed her back down on the bed.

  Emama Seble rang the bell near the bed. “Bizu, my dear, bring me warm water and a clean towel,” she called out.

  “Lie down.” Emama Seble motioned. “Close your eyes. Let me take this weight for now.”

  “She’s mine.” Sara looked at her knees. “He’s not taking her away.”

  It had been six days since they brought Tizita from the hospital. Six days: so much time in the life of a small girl. Six days of barely any food or water, continual shivers, and never-ending pain. In those six days, Sara had felt her own stomach sink further against her hips, her breasts ached. In those six days, Sara had begun to beg at the foot of the statue of Saint Mary. Tell me how you did it, she pleaded. Tell me how you watched this son of yours die his death, and you did not curse his father. Tell me how you listened to his cries and did not offer yourself in his stead. Tell me what you knew that I do not know. Tell me how you could call yourself a mother, then become a spectator on that spiteful day. Tell me. And it was on the sixth day that Sara remembered, finally, that even Mary had not mourned alone. She’d been sheltered in the arms of her other children, full-bodied evidence of mercy and grace.

  “My only child is dying,” Sara said.

  “Here’s the water and a towel.” Bizu climbed the stairs with slow steps. She lifted filmy, graying eyes to Emama Seble. “If you need anything else, don’t bother with Sofia, she doesn’t know where anything is. I’ll do it.”

  Emama Seble squeezed a steady stream of warm water over Sara’s knees. Sara cringed as it made its way into her cuts.

  “Bring the girl to me,” Emama Seble said. “If you insist on going to the church, do it tomorrow.” She spread the cloth over Sara’s legs and poured out the remaining water. “What you’ve taken must be replaced.”

  “This one is mine,” Sara said. “This one, I’m keeping.”

  “She’s a thread woven into a larger cloth, like all of us. If you take one, you break the others along the way. It must be fixed.” She shook her head. “I can try to help her get well. And the rest, we’ll see …”

  IN THE LIVING ROOM, Hailu was back in his chair, hunched over his radio. Yonas was next to Emama Seble on the sofa. They listened in concerned silence.

  “The Education Ministry announces that the last two years of secondary school and the university will remain closed in preparation for student deployments across Ethiopia to assist in reforms. Counterrevolutionary agitators were arrested for the intent to incite riots. Haile Selassie University has been renamed Addis Ababa University. Victory to our struggling masses! Hebrettesebawinet! The only true means of equality, Ethiopian socialism!”

  Emama Seble shook her head. “Now they’re sending all the troublemakers away? Those villagers aren’t ready for them.”

  Yonas nodded. “The Derg just wants them out of its sight. Close to fifty thousand zemechas.”

  “I’ve already made a request that Dawit stay here because of Selam,” Hailu said. “Lily’s going.”

  “You have to watch him,” Emama Seble said. “Zeleka told me her daughter, the smart one, Sosena, not the useless one, is writing letters from America to give advice to these students. Others are sending money from everywhere. Put that pride away and start treating him like a man, respect him, he’ll listen to you then,” she said. “This sofa needs new pillows.” She shifted in her seat.

  Hailu turned off the radio. “Did Sara talk to you?”

  “She needs to sleep, that’s all,” the old woman replied. “I need rest myself. This shooting, how can anyone sleep at night?” She stood.

  Yonas followed her. “Let me get the door.”

  At the front door, she leaned towards Yonas. “You were right to help your mother,” she said. She searched his face. “Sometimes life isn’t what we should be hoping for.”

  “What do you mean?” He took a step back.

  “Open the door, let me go home.” Her ankle-length dress swayed as she turned. Yonas watched as a fly landed on her thick waistband and was quickly enveloped by the billowing material, disappearing against the sea of black cotton like a pebble in a dust storm.

  20.

  DAWIT WOKE TO the splatter of stones against his window. He knew the signal. He crept down the corridor to the small door next to the garage. His father was still asleep, but he imagined he could hear Yonas’s voice coming from the prayer room. Two telltale creaks above his head told him Sara was awake, pacing in front of Tizita’s bed. The little girl had developed a fever the day before.

