Johnny Mad Dog

by Emmanuel Dongala

  I shoved, pulled, and stepped on people; I was shoved, pulled, and stepped on in turn. If anyone had bitten me, I would have bitten back. A woman stuck out her foot and tripped me; I got up immediately and gave her a jab in the ribs with my elbow. “Help!” she cried. “I’m dying!” A man was furious when I got ahead of him by shouldering him aside. “Cunt!” he yelled at me. “Asshole!” I shouted back, and thrust my jug under the spigot. I’d done it! I filled my jug to the brim and left the fray. Whew, it had been worse than a rugby match. I wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.

  I balanced the jug on my head, and as I turned to go I noticed a frail, elderly woman holding a five-liter plastic container in her unsteady hands and gazing hopelessly at the scuffling crowd. The old woman hadn’t the slightest chance of getting near the faucets. I thought of my mother, who probably wouldn’t have gotten any water either, if I hadn’t been there. I lowered the jug from my head and set it down next to the old woman. I took her five-liter container, and with the determination of an American football player I again plunged into the scrimmage.

  The second time was more difficult than the first, and when I finally emerged my clothes were soaked. She looked at me without speaking. I placed her jug on her head before doing the same with my own, and then I walked away as fast as I could. She still hadn’t said a word, but I saw tears running down her cheeks.

  I’d scarcely gone ten meters when I stopped in my tracks. No—it couldn’t be! I must be dreaming! It was a vision, a ghost! But yes, it was really her—it was Mélanie! Mélanie my classmate, Mélanie my best friend! Mélanie who I’d thought was dead, killed, murdered in her car with her entire family!

  She saw me at the same moment, and ran toward me. She had a small, one-liter bottle of water, which she dropped when she opened her arms and fell into mine—which I’d already opened wide to embrace her, after quickly setting down the jug I was carrying. Both of us broke into sobs.

  When we’d calmed down, Mélanie helped to balance the jug on my head again, and decided to accompany me to Mama’s bedside. In any case, she wanted to stay with me because she was all alone, lost, and knew no one else here. She was not only my friend—now she was my sister. I had never seen her in such a voluble state. She talked incessantly as we walked along, and never even paused to listen when I replied to her questions. It seemed as if long-repressed words had suddenly torn open the locks of her memory and were surging out like water through a dam that had burst in the face of a torrent.

  “Yes, I have a vague recollection of seeing a wheelbarrow in the crowd when we passed—but it never occurred to me that it might be you transporting your mother! The first gunshots caught us by surprise. Papa braked suddenly and tried to turn the car around. A bullet hit him. He cried, ‘Aaah!’ and slumped over the steering wheel. The car jolted forward and then stalled. Mama cried out his name, and at that moment a second bullet struck my sister. My grandmother, who was sitting next to her, screamed and automatically threw herself on top of her. Suddenly, there we were, like prisoners in a sardine tin. And then Mama leaned back, opened the door on my side, and gave me a push, shouting, ‘Run! Run!’ I fell hard on the ground”—Mélanie showed me the bruises—“just as Grandma, too, cried out. All I could think of was what my mother had said: ‘Run! Run!’ I picked myself up and began to run. I ran and ran, until I noticed there were no more gunshots. When I came to a stop, I no longer knew where I was, since I’d been swept along in the chaos. I wanted to retrace my steps and get back to the car, but then a second wave of panic seized the crowd. When everyone stopped running, I found myself at the HCR, and have been in the compound since yesterday. My parents are dead, my grandmother is dead, my brother and sister are dead. I have no one. I am no one.”

  She wept with great racking sobs, hiccuping and sniffling. Mélanie, the girl who had been so full of confidence, whose future had been so bright, who had wanted to become a judge like her mother or a doctor like her father or a famous journalist like Tanya Toyo—my friend Mélanie was there before me, fragile, shaken, uncertain. Once again I set down my jug of water and took her in my arms, so that the warmth of my affection could envelop her and penetrate deep into her heart.

