I looked now at Fofo. He was beginning to get tired. It hadn’t been easy for him, either. Arriving home on the day Papa was killed, I’d found Fofo lying in a corner of the living room, completely silent, staring into space. The boy once so lighthearted and always happy to see me, his only sister, the big sister to whom he confided all his secrets, hadn’t even raised his eyes to look at me. It took us three days to coax him out of that state, only to see him go immediately to the opposite extreme—a state of severe agitation in which he babbled feverishly and incessantly. Eventually the crisis passed. He relapsed only once, on the day we were looking through Papa’s things and found his hat. I never allowed Fofo the time to feel sorry for himself, for our survival depended on it, the survival of two fatherless children with a helpless mother; we still had to eat and go to school. Yet one mustn’t think that we were unhappy.
Despite the loss of her legs, Mama continued to run her stall at the market, thanks to her best friend, Auntie Tamila, who would come to the house every morning to pick up Mama in her old secondhand car, which she also hired out as a taxi. The driver would drop them off in front of the stall they jointly owned; would help them to get out and set up their merchandise, stored during the night in a little locked shed that the two women rented by the month from a West African; and then would begin his day as a taxi driver. During this period, Fofo and I would divide up the household chores when we came home from school. He would do the dishes and, if necessary, his laundry (he washed only his own clothes, because I didn’t want him washing my underthings, or Mama’s), while I would sweep the house and the courtyard and prepare dinner. In the evening, after Mama returned, we would eat dinner together and I would do my homework, unless Mélanie came to pick me up so we could watch TV together at her house. On days when there weren’t any classes, and since Papa was no longer around to take me to construction sites with him, I would earn some extra money by selling ice in plastic bags. All things considered, we managed to get by. Fofo was growing up normally—the way trees grow, without being aware of it. I dreamed of becoming a master mason or an engineer; he dreamed of becoming a great soccer player and spent his weekends watching matches at Auntie Tamila’s house, where there was also a TV; and the two of us dreamed of buying a wheelchair for Mama as soon as we’d saved up enough money.
I’d given him the wheelbarrow to push because I’d thought it would be easier for him. But I soon realized this was too much to ask of an eleven-year-old, even if he was almost twelve. I asked him to stop. Despite the crowd jostling around us, I managed to open a bit of space between me and the wheelbarrow. I lightened the bundle I was carrying by unloading the hag that contained the food, and I gave it to Fofo. I tied the rest firmly to my back, so that I was carrying it the way other women were carrying their babies. I grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow and began pushing it through the dust, the crowd, and the cries. In the distance, we could hear the first bursts of gunfire. The victorious soldiers and militiamen had begun laying waste to the town.
Chapter Six
Johnny, Known as Matiti Mabé
That moron Giap—he started yelling at me as if I were a piece of shit. “Move your carcass, you lazy jerk! Think we’re planning to sleep here?” he shouted, staring at me with his evil owl-eyes. I felt like giving him a bullet in the ass, but I only muttered, “Fuckhead.” The guy not only had owl-eyes but hawk-eyes as well, since he must have seen my lips move.
“You said something?” he yelled even louder.
“No, sir,” I answered, pretending to stand at attention.
“Good—otherwise I was going to lay you out flat, Turf of My Ass.”
He called me Turf. Me, Matiti Mabé. And in front of everybody! All because I was the last to arrive.
It’s true, when I came out of the studio the others were already gathered in the courtyard in front of the buildings and Giap had launched into a harangue. He was saying that our side was stronger, that we’d taken the radio station, that he’d met face to face with our new president, and that he, Giap, would soon be speaking on the radio. An announcement had to be made. A military victory was never complete until the winners had seized the radio and television networks in the nation’s capital. That’s what we had done, and that’s why Giap was a true general. If someone had asked him to say a few words on the radio in the name of all the combatants, this was a sure sign he was going to be promoted and—why not?—become a member of our president’s own bodyguard. Well, if that happened I wouldn’t do the same stupid thing I’d done when Major Rambo had been killed and I’d urged that someone other than me—namely, Giap—fill his shoes. This time, I would take control.
