by Gus Leodas
Then came more haunting questions and she pondered them.
How far will you be willing to go for your country? In the end will you, too, abandon it for wealth and a new lifestyle?
When her thinking veered in that direction, Shaba felt for the necklace that wasn’t there. She reached across to the night table and picked up the Achilles Heart. Her mind raced through the meetings lingering on the Heart’s agreement and her commitment. Her mind cluttered with speculation. Shaba placed the Heart around her neck, reached for the light switch behind the phone, and prepared for sleep.
Sleep won after twenty minutes. During the time awake, her mind sated with Alise and her problem. Shaba decided Alise would share in her wealth. Maybe financial freedom will release her from her lover’s bondage. Shaba hurt for Alise because she loved her, the closest person to her.
Yes, the money would help Alise as well.
“Animals,” she whispered. “Animals.”
A mixture of female laughter, water splashing, and Afro rock music nudged Shaba from sleep at eleven in the morning, alone, staring, the night before lingering in the mirror.
Last night put marriage behind her.
She wondered what to do with freedom’s first day. The air felt strange; an uncomfortable alien existence. A thorough conversion and cleansing was in order; first, a long bath to wash away the past; second, to buy a new wardrobe; third, to have a cosmetic overhaul; hair, face, and nails. By evening, she would transform into the new Shaba; free spirit, newly liberated woman, sexy, and beautiful. Would she overcome imbedded attitudes about sex although liberated? On that subject, change was unlikely. Sex remained private, personal, and related to caring and love. She thought about Erron Horsford and smiled. He could be a perfect relationship.
Pool activity drew her to the window.
Kintubi sat between two bathing beauties; the other three in the pool bantering and laughing with him. The pool area, from the house to the fence, had screening for insect protection. The area beyond the pool thickened with privacy plantings. Then she noticed that two women in the pool were nude. After feeling a minor tinge of rejection from Kintubi that their union terminated, Shaba ignored the scene, and headed for a bath. Seeing him with other women put the period to their marriage statement. She added an exclamation point.
Any lingering doubts swirled down the drain with soapy water when the bath ended.
The shops in Kinshasa open from eight in the morning to noon and from three to six in the afternoon. She forgot for a moment as she prepared to leave the room. Early to leave, she thought to sit with Kintubi for a while. She entered the pool area feeling unmarried and an outsider, a nonmember of the exclusive club. The initial encounter with Kintubi’s harem was pleasant. They made her feel at ease; extending themselves to assure her comfort, which included jokes and laughter; all younger, early twenties, sociable, asking questions about New York.
Kintubi escorted Shaba to the car.
“How did you feel this morning, Shaba?”
“It’s going to be all right, for both. I see you’re happy in your new ways. I’m glad for you.”
“Good.”
“It doesn’t mean I approve, but I’m happy for you.”
“Take this.” He pulled a pad and pencil from the glove compartment and wrote. When finished he handed the paper to her that included his authorized signature.
“I have unrestricted credit at these stores. Have a good time charging to me. No limit.” He winked. She massaged the list and smiled.
“You’re definitely looking much better today. Thanks.” She placed the list in her handbag. Driving off, she hollered out the window with a broad grin. “Don’t overdo it this afternoon, lover. I may need you tonight.”
Shaba drove aimlessly, reacquainting. Kinshasa, fast changing to a modern city, made inroads in the eroded and unsightly plain surrounding it. Many residents lived in La Cite, a sea of tin roofed shanties, where Shaba grew up. She refused to drive near it avoiding the poverty world of her youth. With parents dead, she no longer had reason to go there. She filed La Cite in the buried past. Her father worked as a laborer consistently unemployed like many residents.
Shaba drove to the hilltop Kinshasa National University she yearned to attend as a child, but her father bred her for marriage. During marriage, she read avidly to escape her misery and to continue and improve her education, and studied English the international language. When tiring of absorbing her past from the car, she shopped.
