Johnny Mad Dog

by Emmanuel Dongala

  “Calm down, sir. We’re doing our best. A few hours ago, you weren’t expecting to be here in an HCR refugee camp. Well, we weren’t expecting you, either—we had no idea there’d be such masses of people coming through our gates. The good news is that a shipment of food was flown in this morning, and in a few hours, before nightfall, everyone will be fed. So please be patient. Meantime, we’ve at least been distributing bottled water.”

  “You think fresh water and sympathy are enough for people to survive in this hellhole?”

  “Sir—you, your wife, and your children are lucky to have been granted the privilege. Other refugees haven’t been so fortunate.”

  “ ‘Privilege’? No, madam—it’s a right! And if by some stroke of ill luck we’re still here when the food arrives, I’ll make sure we’re the first to be served.”

  Tanisha looked at him for a moment, and the fire I saw in her eyes indicated she was more than just annoyed—I thought she was going to give him a scorching reply. But she took a deep breath and kept her composure. Birgit and I had arrived at her office in the middle of the conversation, and we had no idea what they were talking about or why the three men in front of Tanisha were so angry.

  “Pardon me, sir, but we at the HCR do not make distinctions among refugees. All are treated the same. Everyone is in an emergency situation.”

  “Don’t be irresponsible! You intend to treat us like those people? We’re foreign nationals, madam—high-ranking international officers, with our families. If this isn’t enough for you, let me say that I’m head of the regional division of the nation’s largest oil company and that I have unrestricted access to the country’s president, or at least I did when this country had some semblance of a government. We’re European citizens—some of us are even Americans. So show us some consideration! We’re not begging for food like those people over there—because this food, this aid, comes from our own countries! It’s been paid for by taxes on our citizens! So when I say that we’ve got priority, we indeed have priority, HCR or no HCR!”

  He was extremely angry—his face was as red as a brick. Immediately his associate picked up where he’d left off.

  “We must be evacuated! It’s urgent! You say that you’ve contacted our embassies, but we’ve heard nothing so far.”

  “We’ve alerted the embassies of France and Belgium, and I’m sure they’re in the process of negotiating with the present authorities for your evacuation. You must realize that the logistics are quite complicated. I’ve also informed the secretary general of the UN and the ambassador of my country.”

  “And your country is . . . ?”

  “I’m an American.”

  “Ah,” said the oil company executive. “I took you for an African.”

  “And how does that change things?” Tanisha wanted to know.

  “Well, you can understand better than an African that our evacuation should be given top priority. We want nothing to do with the mess in this godforsaken country. If those tribes want to slaughter each other, we don’t give a damn. We’re not humanitarians.”

  These words succeeded in enraging Tanisha, who had thus far managed to stay calm. Her blood began to boil.

  “You have no right to take that tone with me, sir! Keep it up and I’ll throw you out of my office! You think I’m impressed that you’re the regional director of the country’s largest oil company? I couldn’t care less! I have a lot more concern and respect for the other refugees than I do for you, if you want to know. So you don’t give a damn about this country? As if that weren’t obvious! Money, money, money! Oil, oil, oil! Diamonds, diamonds, diamonds! I never for a moment thought that a businessman like you was a humanitarian. Get out of here and let me do my job! I’ve contacted your diplomatic representatives and they’re taking steps to save your precious hides, which are so much more valuable than those of the native people. That’s all I can tell you. Allow me to get back to work!”

  She nodded in the direction of the door, and her braids emphasized the movement of her head. The oil executive was incensed. The officer of the International Monetary Fund spoke sharply:

  “What you say is racist, ma’am—discriminatory against whites! You can be sure we’ll report this to the HCR administration and the consular authorities, and they’ll hear about your unfriendly, uncooperative attitude as well! Believe me, you’ll be disciplined and relieved of your position!”

  “I’m trembling in my boots! The difference between you and me, gentlemen, is that I’m a kind person. Go tell your families not to worry—you’ll be evacuated. When the tribes have stopped killing each other, you’ll be able to return to this ‘godforsaken country’ to pump its oil and have fun drawing up piein-the-sky plans for economic restructuring!”

