Risto covered his head and went towards the beehives. One big basin was already almost full of honey. He put his hands in the basin and tasted the pure honey. Benny, who was standing a metre from Risto, put his hand inside the hive and took out a layer of honey mixed with something white. These were the baby bees, and this was the best quality, he explained to his friend. The torch that lit the basin showed bees mixed in with the honey.
‘Is this what we are eating? But we are eating bees!’ Risto exclaimed.
Benny laughed. They were both excited; the bees were buzzing around everywhere. The rhythm was compelling; a hand in the honey basin, soon in the mouth, an amazing pleasure; Bugobe was truly a small paradise. But now Risto felt something land on his lips. Then he felt a sting.
‘A bee on my lips! Help! Help!’ he screamed.
He pulled it off forcefully, but a piece of the sting stayed behind. His lip became heavier than his head, hotter than a boiling pot on a stove. As if that wasn’t enough, the buzzing sound of bees followed. There was singing above his head. Maybe the bees thought he was a real tree. He used his right hand to chase them away, then he used both hands while he screamed with all his strength.
‘Help! Help! Help!’ He started running, the buzz over his head, pain raining down on his head. His entire body was covered; he was done for.
He opened his eyes to see his grandmother nearby. Benny wasn’t there anymore, and he wasn’t in his room; it was his grandmother’s. He could feel the pain in his lip; it was swelling. His grandmother took him from the bed and put him on her back like a baby to take him to the bathroom, which was a big hut with a straw roof close to the lemon trees. There, a big metallic basin full of water stood ready. She mixed fresh plants into the water and added dried ones. She took off all Risto’s clothes, and made him sit in the hot pungent water in the basin. It was then that he saw how his body had swollen. His grandmother took a facecloth and used it all over his entire body. His body itched. Afterwards, she took him back to her bed. The next day when he woke, there was neither pain nor swelling anywhere on his body.
The month of September approached; school would be starting soon. It was time to return to Bukavu town. The boys from town had enjoyed the village; life here was limitless. What hadn’t they experienced? They had been to the sacred silent river, they had played games and competed with the shepherds of the village, they had gone to harvest the beehives, they had done many things that made them wish to stay forever at Risto’s grandmother’s place.
The large yellow full moon shone, but never caught the attention of the boys in their hut, who sat quietly around the fireplace listening to Benny’s stories. He had just finished a story when he jumped to his feet, startling his listeners.
‘Oh! Let’s go to Kaluli’s house!’ he said in excitement.
‘Who’s Kaluli?’ Ombeni asked.
‘Shhhhh!’ he said. ‘Let’s go and get honey from his house.’
‘No, I am afraid of bees,’ said Risto.
‘No, it is not at the beehives this time,’ Benny explained. ‘Kaluli offers food to his gods the first night of the full moon. He gives them honey, mashanza and kasiksi beer.’
‘No, we can’t go. If he does that, it means that he is a mufumu, a witchdoctor,’ Ombeni replied.
‘No, he is not. He only offers food to his ancestors and gods to thank them for their kindness in giving him a full moon. He can’t kill us or make us sick. I often go there to eat that food, and nothing has ever happened to me. You know, a real mufumu knows everything that happens to his place. But Kaluli, he has never known it!’ Benny tried to convince his friends.
But they forgot to ask: what if the gods found them eating their food? Would they take them to heaven or to hell?
‘All right, but if something happens to us, it will be your fault,’ Frank said.
Kaluli’s house wasn’t far from Risto’s grandfather’s place. But Benny said they shouldn’t use the path that others normally used. They had to go through the fields behind Kaluli’s compound to get there without being seen by anyone.
They set out across their grandfather’s fields. All the huts at Kaluli’s place were inside one big compound, except for a small one, which was close to a very big ficus tree. ‘Kaluli should be on his way,’ whispered Benny, so they stayed still hiding in the fields.
‘This is almost his time; he will be here in a little while,’ he kept confirming.
An old man appeared barefoot at the back door of the compound. He approached the small hut. In his hands he held a traditional basket made of creepers. He put the basket down, stretched his hands inside the small hut, and withdrew them holding a small tam-tam. He beat it gently while singing a song. He beat it over and over, then he danced, jerky movements around the small hut. He took a small kabehe, a pumpkin shell, and drank from it, then spat on the ground. He spoke, then turned his head towards the sky. He took things from his basket, exhibited them towards the sky, and put them down again. He took his tam-tam, he beat it, again he jerked around. At last he put the tam-tam inside the small hut, and left smiling.
Benny told his friends to wait a little while. Two people would have to stay while the others went to get the food. Risto followed Benny. They crept slowly up to the small hut. He peeped inside it; he could see different skins, most of them spotted, like those of leopards. The two boys took the different traditional dishes that were in the basket made of creepers, and crawled back to the cassava fields where Ombeni and Frank were hiding. The honey was in a large pumpkin shell, and the mashanza curds were in a dish made of a piece of wood hollowed out in the middle. They took all the food and drink except the kabehe of beer; none of them enjoyed strong traditional beer. The food was so soft that an old man with no teeth would have been able to enjoy it. Cooked meat, mostly livers. The honey reminded Risto of the night he was stung by bees, but this time he was safe; there were no beehives around. They finished the food, took back the creeper basket, and left, excited at their successful adventure.