A man of action is stingy with words and moves ahead quickly to practical matters. This is what Giap did. He said that the battle was not yet over, since there were still rebels hiding among the people. We had to hunt them down and exterminate them like vermin. At this point, being an intellectual who values clarity, I felt the urge to help Giap out of his mental confusion. I told him that the rebels were actually us, because we were fighting against the established authorities, and to say that we were going to hunt down the rebels was tantamount to saying we were going to hunt down ourselves.
“Idiot,” he said curtly. “We’re the established authorities now, and the others are the rebels.” Everyone laughed, even that clown Twin-Head. He was another guy who owed his name to me. I’d explained to him one day that a little snake found around here called an amphisbaena could move in one direction and then in the opposite direction without turning its body, because it had a head at each end. He’d liked this idea so much that he had immediately adopted Amphisbaena as his nom de guerre, then shortened it to Amphi. And then, thinking he was being smart, had changed it to Amphi-Amphi, wanting the name itself to illustrate the double movement of the snake. I’d told him a name like that was ridiculous, and in any case “amphi” was short for “amphitheater”—an enormous hall where people gave political speeches and which had nothing to do with a snake. He’d gotten mad and threatened to kill me, and said he no longer liked the name Amphi-Amphi after all. He wanted to he called Twin-Head, because in battle he could see what was happening in front of him and in back of him at the same time, as if he had two heads. After that argument, I hated him.
Well, even that moron laughed! I didn’t see what was so funny. Anyway, how could an illiterate like Giap know how to use the word “rebel” correctly when he couldn’t tell the letter u from the letter n? But I didn’t give a damn. I was Matiti Mabé, the deadly plant that contains curare—the demon weed whose smoke is so strong that when the merest puff penetrates your brain, it can transform the cold white moon into a fiery sun dripping with blood.
Giap continued his speech after my interruption. Now that we’d taken control of the capital, we had to change tactics in order to hunt down the rebels who were hiding among the population. He divided our unit into four fifteen-man squads and designated a leader for each. The first one he named was Idi Amin. I don’t know why, when Gator was in the same group, he chose that stupid Idi Amin—who’d be a great leader the day pigs grew wings. Gator was my buddy and, after me, was the most brilliant of the bunch; next to him, Idi Amin was a shit-brain. But what could you expect from Giap, a man who couldn’t tell the difference between the letters p and q because he hadn’t even got halfway through second grade? He was bound to favor abs and biceps over brains. Idi Amin was not only the biggest and strongest of us all, but he had the courage of a bull and would often charge ahead without thinking. This limited side of his nature was combined with a brutally efficient side—we all knew he never sweated the details. Depending on what he had in his hands, he’d toss a grenade or fire a flamethrower into a crowd, and off he’d go. I wasn’t happy with this choice of a leader, and I had a feeling that Gator wasn’t either. For the moment I wouldn’t say anything, but I’d give Giap a piece of my mind when the time came.
Then he picked Snake to head the second group. Snake was a good guy. He
never bad-mouthed anybody, always kept to himself; but when it came to spotting and dodging the enemy, there was no one like him. Cunning, evasive, slipping through the enemy’s traps like an eel through your fingers, leaving no trace in the grass—that was Snake.
Giap then turned to the third group, my group, which included that retard Twin-Head. If Giap picked him as leader, I’d quit the Mata Mata and go join our rivals the Chechens. And after that, I swore, I’d come back when Giap was least expecting it and blow his brains out. He surveyed the group with his druggy glare, and his burning eyes caught mine, and he said: “You’ll be the leader.” Did I hear him right? “You’ll be the leader.” No, I must have imagined it. Me? “Well, Turf, get a move on. You’re the leader of Commando Unit Three.”