  At that moment we heard gunshots, which ceased almost as soon as they’d begun. The three white foreigners immediately forgot their anger and hurried away. For a moment Tanisha looked weary, as if the confrontation had depleted her stores of energy. But she took a deep breath, shook her head (making her braids fly), and in a minute was her old dynamic self.

  “Birgit, the food situation and the security situation are both seriously compromised. The leaders of the faction that apparently controls the city have given us an ultimatum: if we haven’t driven the refugees from the compound by fifteen hundred hours sharp, they’ll enter by force and there’s no telling what will happen to employees of the UN and the HCR—they’re accusing us of harboring criminals. The deadline is only three hours away. After numerous tries, I finally reached our supervisors at the HCR regional office—they assured me they were in the process of negotiating with the authorities, but I wonder what authorities those could be. There’s no longer any government; there are only warlords. As for food supplies, the regional office also assured me that a convoy of trucks loaded with provisions had left the HCR’s storage depot near the airport and was heading toward the compound. That was more than two hours ago and the convoy hasn’t yet arrived, though the depot is only half an hour away. We have children here who are on the verge of starvation. It’s maddening—all we can do is sit and wait! We’re completely dependent on decisions made elsewhere. As if that weren’t enough, all the foreign nationals are getting into a panic, as you’ve seen. They can’t understand that the situation is difficult for everyone—they’re convinced they have special privileges because they’re white and because they’re Westerners. Such arrogance! They think the whole world revolves around them!”

  She leaned away from the desk, resting her long straight spine against the back of her chair.

  “We’re an international relief organization,” said Birgit. “The Geneva conventions will protect us.”

  “Go tell that to those armed thugs! I repeat, Birgit—we’re not dealing with a government. The warlords are in control.”

  “But who will protect these people if we don’t?”

  “That’s the problem. The blue berets here aren’t trained for armed combat—that’s not their mission. Besides, Captain Iqbal has just informed me that the UN is planning to evacuate them. We’ve got to stay here, Birgit! Our presence is the only thing that can prevent the refugees from being massacred!”

  It seemed to me she’d flung out these words as a desperate act of faith, in the teeth of a situation that she felt was slipping inexorably from her control. Then her gaze came to rest on me, as if she’d only just noticed I was there.

  “Ah, Laokolé! I asked you to come so that you and I could discuss your mother’s case. We thought we could perform an emergency operation with the equipment we had on hand, but at the moment things are becoming complicated. I don’t know what to tell you.”

  I didn’t answer, because I didn’t know what to say. She looked at me, her face full of sadness. I thought the conversation was over, but as I made a movement to leave she stopped me.

  “Katelijne, the Belgian journalist, was very impressed with you and your friend. So you want to become an engineer and build skyscrapers? Good for you! I,
too, would like to be an engineer and build things, but in the field of the new communications technologies. I’m just coming to the end of a two-year stay in Africa that has taught me a great deal. I’m actually a doctor. After practicing for two years in the United States, I dropped everything and joined the Peace Corps, then the HCR. When I get back to the States, I want to set up a foundation or NGO that will build a satellite communications system for exchanging health services with Africa. That will be my contribution to the continent we all come from. Well, you’d better return to your mother now. The camp is being threatened—we’re working to stave off a catastrophe.”

  Just as I was getting up to leave, a searing pain shot through my pelvis. I winced and clenched my teeth, but couldn’t repress a small cry. I doubled over, my arms crossed over my belly.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Tanisha, jumping up from her chair. Birgit was already by my side.

  “It’s nothing. Just my period—always painful.”

  “Poor thing! I know how it is—I have the same problem.”

  She opened a drawer and took out a small bottle of pills.

  “Here’s some acetaminophen. It’s an anti-inflammatory and analgesic. Take two tablets now—they’ll make you feel better—and take two more whenever the pain gets bad.”

  She handed me a glass of water. I swallowed the two tablets and looked at the bottle.

  “Thank you so much! I’m very grateful.”

  “Wait,” she said.

  She hunted around in another drawer and handed me a packet of twelve sanitary pads.

  “Take these—you’ll need them.”

