Johnny Mad Dog

by Emmanuel Dongala

  The sound of gunfire was growing louder. People were no longer walking—they were running, and almost all of them were passing me. Most of those who were rushing past had dropped everything they were carrying in order to move more quickly, so that they could save the only precious things they had left: their lives. Or the lives of their children. Like that woman who had just passed me as soon as she’d caught up with me: she had no possessions left, neither the bundle on her head nor the one on her back, but carted along four children she was intent on saving, bearing one on her back, holding another in her arms, and towing the last two in her wake by means of cords tied around her waist. Only the man who was pushing his pig-laden bicycle still clung to his worldly goods—I saw him go past me, his breath coming in audible gasps, the pig and the demijohn of palm wine still firmly attached to his vehicle. As for me, I was struggling and sweating, despite the fact that I’d hauled many a wheelbarrow of sand in my time!

  I glanced behind me to make sure Fofo was still following us. He no longer had the bundle I’d given him to carry, but he was there, and that’s what mattered. Turning my gaze forward again, I noticed that Mama, who’d been silent all this time, had raised her head to give me a searching look while I checked on Fofo; and though we’d been doing everything we could to avoid looking at each other, our eyes suddenly met. She could no longer restrain herself.

  “I beg of you, Lao, I implore you—leave me here! Run! Save yourself! At least save Fofo!”

  I pretended to be angry, saying that if she continued to talk like that, I was going to stop in my tracks, sit down by the side of the road, and wait for the soldiers. Hearing the determination in my voice, she said no more and again lapsed into silence.

  I wonder if there are degrees of fear. I mean, when you’re already afraid, is it possible to be even more afraid? When you’re already afraid of being killed by a stray bullet because bullets are whistling all around you, can you be even more afraid when you see who is shooting those bullets? I don’t know. All I can say is that the shooters had now caught up with us. People scattered into the side streets; others were struck and fell to the ground. I couldn’t continue straight ahead. That would have meant sure death, since the soldiers were firing directly at us, or would simply have run us down—their vehicles were like machines gone haywire. I was on the left side of the street, and the only available opening was on the right. So I darted across at the very moment a 4×4 full of armed men was barreling by. A gun was pointed at my face, bullets whistled past our heads. I gave the wheelbarrow a violent shove and plunged behind a lantana hedge; my green kerchief (tied over my hair to protect it from the dust) sailed into the air like a kite; the vehicle was gone like a gust of wind. The whole episode had lasted only a few seconds—but in those few seconds, Mama, the wheelbarrow, and I could have been reduced to a pile of mangled metal, bone, and blood.

  I found myself lying facedown behind the hedge. Then, I don’t know how, I was sitting on the ground next to the wheelbarrow, which miraculously had avoided tipping over. My strength was gone, my will had vanished. I was no longer afraid, no longer trembling—felt only a vast weariness, and a total emptiness in my head.

  How long I stayed that way, I have no idea. But suddenly my ears began listening, my body began trembling, and my brain remembered that my primary goal was to flee with Mama and Fofo. I stood up to see whether people were still running in the same direction, but when I peered over the hedge that screened our hiding place, I saw my green kerchief hanging from a post and fluttering in the breeze. I felt a sudden stab of joy, and without hesitating I dashed out to recover it. At that moment I heard the soldiers driving back at top speed.

  They’d nail me the second time for sure. I had to get out of sight, and fast. I dove behind the hedge again. Immediately I heard the vehicle that had just passed our hiding place come to a screeching halt and then accelerate like mad in reverse. No doubt about it—they’d spotted us. They must have seen me trying to recover the kerchief that had flown from my head, and were coming back to finish us off. This was the end. I couldn’t look at Mama, couldn’t bear to read the anguish in her eyes. They would kill me—fine. But only over my dead body would they harm Fofo and Mama.

  All was not lost, though. I heard them jam on the brakes—the 4×4 came to a stop about ten meters from us. They got out, slamming the doors. One of them ran a few paces, stopped, bent down, picked up something that appeared to be a gun, and shouted:

  “Mad Dog, I was right! Come take a look!”