Shaba prowled the upscale stores and the Ivory Market that sprawled along the sidewalks of Place Braconner in midtown Kinshasa. When finished shopping, she had spent a small fortune. So what, she figured Kintubi can afford it. She felt good, excited among her people again. Although her family and marriage were gone, there remained a deep passion for her homeland. Rich, she surmised her future would gravitate more to an international lifestyle as opposed to settling in Congo after initiating hunger and poverty programs. Congo ran in her blood and would always be home; her children had a permanent home here.
She returned to Kintubi’s house at nine after dinner; cosmetically overhauled and tired. The car’s back seat sated with packages limiting visibility out the rear window. A maid helped carry the packages to her room. Kintubi and the girls were out. The maid had no idea where. Shaba undressed, put on a bathrobe, went downstairs, and dove into the darkened pool. The water soothed and relaxed her nude body, her first nude swim.
The experience defied her traditions and added to the new freedom attitude.
Shaba felt lips on her mouth. Startled, she awakened to Kintubi.
“Wake up, lazy bones. It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”
“Damn! You scared me. What’s the matter?”
Kintubi dressed in uniform. “Nothing’s wrong. I have to leave and won’t return until seven or eight tonight. The President will be with me. I wanted to check about tonight, that you’ll be there.”
Shaba yawned and stretched weariness away. Kintubi watched her body grow taut.
“I’ll be there making like a dutiful wife.”
“Excellent. Is there anything you wish before I go?”
“I thought it a good idea if we visited the children today. Otherwise,” she shrugged, “I have nothing else planned.”
“Maybe tomorrow. I have responsibilities today.”
“I think I’ll ride out today. I’ll go with you again tomorrow.”
“Going alone will make the pain worse. Believe me. I know. Wait for me.”
“I may. I’ll see how the day goes. I cannot believe I slept that long. What shall I wear tonight?”
“Whatever you want. You spent a small fortune on clothes. I saw the receipts. Wear something new.”
He left with long strides about to close the door behind him.
“Kintubi,” she called out.
He came back in. “Yes?”
“Come here a minute.”
He obeyed, impatient, looking at his watch. “What is it?”
“Did I ever tell you I almost blew your brains out?”
“Are you kidding? When?”
“Early in our marriage. I hated you at the time. I used to hold your pistol to your head when you slept, but couldn’t find the strength to pull the trigger.”
Horrified, he asked, “Are you serious?” His eyes widened.
“Yes. Now that you’re rich, I’m glad I didn’t.” She smiled.
“So am I,” he sighed with relief. “I’m sorry. Why tell me now?”
“No reason. I thought you should know.”
Kintubi turned to leave then hesitated asking incredulous, “You really did that?”
“For a few nights.”
He walked away shaking his head in disbelief.
“I never thought you capable of murder.”
“I’m not. Otherwise, you won’t be around today.”
“Thanks for saving my life,” was cynical.
“Don’t mention it.”
He
closed the door. As she lay there, female voices preparing to occupy the pool area drifted in. She had no desire to spend the day with them. The more she contemplated staying here, the more distasteful the subject, deciding to move into a hotel on the weekend and begin her own lifestyle in Kinshasa.
Shaba should have listened to Kintubi to avoid the cemetery alone. She wished he were there; to hold; to comfort; to help her sustain the unbearable grief that engulfed her as she hovered over their graves as a wilted flower with visions of her children’s smiling faces fading in and out.
Grief clutched her with a wrenching ebb tide refusing to calm tossing her like a bundle of clothes in a washing machine to exhaust her, weakening, and sapping energy, forcing her to knees. Her eyes ran dry from spastic sobs.
Numb and hollow, Shaba shuffled back to the car and sat until her body stopped heaving. Then she raised the windows and screamed loud; shrill, deafening screams; long and sustained until the voice ebbed – the pressure subsiding; anguish vanishing. The screams served as the safety valve releasing the pain. She tilted the mirror, put on a new face, and drove away from gravesite never to go through that punishment again by herself and promised that time must pass before returning. If Kintubi wanted to come tomorrow, he would have to come alone.