  I didn’t know how to thank her. Tanisha had become a mother to me. No, she was too young to be my mother—she was my big sister. Having left home without any supplies, I’d been intending to tear a pagne into strips and make pads out of it, with a bit of cotton.

  “Here’s a magazine, too. I’ve finished reading it, and it’ll be a good antidote for boredom. Has lots of articles worth reading. You’ll learn about Mae Jemison—she’ll be an inspiration to you.”

  When you’ve thanked a person once, and then twice, the third time you’re left with nothing to say, for the words “Thank you” seem to have lost their force and even their sincerity. I’d also learned that if you can’t precisely express what you feel deep down, it’s better not to say anything. I was silent, and tears welled up in my eyes. Tanisha hugged me.

  “It’s all right, Lao. Go back to your mother now, and I’ll come to see you as soon as I can.”

  When I reached the door, I turned to look at those two women, the black American and the white Swede, and I mentally added the image of Katelijne the Belgian. Three women providing humanitarian aid in a camp in Central Africa. Three fragile beings who refused to stand idly by in the face of the world’s indifference. Why were they doing this? Why had they come to risk their lives in this country, where the people were so stupid they could find nothing better to do than kill one another for the sake of power and prevent their own children from going to school? Obviously, Tanisha hadn’t come seeking glory or personal gain, since she’d given up a prestigious and highly paid profession. How was it that despite the cruelty humans were capable of, there were still people who sacrificed themselves for others? To put this another way: given all the evil that human beings strive so hard to perpetrate, the good ought to have been driven out of existence. Yet it exists. Why? Who knows!

  As I was hurrying through the camp to get back to Mama and Mélanie, gunfire broke out. I even heard the dull roar of heavy weapons. The camp was thrown into turmoil. People were running about and had ceased listening to the UN medical personnel and blue berets, who were appealing for calm. Near Mama’s tent, I saw two people snatch their bags of IV solution from the hangers and rush away with them. I stuffed the bottle of acetaminophen into my pants pocket. Tanisha’s other presents—the sanitary pads and the magazine—went into the large leather bag. Above the sound of the shooting I heard a droning noise, which grew steadily louder. I looked up.

  Three helicopters appeared in the east, moving very rapidly. First they flew over the camp; then two of them landed near the buildings to our right, where the foreign nationals were being housed, while the third continued circling above our heads. Eight white soldiers jumped out of the two helicopters and took up defensive positions. Almost at the same time, intense gunfire erupted at the entrance to the camp, and then, with a deafening noise, the gate burst open and a tank followed by three huge military trucks rumbled into the compound. More white soldiers jumped out and headed for the buildings guarded by the helicopter troops. Out of the buildings came white men, their white wives, their white children. They were shouting in every Western language—French, Dutch, English, Portuguese . . . The soldiers loaded them into the enormous military transports. All of this happened very quickly—a real commando operation.

  Soon hundreds of refugees were milling around the trucks, crying out to the soldiers, beseeching and imploring, often on their knees. Some were begging, “Don’t go! Stay with us! Defend us, or they’ll kill us!” Others were shouting, “Please, please, take us with you! Don’t leave us! We’ll be murdered!” I heard one man call out, “I’ve worked for your embassy for fifteen years! How can you abandon me and my family like this? Take us with you! Save us!” The trucks were completely surrounded, as if the refugees were capturing the foreign nationals and their rescuers and taking them hostage.

  The wheelbarrow! We had to get ready. I ran to fetch it, and Mélanie followed. She stopped for a moment to look at the people the soldiers were loading into the transports. And we saw Katelijne moving toward the next-to-last vehicle.

  Impulsively, Mélanie ran to her and caught her by the waist. “Katelijne, take me with you! Please don’t leave me! They killed my father and mother, and my brother and sister—I’m all alone! They’re going to kill me, too! Don’t leave me! Take me with you, and I promise you can show me on television as often as you like!”

  The two women gazed at each other. Katelijne didn’t know what to do. She’d come to a halt, frozen in her tracks, and was stroking Mélanie’s hair and cheeks. I saw Katelijne’s lips move, but was too far away to hear what she was saying. I thought her eyes looked shiny. With tears?