“Yes, sir,” I blurted.
He was stupendous, Giap—a terrific judge of men! He knew what you were worth and what you could do. Those eyes of his, which fools thought were clouded with pot smoke—in reality their mysterious veil protected people from the lethal, unearthly fire that burned in them. With a single glance, he had immediately understood that if anyone was a horn leader, it was me. Yeah, me! No doubt he remembered that I was his godfather, the one who’d baptized him Giap—a name rich with hidden power, a name that had transformed him and made him what he was today: a man who no longer enjoyed rubbing pepper in the eyes of naked women and getting a hard-on watching their asses twitch as they writhed in pain. This name was the spirit that had enabled our leader to take power by seizing the radio and TV stations.
My spine immediately straightened, adding two inches to my height. I felt taller than Idi Amin—taller, in fact, than anyone else except maybe Giap. I didn’t wait to find out who would be named leader of Commando Unit Four. Already, from the loftiness of my new stature, I was surveying my troops the way every general does before a battle. And while all of my attention was focused on this visual inspection of my unit, I heard shouts and realized right away that trouble was brewing.
“We want our hundred thousand francs now!”
That was Gator’s voice. He was angry, no shit. We were each supposed to get a bonus of one hundred thousand after taking the capital. Well, here we were and we’d taken the capital. Gator was right—we ought to be paid our money. Anyway, if he hadn’t demanded it, I would have. Giap kept his cool and tried to explain that we’d only just captured the city and that he hadn’t yet had a chance to meet with the higher-ups to collect our bonus. There was a general uproar at this. No one believed him, not even me. It would be a dumb move to take us for idiots—because if he cheated us out of our money, we’d raise hell! I know how our leaders behave. Whenever there’s a bit of money, they grab everything. Some of them even think themselves generous when they toss us a few coins, the way you’d throw scraps to your dog. No, Mister Giap! This time it wouldn’t work! We’d taken risks, and every risk ought to be rewarded with a bonus, and we wanted our bonus now.
“You must think we’re stupid, Giap!” Gator shouted, as if a geyser of long-stifled resentment were erupting from his mouth.
Gator is my buddy. He always backs me up in a tight spot, and I do the same for him—I’d never let him down. The first time we captured a chick, during a raid on the Chechens, he shared her with me: while I held down the woman’s spread-out legs, he pumped her, and then vice versa—we took turns. This is to show you how well I knew him. But I’d never seen him in such a fury. He was yelling at Giap! He was standing up to him! That encouraged all of us, and the minor protest turned into a major rebellion.
“Giap, give us our dough! Giap, give us our dough! Giap, give us our dough!”
At that point, Giap flew into an infernal rage. He touched his fetish and his neck immediately swelled; his biceps, pecs, and calf muscles tightened involuntarily, as if seized with spasms. He glared at us, and with a sudden movement he grabbed Gator by the neck and threw him to the ground. He took his own backpack and hurled it at Gator.
“There’s my pack!” he shouted. “Look inside! If you don’t find any money, I’ll kill you!”
Giap was serious—he never kidded around. He always kept his word. Gator’s anger evaporated instantly. He looked at me, appealing for backup as usual, like the time the three of us (he and I and Pili Pili, who hadn’t yet become Giap) had shot Rambo. But Giap wasn’t Rambo.
“So, have you found that money I was going to steal? Yes or no, shit-head?”
“I didn’t say you were going to steal it. I only said—”
Blam! A single round from his gun. My friend Gator was dead.
“Who else is demanding money?”
Nobody said a word. Nobody moved a muscle. Giap continued as if nothing had happened.
“Commando Unit One, you’ll be operating in the Kandahar district. Commando Two: the Kuwait district. Commando Three: the Huambo district. And Commando Four: Sarajevo. All unit leaders should keep their ears glued to their cell phones for instructions. And you soldiers—you damn well better obey your new leaders, understand? If not, I’ll shoot you myself. You saw what happened to that asshole Gator. Dismissed!”