  Mad Dog walked forward. He must have been their leader. He came up to the man who had called to him, accompanied by two others, one of whom was carrying a long tube with a bulge at the tip: a rocket launcher, flamethrower, or grenade launcher—I can’t tell the difference. They all examined the object that had been found. If they stopped there and came no closer, they wouldn’t spot us, since the lantana hedge we were hiding behind was extremely thick. In contrast, we could see and hear them quite well. They didn’t come any nearer.

  Judging from their motley attire, I knew they were militia types, adjuncts to the so-called regular army. They weren’t foreign mercenaries, since they were speaking one of the languages of our country. Why were some called “regular army” and the others called “militias”? I have no idea—they treated us exactly the same. They were equally cruel. Perhaps the difference lay in the way they dressed. In any case, I’d never seen any outfit as bizarre as the one worn by this Mad Dog. He sported a baseball cap worn backward, a sleeveless T-shirt, and a cowrie-shell necklace hung with two or three little pouches. A bit of red cord was tied around his right arm, above the elbow. He wasn’t very muscular or even very tall, and his olive-drab pants looked too big for him. In contrast, the two ammunition belts that were slung crosswise over his chest Zapata-style gave him a soldierly air. The machine gun in his hand and a long knife suspended from his belt completed his warrior’s arsenal. Dark glasses hid his eyes, and—even more strange—from time to time his T-shirt gave off flashes of light.

  “Shit!” cried Mad Dog. “It’s an Uzi!”

  “Chinese-made?” asked the man who had called to Mad Dog.

  “No, it’s an Israeli gun. If the Chechens have Israeli mercenaries with them—well, guys, we’re in for a rough time. I saw a movie, Raid on Entebbe, where the Israelis transported a commando unit more than a thousand kilometers in order to free some hostages. Now we’ve really got to watch our backs. If you capture a Chechen, don’t be Mr. Nice Guy. Send him off to join his ancestors pronto.”

  He took the gun in his hand, examined it, checked the clip, and began spraying bullets haphazardly around him—fortunately not in our direction. When he stopped firing, I heard someone call from the other side of the vehicle:

  “Mad Dog, I’ve captured one of those subversive elements!”

  The “element” was a boy who was being shoved roughly forward, a gun at his back and a booted foot jabbing his rear. On his head he was carrying a small rusty basin, which he made efforts to steady with one hand every time a blow made him stagger; with the other hand, he was trying as best he could to hold on to his belt and keep his pants from falling down. No sooner had he come up to Mad Dog than the latter gave him a vicious kick in the stomach. He fell and let go of his basin. Oranges and papayas went tumbling all over the ground. A few bananas too. “Get up!” shouted Mad Dog. The boy got to his feet, still holding on to his pants with one hand. He was just a youngster. One of the countless kids who were part of our everyday landscape, urchins who hung around in our marketplaces and streets and peddled things illegally—single cigarettes, pieces of fruit, cookies, candies—in order to scrape together a few coins for their daily bread. He was probably Fofo’s age. No, not that old—around ten or eleven. He was terrified.

  “It was you who threw down this Uzi as you were running away, wasn’t it?”

  “No, I swear . . . I . . .”

  “And what are you doing here? Why are you hiding? Were you planning to take potshot
s at us?”

  “No! I was hiding on account of the oranges and bananas. Mama told me not to let anyone steal them from me, like last time.”

  “Where is she? Show us where she’s hiding.”

  “I don’t know! We were all running away, and I got separated from her.”

  “Liar!” said Mad Dog, hitting the boy in the face with the butt of his gun. “Nobody runs away for the sake of a few bananas. You think I’m an idiot?”

  The boy was howling with pain. He let go of his pants and brought both hands up to his face. He had no underwear on. Blood was running from a gash over one of his eyes.

  “Tell us where you got this gun!”

  “It isn’t mine! I only had Mama’s oranges and bananas—”

  “Shut up, liar! You’re a Chechen, I can tell—you speak with a Chechen accent. We’ll kill you if you don’t tell us where the others are hiding. So, are you ready to talk, you little shit?”

  He pointed the Uzi at the boy.

  At that moment, a voice came from the 4×4. “What’s going on, Stud?”