  Just then, Tanisha walked by. When she caught sight of the two young women weeping in each other’s arms, she ran to us, worried, leaving behind the person who was with her.

  “I know you—you’re Laokolé. What’s the matter?”

  I gestured toward Mélanie.

  “This is Mélanie, my classmate and my best friend. We’ve just found each other by accident. Her parents were killed, along with her grandmother, her brother, and her sister. She’s all alone.”

  “Poor child!” said Tanisha. She stroked Mélanie’s cheek. “Don’t worry—we’ll take care of you.”

  “I’d like it if she could stay with me,” I said. “She has no one else.”

  “Of course—I, too, think that would be best. Birgit tells me you’ve located your mother. Is that true?”

  “Yes, thanks!”

  A woman with short blond hair came up to us—the one Tanisha had left behind when she ran toward Mélanie and me.

  “This is Katelijne, a journalist from Belgium,” said Tanisha. She explained to the woman who we were.

  “Hello,” said Katelijne. “May I interview them?” she asked Tanisha.

  “You’ll have to ask them.”

  “I’d like to interview you,” said Katelijne, turning to us. “I’d like to give a face to the suffering and misery I see here. This is really important.”

  Mélanie and I looked at each other, then nodded.

  “Thank you! I’ll go fetch my cameraman.”

  And off she went. Tanisha stayed with us a moment longer. She assured us that although there were still a few security problems to be worked out, she hoped to be able to distribute some food to us that evening. She left with a promise to come by and visit Mama. Her presence had comforted me. I appreciated it even more because I knew she was overwhelmed by the hundreds of people in the compound, yet she still gave me personal attention. A boundless generosity flowed from her entire being.

  I stood and watched her go, the way a little child watches its mother go. And as soon as she disappeared in the distance, a phrase she’d uttered—which I hadn’t noticed at the time—came back and struck me with all its force. She’d said she hoped to be able to distribute some food to us that evening. All of a sudden, I felt small, diminished. Never had it occurred to me that someday I’d be standing around idle, waiting for handouts like a beggar. We had always earned our daily bread through our labor. Papa had fed us with the aid of his ruler, his trowel, his T-square, and his level, tools that he’d used to build houses and walls, septic systems and flagstone terraces. Mama, for her part, had gone to her stall in the market every morning, and nothing had stopped her—not the humid heat of the rainy season, or the endless downpours, or the chill of the dry season. They had to work so that the family could be fed, and we all pitched in, even as kids. On days when there was no school, or after school was out, I would go help my father wherever he was working, while Fofo would lend a hand around the house. If it happened that one day there wasn’t anything to eat—well, so what! Some citronella with a bit of sugar or honey would tide us over till the next day. It was out of the question that we would beg for anything from anybody. And here I was, waiting around for someone to give me food! I wasn’t sure I’d have the courage to accept.

  I bent down to pick up the water jug, but Mélanie insisted on carrying it, and so I helped her balance it on her head. Once again we set off toward the tent. When we got there, Mama was already awake and was sitting up on her mat.

  “Mélanie, my child!” she exclaimed as soon as she saw us, a smile lighting up her features.

  No doubt about it—she was happy to see Mélanie. At last, a familiar face in this human wilderness! Mama knew her well, since Mélanie had often come by to pick me up so we could go to her house and do our math homework toge
ther. And I’d taken advantage of those visits to watch programs on their color TV and see Tanya Toyo present the daily news. Sometimes, too, Mélanie would accompany her father when he gave Papa and me a lift home after a day spent working on their property.

  Mama seemed to be feeling less pain now—the sedative was evidently still working.

  “Where is Fofo?” she asked, after greeting Mélanie.

  “I haven’t yet found him, but I’ll keep looking. There are so many people in the compound!”

  “Fofo is here, too?” said Mélanie. “We’ll look for him together!”