  The encounter was cut short. A soldier came up to them, roughly elbowed Mélanie away, and pushed Katelijne toward the truck. Mélanie caught her by the arm and Katelijne almost fell. At this, the soldier drove Mélanie away with a violent kick and shoved Katelijne into the transport. Mélanie fell. The three trucks began honking to clear a path through the crowd, but when the people didn’t move aside the soldiers fired shots into the air and the vehicles began rolling forward. Too bad for the two people who were clinging to the fenders of the first vehicle. Mélanie ran after the truck Katelijne was riding in and managed to catch hold of it, but one of the soldiers gave her a blow on the fingers with the butt of his gun and forced her to let go. At the same moment, the third vehicle, following close behind, struck her full force and carried her along on its bumper for several meters. Then she fell under the immense wheels of the heavy military transport. It was horrible. I closed my eyes and screamed. I couldn’t look—I couldn’t look.

  The vehicles picked up speed and headed for the gate. Wild with panic, not knowing what to do, the image of Mélanie’s broken body seared into my brain, I ran to find my mother. I was interrupted before I could get very far. Soldiers from the helicopters, whom I recognized by their uniforms, were accompanying Tanisha toward one of the vehicles. I don’t know how she spotted me in all the confusion.

  “Lao!” she cried, running up to me and putting her hands on my shoulders. She spoke very quickly. “I had people looking for you everywhere—thought I’d never find you! I’ve appealed to the HCR authorities and they’ve agreed to let me take you along. Come with me—there’s room!”

  My head swam. To leave, to get out of this godforsaken country—this was the dream of every young person of my gener
ation.

  “Come on!” she begged. “I’ll get you a scholarship, definitely! You can become an engineer. You’ve got a future!”

  No, I couldn’t go. I couldn’t leave Mama by herself, or Fofo either.

  One of the soldiers escorting Tanisha said, “We have to move quickly, ma’am—we absolutely have to take off in three minutes!”

  “Lao, there’s no time to hesitate! Come on!”

  The soldier grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the helicopter. No, I didn’t want to! I didn’t want to leave the country if it meant leaving Mama and Fofo behind!

  “Let me go!” I shouted. Since he didn’t release my arm, I kicked him in the leg. He pushed me away angrily, and I fell. Tanisha looked at me with eyes full of sadness: “I understand, Lao.” She dug around in her bag and handed me a card, then began walking mechanically toward the helicopter. A moment later, it was rising into the air.

  I got to my feet and looked at the card I was holding. She had written down her home address, two phone numbers, and an e-mail address. I tucked the card securely into my pocket and once again set off in search of the wheelbarrow, to rescue my mother, whom I’d left all by herself. There was no doubt in my mind: we had to get out of the camp as fast as possible, now that there was nothing here to protect us.

  For some reason the convoy with the white evacuees had halted suddenly just before reaching the gate. The last truck, the one that had hit Mélanie, was backing up at top speed, followed by the tank. Did the soldiers know they had run over a young woman? No. While I was watching them back up, someone behind me fell, probably because of all the pushing and shoving, and brought me down, too, just as the vehicles were passing us. As I got to my feet—infuriated, especially since I’d lost my cap—I was just in time to see the tank and the truck roll once more over Mélanie’s shattered body, before coming to a stop in front of the second building.

  Two soldiers got out of the truck, supporting a woman who was on the verge of hysteria. “My little one! My darling! I have to find him!” In the general confusion, the soldiers had no doubt forgotten to take her child, a baby who was probably sleeping blissfully in an improvised cradle. The three of them went into the building. They wasted no time, and came out again almost immediately. They were no longer supporting the woman, who was holding a little poodle, its curly coat neatly manicured. Escorted by the two armed soldiers, she walked out the door caressing the animal and murmuring, “There, there, don’t be afraid, my precious! You’re saved.” When she reached the truck, the soldiers helped her get in, along with her dog. The vehicles took off like a shot, rolled over Mélanie’s mangled body for the third time, and rejoined the others. Led by the tank, the three military transports and their white passengers left the HCR compound. They were saved.