  “We caught an Israeli spy,” replied one of the militiamen.

  The owner of the voice got out of the vehicle. A girl with short hair, dressed in pants, wearing an orange bandanna around her head. I didn’t know they let girls join. Aside from the belt around her waist, the only military-style things she was wearing were the boots on her feet. She slung the strap of her AK-47 between her breasts and strode over to her confederates. As soon as she joined the group, the boy seemed to recognize her and threw himself at her feet.

  “Big sister! You know me—I’m Pepa, Mama Mado’s son! Mama Mado—the one who sells oranges, bananas, soursops, and mangoes, and hot donuts in the evening in front of her garden. You know me! Lékana Street—we live in the same neighborhood! I’m not a spy, big sister! Big sister—”

  “Go on! Get away!” said the girl, giving him a push with her booted foot. “We know your type—kids working as spies, always acting so innocent.”

  The boy fell on his back, but got up immediately. On his knees he pleaded with them, repeating over and over that he had only his mother’s oranges and bananas. Then he began to cry, wailing, “Mama! Mama!” and “Big sister, don’t kill me! Don’t kill me, big sister!”

  Mad Dog looked at him for a moment. Holding his Uzi with one hand, he fired. The boy collapsed but did not fall full-length on the ground. He remained on his knees, while his head pitched forward and hit the ground. It looked as if he were praying to Allah. I covered my mouth with my hand, to stifle the cry that rose in my throat. I didn’t know there were people who could murder a child.

  “Finish him off, Little Pepper—a present for you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Little Pepper, who wasn’t little at all but a huge fellow, much more solidly built than Mad Dog. The most striking thing about him was that he wore a large red wig.

  He walked up to the motionless boy, who was still on his knees, his head resting on the ground. He pushed him over with his foot and, raising his machine gun, fired a number of rounds into his body. Pointless, since the boy was already dead.

  Mad Dog picked up a banana, peeled it, and tossed the skin onto the corpse.

  “These bananas are good—very sweet,” he said, enjoying the taste.

  They all set about gathering up as many bananas, oranges, and papayas as they could carry. All except the girl, who had taken the Uzi from Mad Dog and was admiring it. Abruptly she fired a volley into the air.

  At last I saw them walk back toward their 4×4 and only then did my rigid body begin to relax. The one they called Stud reached the car first. He opened the door, but for some reason slammed it shut and retraced his steps. Like Mad Dog, he was hiding his eyes with dark glasses; but in contrast he sported a metal helmet, weirdly adorned with two red feathers, and was wearing a military jacket and a backpack. A gourd was attached to the left side of his belt, and an empty holster swung from his right hip, as if he were in some cowboy movie. He wore brass knuckles on both hands. His movements were clumsy. Perhaps the name Stud came from the way he walked—he had the macho strut of a male gorilla, pitching from side to side with every step. No doubt about it this time: he’d spotted us and was coming to wipe us off the face of the earth.

  But no. He stopped next to the corpse and gave it a savage, thudding kick in the genitals, then went back to the 4×4. A single kick—that was all. Why? Why? His buddies obviously found it terrifically funny, since they burst out laughing. The girl punctuated their laughter with another burst from the Uzi. I saw their mouths open wide soundlessly before their guffaws reached me, over the sound of the gunfire and over the child’s still body. I shuddered.

  The girl got behind the wheel of the 4×4. So she’d been the insane driver who had nearly crushed me and the wheelbarrow! Mad Dog sat in the front seat, too. Just as he slammed the door shut, a light went on in my brain. I nearly fainted. There was no mistaking it: that was the 4×4 belonging to Mélanie and her family! I hadn’t noticed the fact until then, perhaps because of my panicked state. Despite its broken windows, I recognized everything now—the make, the color, the license plate, the blue tarp that covered the luggage they’d stowed on the roof. For sure, they’d killed Mélanie and her family in order to take their vehicle. They must have fired through the windows. Mélanie, my best friend; Mélanie, who wanted to become a wealthy businesswoman. Or a TV news anchor, like Tanya Toyo. Or a judge, like her mother. A brilliant career destroyed. Yet again, our shitty country had killed one of its children. I wept uncontrollably, with convulsive movements and loud hiccups, now that the militia fighters had disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust. Mama tried to calm me and console me, but my tears continued to flow. I’m not sure whether I was crying for my friend or for that boy, whom I didn’t even know. I think I was weeping for both of them. What kind of country kills its children in cold blood? How can you kill a person’s best friend? Really, people are awful. They have no heart.