  Deep down, I was sure that Fofo wasn’t in the camp. If he had been, I would have come across him during the methodical search I’d just made. But I couldn’t have said that to Mama—she was in enough pain as it was.

  The Belgian journalist and a cameraman arrived while Mélanie was telling Mama everything that had happened to her since she’d fled with her parents. I remembered the woman’s name, Katelijne, so I introduced her straightaway to Mama. She seemed quite moved and impressed at the sight of that crippled woman sitting on a mat on the ground, holding her spine so erect.

  “The world is completely ignorant of the tragedy unfolding here. An appalling civil war that has caused nearly ten thousand deaths, half a million displaced persons and refugees, a humanitarian catastrophe—and not a single word in the American or European media. Obviously, this isn’t Kosovo or Bosnia. Africa is far away, right? Who cares about Africa? Tantalum—okay. Oil, diamonds, hardwoods, gorillas—yes. But the people don’t count. They’re not whites, like us.

  “We mustn’t let this scandal continue, or let the arms dealers get richer and richer on the blood of Africans! It’s a disgrace to all of humanity! We’ve got to bear witness! I want to interview you so the world can find out about the tragedy that’s taking place here.”

  When people speak from the heart, there’s something in their voice and expression that makes you feel their sincerity. That something was evident in the voice of this middle-aged woman. I listened to her closely, because I was learning many things I’d never suspected—for example, that the West valued our gorillas and oil more than it did our people, and also (I should have figured this out for myself, it was so obvious) that in killing one another, we were making the arms dealers rich. On the other hand, I couldn’t see what the exploitation of diamonds had to do with the cruelty of that militia fighter Mad Dog, who had coldly shot a little kid kneeling in front of him and begging for his life, or how the looting of our country’s mineral wealth related to the brutality of the soldier who had killed Papa and broken Mama’s legs, or least of all how the silence of the Western media was responsible for the murderous pursuit of the Mayi-Dogos. I’d have to think long and hard about all that.

  Katelijne began by having Mélanie speak. My friend gave a detailed account of her misfortunes. She got so wrapped up in her memories that she seemed to forget we were there. Katelijne didn’t interrupt her with questions. But the cameraman kept moving around, trying every angle, shooting close-ups of Mélanie’s beautiful face streaming with tears. When Mélanie had finished, Katelijne began interviewing me. Like my friend, I told my story—how we’d fled our home, how we’d encountered the militias, how Fofo had disappeared, how the embassies had refused to let us in, and how we’d wound up at the HCR center. At the end, she asked Mélanie and me to express our hopes for the future so that the whole world could hear about them in her film. Mélanie was silent. I said that it was impossible to have any hope in a country where the road to power was littered with corpses, where you were hunted down merely because you were a Mayi-Dogo, where children were murdered in cold blood. Katelijne looked at me, very troubled, and asked again:

  “Isn’t there anything you can envision for the future? A glimmer of hope?”

  “Yes,” I said at last. “If it weren’t for this war, I’d be graduating from high school next week. I’m always fascinated when I see an abstract idea transmuted into visible reality—for example, when two perfectly perpendicular walls enable you to grasp the abstract beauty of a right angle, or when a mathematical expression is transformed into concrete reality, as when the equation E = mc2 made it possible to convert nuclear mass into energy. The opposite fascinates me just as much—that is, when a bit of reality separates like a precious metal from the worthless ore surrounding it and is purified, to become something abstract and perfect. My father and I built perfectly vertical walls with the aid of a plumb line, and using a level I was able to make a perfect horizontal. Ever since, I’ve dreamed of becoming an engineer and constructing large buildings.”