He walked up to Gator’s body sprawling in the dust, turned it over with the toe of his boot, pointed at the four unit leaders he’d just named, and ordered curtly:
“Idi Amin, Snake, Turf, Savimbi! Take this subversive element away and chuck it in a ditch!”
That “element” was my friend Gator. I almost cried. You don’t kill someone’s friend like that. Really, people are awful. They have no heart.
Chapter Seven
Laokolé
There was a pause—a moment when, like a wave at its crest, we were neither advancing nor retreating. Then, suddenly, the crowd turned back in great hubbub and confusion. We were caught between two opposing masses in which those who had already managed to turn around and begin retracing their steps collided with those who were still moving forward. And in the collisions, those who fell had little chance of getting up again, since they were immediately trampled underfoot.
I didn’t understand what was happening—all I knew was that we were making an abrupt about-face and fleeing in the direction we’d come from. I panicked, for people were pressing so densely around me that I couldn’t turn the wheelbarrow around. Dismayed and desperate, I shouted for Fofo, who was being driven farther and farther away from me by the spasmodic movements of the crowd. Panic-stricken, he threw down the bundle he was carrying on his head, and by shoving his way through the crush with his elbows and shoulders he managed to get back to me. “Turn the wheelbarrow around!” I shouted to him, while I shielded him with my body and made a bit of space around him so that he could move the vehicle. He grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow and succeeded in giving it a quarter turn, but just at that moment several people fell against me. I was unable to keep my footing. Pushed over by the force of the impact, I knocked Fofo down as I fell, and he in turn collided with the wheelbarrow. There was a scream of pain from Mama.
I’ve no idea how long it took me to extricate myself from that tangle of legs, elbows, and feet, but when I was finally standing again I saw with horror that one of Mama’s stumps was caught under the wheelbarrow, which had borne the weight of all our bodies. The agony she must have been feeling pierced me like a knife, and I uttered a loud cry. Quickly I righted the wheelbarrow. Then Fofo and I lifted our poor mother and gently laid her down in it once more.
The stump had a large wound and was bleeding—an awful sight. I couldn’t tell if the bone was broken. What to do? Again, there was no emergency clinic where we could take her. Why was Fate pursuing this unfortunate woman so relentlessly? Seeing her like that, her battered body lying in a mason’s wheelbarrow, I don’t know why but I thought of Mélanie’s mother. I wasn’t envious. I just thought that Mélanie, my best friend, was very lucky. Thanks to their 4×4, she’d been able to save her mother without difficulty.
Mama’s sufferings must have been dreadful, but she didn’t say a word, didn’t moan. Tears flowed down her cheeks—tha
t was all. And again, I suspected she wasn’t shedding tears for herself. I think, rather, that she was crying for us and in frustration at herself. Doubtless she was cursing herself for being there, preventing us from escaping more rapidly, already feeling guilty should something happen to us. Mothers are like that; they never think of themselves. How could I tell her that she was in no way responsible? That we loved her and that it was inconceivable we would ever try to escape without her? No, I couldn’t cry—Fofo mustn’t see me crying. At sixteen, a girl is already a woman. I was now the mother of my mother, and the mother of my brother. I had to go on.
I put the pillow under Mama’s back, and made sure the bundle on my own back was still firmly tied. Then I took hold of the wheelbarrow’s handles and began pushing ahead as quickly as my arms and legs would allow.
It didn’t take me long to realize why we’d made our about-face. There were troops (whether winners or losers, we had no way of knowing) attacking from that direction. When we’d left our house to escape the looting, we had simply let ourselves be carried along by the current in the sea of humanity we had joined. This human flood was fleeing toward the city center, and unfortunately that was the wrong direction: we had come face to face with the troops who were now moving toward our home districts, and we had to retrace our steps.
Johnny Mad Dog Page 4