As advised by Benny, the boy who knew the secrets of the village, each one scrubbed his hands with soil and chewed some leaves to freshen his mouth, so that people would not know that they had eaten something. They left the fields and walked back on the main path.
‘When his ancestors or gods come, what are they going to eat?’ asked Ombeni.
‘Do you think they usually come?’ Benny replied.
‘And when Kaluli comes back, what is he going to say?’ Risto asked.
Benny had watched Kaluli carry out his ritual many times, and after finding his food gone, Kaluli never questioned the gods or ancestors. Instead, he blew his whistle, he smiled, he clapped his hands, danced to the rhythm of his singing tam-tam, and thanked his gods and ancestors for accepting his offerings. Benny believed that eating what was offered to the ancestors or the gods was not a problem, as the gods and ancestors lived in living beings, in people, trees, rivers, winds … whoever and whatever ate these foods became part of the gods, part of the ancestors. ‘How do you know all these things?’ Risto asked Benny as they sat on their beds, the glowing fire murmuring like a snoring child.
‘Which things?’
‘All these secrets. Whenever you tell us to look for mushrooms, we come back with some. You know where they are and when to go. Please tell us how you know,’ Risto insisted.
‘I just know it,’ Benny laughed.
‘No, there are secrets you are hiding from us,’ added Frank, nodding his head like someone who had just discovered something.
Benny tried to defend himself: ‘There is nothing hidden here. I have given you many secrets of the village and the bush. Why shouldn’t I give them if they exist?’
‘We are not saying that you don’t want to tell us; we are asking how you know that this thing will happen here at this time, and this other thing there at that time?’ Risto went on.
Benny was getting irritated. ‘You know, children from the village are different from those in the town. Us, we
have eyes to see, ears to hear, and hands to touch. But those from the town, their eyes are closed, their ears clogged, and their hands still.’
‘No, no, we don’t understand!’ Ombeni exclaimed after concentrating hard on what Benny had said.
‘You know what? I was born underneath an avocado tree, in a hut with bees, snakes, tortoises all around. I grew up on manioc farms, I played in rivers and hunted birds and crickets. This is my life. This is how I know where they eat, sleep and live.’
‘Even us, we go swimming in the river, and we sometimes hunt crickets and birds,’ said Risto.
‘You said “sometimes”. Me, I live with the river, fish and crickets.’
. Chapter 2 .
These were among the fragments that floated in Risto’s mind. His friends Frank and Ombeni had died and he would never see them again. He wanted to go and see their faces for the last time, to say goodbye to them, but he couldn’t. The song kept coming back from the old tattooed woman’s mouth: children are not allowed at funerals. She sat at the entrance of the path to Mama Ombeni’s house, under a banana tree, blocking the way.
Risto remained astride the tree trunk. Why was he not allowed to pay them a last farewell visit, to drop his last tears? It was so unfair. Whatever the customs were, he considered these traditions unfair. They had shared laughter and tears, games and food, tales and music; they had shared the best and the worst times together. Why not allow him to sit next to the bed or sheet where his late friends lay, let his heart cry, his spirit meet theirs and say farewell?
Maybe the old woman had been sent to tell him to stay away because the sight of their mutilated bodies was unbearable. He remembered the day before, after the explosion, how he didn’t want to look at the body of his friend Ombeni. He had been in more than three pieces, like a cow straight from the butcher’s. He wasn’t the Ombeni that Risto had known only moments before.
Later on, Risto saw a crow in the sky that had forgotten it was time to go to its nest. It was flying aimlessly, but without cawing, soundless. The chickens were rushing to their shelters as if the outdoors now belonged to something else. He realised that darkness had fallen; it was time for crows, chickens, children and adults to get to their homes. The burial occurred three days after the bomb blast. The delay was because there was a serious discussion going on. Where would the two boys be buried? Risto overheard his father telling his mother that Mama Ombeni had objected to having her two sons buried in the town cemetery, the Ruzizi cemetery.
‘She wants her sons to be closer to her,’ said Risto’s father.
‘How can she think like that? Is that going to change anything? We are all affected by this tragic event, we are deeply concerned about her pain, but she shouldn’t think like a non-believer. She is a Catholic, a Christian!’ said his mother, her voice almost inaudible. She had lost it to the screams and cries of mourning. It was common for women to cry loudly at mourning ceremonies; there were some who believed if a woman didn’t cry, it was because she could be linked to the cause of the death; she could even be a witch.
‘What was decided in the end?’ she asked her husband.
‘To do as she wishes. The bodies will be buried in the open space behind her house.’
‘Is that really wise?’
‘There is no choice; we have to do what pleases her. And tomorrow the mourning ceremony will be over.’
The idea of burying the two late boys in their mother’s yard didn’t frighten Risto; but it left him adrift. He wandered between traditional beliefs and stories he’d heard, between customary practices and his own convictions. Maybe this would be a good way to always have them near him, he thought at first. But they wouldn’t be human beings anymore … spirits! Spirits! Eh! People usually said that spirits were harmful. They carried bad luck and many people believed them to be evil. No, it couldn’t be! Not when they had been such good friends while alive.