  When I finished speaking, I saw that Katelijne and her cameraman were looking at me as if I’d come from another planet. I could hardly blame them. As if emerging from a dream, I wondered why I was saying all these things when here I was, weary and famished in a refugee camp with my poor helpless mother. Fortunately, the interview was coming to an end. But when the cameraman began folding up his tripod, Katelijne asked him to wait. Turning to me, she asked if she could interview Mama as well. I looked at Mama and could tell she was exhausted, so I said no. In any case, I explained, she couldn’t add anything to my account, since we’d been through exactly the same experiences, which I’d already described.

  “No, no!” said Katelijne. “It’s not at all the same thing! If people could see your mother speak, the psychological impact would be enormous! Viewers always like strong images and emotions, you know. While your mother is speaking, we’ll get a close-up of her haggard face. Then we’ll pull back and focus on her in medium close-up for a moment, to show her sitting so fine and straight. Then we’ll zoom in on her legs and end with a close-up of her stumps. It’ll be dramatic! American journalists have a saying: ‘When it bleeds, it leads.’ In other words, the bloodier the image, the more visually compelling it is and the better it works. And when it comes to images, those stumps are unbeatable!”

  At that, I almost lost my temper. Mama’s stumps were our suffering, our pain. Katelijne saw them only as something that would attract the attention of an audience. Was she completely heartless? No, I don’t think so—she simply lived in another universe. She didn’t understand that poor people like us didn’t make a display of our misery. We had the right to keep it private.

  “No,” I said firmly, “my mother’s misfortune is not going to be turned into a spectacle.”

  Katelijne saw that I was displeased. She apologized and said she hadn’t intended to make light of our suffering in any way. She thanked us, and before leaving she reminded us that her documentary would be shown on Belgian TV. That didn’t give us a thrill, as it would have in the old days. Those insane militiamen might very well massacre us long before the broadcast.

  As soon as Katelijne and the cameraman left, it occurred to me that this would be a good time to eat something, because Mama’s pain was still under control and also because I was sure Mélanie hadn’t eaten anything since the day before. I rummaged through our pack to find the food that remained. Tanisha had said that food would he distributed that evening. Despite my initial reluctance, I was hoping she’d keep her promise, since we had very little left. Mélanie suggested that we make a tour of the camp to see if there wasn’t some sort of little market where we could buy something to eat. A good idea. Markets always sprang up spontaneously when there were communities of people, no matter what the circumstances. I’d already noticed this in our short-lived encampment before the embassy walls, and again near the spouts where I’d fought to fill my jug and where people were trying to sell the water they’d just obtained.

  At first, Mama didn’t want to eat anything more than a banana, but when Mélanie and I insisted, she agreed to eat a hard-boiled egg and a bit of bread.

  All of a sudden, while I was eating, I felt a sharp pain in my lower belly. Oh, no—that was all I needed. I was getting my period, and it couldn’t have come at a worse time. My cramps were always bad, especially during the couple of days before the bleedi
ng started. Sometimes the pain was so severe that I was forced to lie still for hours. It was awful, because I couldn’t go to school or help Papa with his work. Fortunately, Mama was able to make me an herb drink that not only soothed me but also took away the pain until my period arrived. I knew which plants she used, since she had taught me about them. She’d also taught me about many others, because, according to her, girls were better than boys at preserving a mother’s knowledge, especially traditional lore passed down through the generations. But where in the camp could I find the plant I needed? If worse came to worst, I could endure forty-eight hours of physical pain, but I dreaded the way it would incapacitate me—I’d be stuck in one place, unable to move, unable to do anything to help Mama. I hoped we could stay in the compound at least until my period was over.

  With the fingers of my left hand, I massaged the two spots that hurt, pressing hard. I was doing this when a visitor came by. It was Birgit, the only Swede I knew of who wasn’t blond. She said she had come to fetch me—Tanisha wanted to see me right away, to discuss my mother’s case and ask me some questions. Leaving Mama in Mélanie’s care, I followed Birgit.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Laokolé

  “Do you have any idea what’s going on? There are women and children who have been here for more than ten hours, in need of everything, and you haven’t helped them at all! It’s unconscionable!”