  Dawit opened the door and shivered. There was a bitter chill despite the rising sun. Mickey was slumped against the wall, dressed in fatigues. He looked shorter and heavier in uniform. His cheeks were smudged with dirt and sweat and he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

  “What’s wrong?” Dawit asked.

  “Let me in,” Mickey said. He pushed into the house. “Did you hear the trucks go by?” He was out of breath. “Close the door!”

  “What trucks?”

  Mickey rushed into Dawit’s room and sank to the ground. “Did you hear them? Close the curtain.”

  Dawit closed the curtain, suddenly nervous. It was rare for Mickey to be so distraught. “What’s wrong?”

  Mickey blinked rapidly. “I lost my rifle and my glasses.” He moved his hand to push up invisible frames. “They’re gone.”

  “Do you know where?” Dawit knew Mickey well enough to understand that he was trying to explain something else.

  “He made us tie them up and drive them away and shoot them.” Mickey held his head, his voice was low, a trembling boy’s cry. “They kept asking me not to do it.”

  Mickey’s face was drawn, the skin across the fleshy curves of his cheekbones seemed tighter. Dark circles gave his eyes a sunken stare, his lips were cut from biting them. His fingertips were black. Blood dotted the back of his hands. His breath smelled sour.

  “Mickey?” Dawit said. “What are you talking about?”

  Mickey’s hands were clasped tight around his head, squeezing so hard that Dawit was afraid he’d hurt himself. “They told me their wives’ names and how many children they had at home. We know them. They went to our school. Some were so old.” He was shaking. “Major Guddu ordered everything. He was standing next to me the whole time. They all died.”

  Dawit felt his whole body engulfed in a blast of heat. He couldn’t understand what Mickey was saying. “What are you talking about?” He wiped his neck, the sweat sticky and thick. “Who’s this Major Guddu?”

  “Daniel. Daniel refused. He tried to untie some of them. The major put a plastic bag over Daniel’s head and shot from inside the bag. He said the revolution didn’t waste uniforms. My uniform was so bloody the major made me put on Daniel’s uniform.” Mickey’s words were strangled between coughs. “Look how dirty it is.”

  “Who died?” Dawit couldn’t say “killed.” “Mickey?”

  “He was so brave, he didn’t say anything. He knelt and prayed for forgiveness. He was my friend.”

 
Dawit stumbled to his bed. The sweat was drying quickly, replaced by a chill. “Who were the prisoners?” he asked. “Do you know any names? We’ve been petitioning to have some of them released, there weren’t any formal charges—”

  “I killed them myself. Can’t you hear me?” Mickey wiped his eyes impatiently, roughly. “He made me. He put the plastic bag over me and told me to shoot.” He touched his hair, and that’s when Dawit noticed the flecks of dried blood on his forehead. “They didn’t want to die. They moved so much. The rope kept cutting them. It was too tight.”

  “Who?”

  “The emperor’s grandson, Lij Iskinder Desta. Prime Minister Aklilu, Prime Minister Endalkachew. The other officials. Even …” Mickey grimaced and choked on his words. He dropped his head and rocked back and forth. “Even other people.”

  These were the men who’d once ruled Ethiopia with the emperor, graduates of Harar Military Academy, Oxford, the London School of Economics, the Sorbonne, and Harvard, dignitaries to European nations, speakers at United Nations forums, proud warriors in the fight with Italy.

  “Are you sure?” Dawit hugged his friend, but a fracture as thin as a strand of hair had snuck between them, separating him from the full sorrow he should have been feeling. Mickey’s sweat was odorous, sharp, mixed with another strong scent. Dawit turned his head. “How did you get here?”

  “I jumped out of the back of the truck. I dropped my rifle. It was too hot to hold. He made me shoot so much.” Mickey reached into his shirt. “I still have this.” He pulled out a pistol, holding it flat in his palm as if it was soiled. “There are no more bullets.”