I confess that I myself was thrown off balance by this. I had never heard one of those looting, thieving, raping militiamen say he was an intellectual and fond of books. Life is certainly full of surprises. I almost broke my silence to ask him which books he had read and liked, but his stream of chatter saved me. Still talking away, he tossed me a large Bible, which landed in my lap. I picked up the book with my left hand, the one I normally used, while I made a show of keeping my right hand free, to make him think it was my dominant hand, the one I defended myself with. And thus I took advantage of his bias, the bias of a right-handed person.
While he got himself tangled up in a nonsensical definition of the word “intellectual,” I was surreptitiously hefting the large book, grasping it firmly in my hand. I waited for the right moment, which fortunately came quite soon. After his thoroughly muddled description of what an intellectual was, he looked at me. I could see by his expression that he was desperately seeking validation of his status as an intellectual and a man of superior mind, wanting me to confirm this with some slight gesture, some small mark of admiration. I did just the opposite. I curled my lips to show my contempt, and this worked. He became furious and took a step forward, a step toward me.
The Bible hit him square in the face.
When despair is transformed into destructive energy, its force is multiplied beyond belief. The blow sent him sprawling. He could have gotten up right away if luck hadn’t been with me. It so happened that as he fell, the back of his neck collided sharply with the right angle formed by two sides of the rectangular table. From the sound of the impact, I thought his neck might be broken.
I jumped up immediately. When I saw him reaching for his gun, I smashed his fingers with a large bottle full of whiskey. Then I began stomping, crushing, kicking with all my might, aiming my blows at those genitals that had humiliated so many women. I thought of the twelve-year-old girl in the camp; I thought of my daughter, whom he’d nearly flayed alive with lashes from his belt; and I rammed him ceaselessly between the legs. I trampled, pounded, pulverized his groin. I struck him like a mad fury. By the time I calmed down, his body was still.
The child in the armchair was looking at me without saying a word. I took the new pagne he’d offered me, made a small rip in it with my teeth, and tore it into two large pieces. I nestled my daughter against my back with her feet at my sides, and tied her snugly to me with half of the pagne. Without even glancing at the motionless body lying in a pool of blood, I went out the door and began striding briskly down the street.
The fresh air was like a tonic, and I was filled with an allencompassing joy. Joy at being alive. Joy at having survived. Joy at continuing to live. The fresh air revived the child, too, for she began to cry. And this was good—a child who’s crying is a child who is alive. And I remembered that my little daughter had no name.
Now, everything that’s ever existed in the universe began with a name. I sent my memory plunging into the rich heritage of my grandfather’s language, and I came up with the purest word of the tribe, the most beautiful word, a perfect reflection of the moment: Kiessé! Joy! My child, I name you Kiessé!
And I looked up at the sky. There they were, those brilliant diamonds, crowning our heads. What would we do without the stars?
Johnny Mad Dog Page 29