  Chapter Eight

  Johnny, Known as Matiti Mabé

  We buried Gator behind Studio B, in a small hole that we dug hastily in the sand, scarcely a meter deep. One tropical downpour and his body would be prey for stray dogs. While Idi Amin, Snake, and Savimbi began to head back to the meeting place, I fired three volleys into the air as a last homage to my friend, to show he had died like a brave fighter and not like a coward, and I put some bullets and empty cartridges on his grave to protect him. As we were walking back to join the others, we passed by the door of Studio B and it suddenly occurred to me that Tanya Toyo must still be inside. She was no doubt thinking of me, too, and was secretly wishing I’d return; no one had ever taken her to the heights of pleasure the way I had, and, knowing chicks the way I did, I was sure she was still fantasizing about me. But then I heard Giap hollering. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I increased my pace anyway and avoided dawdling. Now that I was a leader, I didn’t want to get bawled out in front of my troops by that fathead. Tanya would just have to wait—we’d play leapfrog some other time.

  “Was it you I heard firing?” Giap said in his stupid but authoritarian voice as soon as he saw me.

  “Um . . . yeah,” I answered, not knowing the reason for his question.

  “Why?”

  Okay, then I got it. Giap took me for an idiot, but he was forgetting that I’m an intellectual and that I can spot traps and evade them even before they’re set. No, shit-brain, I’m not going to tell you those gunshots were in honor of my friend, because you’ll get mad and might kill me.

  “I saw something move behind the studios and I thought it might be an enemy, so I fired. Turned out to be nothing but a bird.”

  That must have satisfied him, since he didn’t press the point. In his general’s voice, he told all of the units to leave the radio-TV compound immediately and set up their command posts in the districts they’d been assigned. My own assignment was Huambo, and my mission was to flush out the Chechen militia fighters who w
ere hiding among the population. Not an easy task, because Huambo was their stomping ground. Giap repeated that he wanted us to keep our ears glued to our cell phones and wait for instructions.

  “I’m counting on you. Above all, don’t let the soldiers beat you to it.”

  By “soldiers” he meant the forces of the “regular” army. Our guys were called militia fighters, or backup troops, or were designated by the noms de guerre the squads had chosen for themselves—such as Mata Mata, the name of my group. Actually, apart from their uniforms, I didn’t see what made them any more “regular” than we were. If they were so powerful, they wouldn’t have come to the districts to hand out weapons to us and forcibly recruit young boys and girls who were reluctant to join up. We were fighting the same enemies they were; we believed in the same fetishes; we did the same things to the men and women we captured. Plus, we looted the same territory—though I must admit they were better at it than we were. They had a lot of heavy ordnance we didn’t have: trucks, large-caliber guns that could breach the walls of a house, and even cranes to remove roofs. While we were fighting unaided, they had reinforcements—foreign mercenaries who backed them up with planes and armored helicopters. It wasn’t really clear to me why they were “regulars” and we were “irregulars.” But for the moment I didn’t give a damn, since I had to take command of my unit and show them that, as a leader, I was just as effective and tough as Giap, not to mention more intelligent.

  So my unit was being sent to the Huambo district. Knowing Giap, I realized that this was no accident. He knew I was very familiar with the district because my girlfriend Lovelita lived there. And he was familiar with it, too, since before the war started he’d had a market stall where he sold fish he caught with his partner Dovo, who lived in Huambo. Those guys were two of a kind—a pair of crooks who didn’t hesitate to double the price of their merchandise when they saw they were dealing with a sucker. Since the district was inhabited mainly by Mayi-Dogos (the adversary of our great leader was a Mayi-Dogo) and was a stronghold of the Chechen militias, it was essential to send someone with a thorough knowledge of the terrain. And that someone—Giap had hit the mark here—was me.