Risto’s father had once told him that if a person while alive had caused harm to society, particularly if he was involved in evil activities, his spirit could be harmful after death. His father often repeated a tribal philosophy: ‘If someone dies, he becomes more powerful than those who are still alive. Even if he died as a child, he automatically becomes stronger than the adults he left on earth. He becomes part of a community that looks after us. And that community is not far from us; it is within us. When we walk, it walks with us like our shadow follows us. As we cultivate, it brings rain and protects the fields against parasites and insects. And that person sometimes appears and speaks to those who are still alive. But if that person’s conduct was bad, he will become a whirling wind that sinks ships in the lake, an evil and unwelcome messenger. And if he carries on appearing, people have to chain his tomb and padlock it, so he won’t be able to leave it.’
Risto knew that Ombeni and Frank were good children, beloved by the entire street. They would never bring bad luck to the community, he kept thinking. They would be there to talk to him when he felt sad, to protect him when he needed help. In his mind, Risto saw his two late friends drifting from him. At one point he thought they would appear to him; then he thought they were leaving him for far places. But surely they would stay close to him, he thought, if they were to be buried in the ground close to his house.
At around 10am, the singing became much louder, and the women’s cries rose to the four corners of the street. The space became smaller as more people arrived. Everyone from the street had to be there. No excuse would have been accepted for being absent. If a family was absent, it meant they were not part of the community. That family would be isolated from the community, and no one would ever go to their aid if they had a problem. That is the Bantu culture; people are human through others.
As the two coffins approached the graves, the voices became wild, the songs intensified, the screaming and shouting pierced the eardrums like the sting of a bee. Ombeni’s sister, Nkana, tried to throw herself in the grave on the right, but she was rescued at the last second by two young men who held her back. They had acted quickly, as if they were aware that this might happen. Her cries became louder as she fought to be released. The elders decided that she shouldn’t participate in the burial until her emotions were less wild, and she was taken inside the house.
The two coffins lay in the middle of the circle created by the crowd in front of the two graves. One female voice started a very sad song, and then everyone joined in. People sang as they cried, they sang as they wept, and they sang as their tears dropped. Many were unable to restrain their emotions.
The priest stood up to give the homily. He preached for some time, but didn’t blame anyone; neither the war, nor God, who should surely protect his people. Risto wasn’t happy. He felt the priest was taking things too lightly; he spoke as though this was simply the way things were, children dying in wars.
‘Everything happens for a reason; only the Almighty God knows why this way, and at this time,’ the priest said. ‘He is the one who gives and he is the one who takes away.’
After the homily, the process of lowering the coffins into the graves began; one by one, they passed through the hands of several young men. In each grave stood two young men, who took the coffin from four others above. Mama Ombeni, who had been weeping, started to cry like a child being burned alive. Almost every woman joined her. They howled until the priest begged them to stop.
At this moment Risto wanted to leave his station on the tree trunk, as he himself was sobbing too hard. But he wanted to see where his two friends would rest in the end. If he wanted to knock on their coffins, he needed to know where to stand to be close enough to their ears.
The priest asked the mother of the children to come forward and say her last words. She looked at the sky, then she looked into the graves. She opened her mouth. There was silence, as deep as that in the graves. Everyone was waiting for her words. Then without warning, she fell on the ground. People ran to her. The screams and cries intensified; the voices became so sharp, they could have
opened the ears of a deaf person. Many of the women also threw themselves to the ground, yelling and weeping. They were like people competing in grief.
‘Is she dead? Is she dead?’ the crowd murmured.
‘No, she is still breathing,’ answered one of the three men who held Mama Ombeni. ‘She has fainted, but she will be okay.’
Risto’s father, as one of the respected members of the community, now addressed the crowd: ‘Our souls and our hearts are wounded by this very tragic accident. We don’t need a doctor to treat us, our pain can only be addressed by the Lord God. He has the answers to the impossible questions; only He knows why this is happening.’ He looked at the crowds before going on, ‘Our two sons passed away, only God knows why. Their mother, she is still alive. She is fighting with the unbearable emotion of losing all that she had. Only God knows how to heal her wounds. The bodies of the two boys have been in the house for three days; they cannot sleep there again tonight; we have to let them rest. This means that the burial ceremony has to carry on. We must call their sister to finalise the ceremony. The whole family is here, the whole community. These children were our sons.’ There was silence for a moment, and then two women left to get Nkana from the house.
‘Let’s carry on with hymns, and together in our hearts, let us pray to God to comfort us and to comfort the family of our sister,’ Mahuno concluded.
The singing started up again.
Nkana returned, weeping as she had been for the full three days.
‘Nkana, we are here now to say goodbye to your brothers. As God sent them, he has once again called them. Say your last words and bury them in peace,’ said the priest.
One young man, standing close to the priest, had soil on a spade, facing Nkana.
The Great Agony & Pure Laughter of the Gods Page 3