The flow of a mother’s anguish continued to run deep when Shaba returned home. In the bedroom she sat dejected on the bed, eyes reddened. Her children from pregnancy to death painfully flashed before her with eyes running as a waterfall. When the memories faded, she knew that pain would remain for life. She must find a way to bury that pain’s intensity.
She headed towards the pool. The harem sunbathed lounging in a lazy environment. Four were nude. Janan wore a white sundress and sunglasses. Of the five, Shaba related to her best – the friendliest, prettiest.
“Hi, Shaba.”
“Hello, Janan. Girls.” She waved. Two waved back. The other two slept.
“Take a lounge and join us.”
“Thanks, I will.” She sat next to Janan.
“You’ve been keeping to yourself since returning.”
“Not on purpose.”
“Did you get over the shock seeing us here?” Janan raised the glasses exposing a knowing look that Shaba perceived. She smiled.
“That was yesterday. Today’s another day.”
“You’ve been married a long time, Shaba. The world is changing, old traditions are crumbling.”
“How well I know it. Can I be personal?”
“Sure.”
“What’s in it for you, for all the girls? Or is my question naive?”
“We love it here. For us, it is plush living with minimum demands. It beats living in La Cite.”
“I can’t say I blame you. I grew up there.”
“Besides, the pay is good, on the government payroll. Kintubi pays us top dollar plus extras like clothes, jewelry, and cars.”
“Tell me about tonight. I mean, what can I expect?”
“There’s nothing distasteful. We socialize with the President and have a pleasant social evening. No public display if that is what you mean. After a few drinks later in the evening, one or two may take a swim in their birthday suits.”
“Who entertains the President? Whose is he?”
“Mine, rarely all the time. I understand his problem.” She smiled. “When he forgets he’s the President, he’s a pussycat. He loves sex and his bad heart restricts him. He huffs and puffs a great deal. I have my period today. I’m sure he’ll look elsewhere, or ask for oral.”
Shaba spent a pleasant afternoon with Janan and the girls. At six o’clock, she napped upstairs.
Shaba formulated a better perspective of the President. Her conversation with Janan made him less a stranger.
She expected appropriate courtesies as his general’s wife.
The question Shaba wrestled with was – How would I react if the President made advances towards me?
Shaba had dressed when Kintubi came up at eight o’clock.
“How long before you’re ready?”
She sneaked a last look in the mirror. “Ready. Let’s go.”
Shaba heard conversation and laughter from the living room as they descended the stair. Soft music played. They entered the room. Janan sat with Busambi on the soft sofa. The other women and three men gathered around the bar.
President Busambi’s eyes glittered with surprise on seeing Shaba, beautiful beyond his expectations. He struggled sideways to raise his wide frame and heavy weight. He wore a tan suit with an open neck colorful shirt. After great effort, he stood, and waited for Kintubi to introduce her.
“Mr. President, may I present my wife, Shaba? Shaba, this is President Busambi.”
“Shaba, I’m honored to meet you.” He bowed slightly. Shaba extended her hand. He clasped it firmly. “Welcome back to our beloved country.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. I looked forward to meeting you.” He released her hand. Busambi was average height and in his early forties. The crescent shaped stomach made him appear shorter and older. “I must compliment you on how different and better I found our country since I returned.”
“That’s gracious of you. If better, it is because you have returned. I hope you planned an extended stay.”
He impressed. Maybe Kintubi was right about him. She laughed politely, cordial.
“I see why Kintubi admires you. I must return to New York within a month. Thank you for arranging my appointment.”
“Kintubi told me that you spoke English and I appreciated the reasons for the necessity. Are you happy there?”
“I feel useful and productive. And I’m serving my country the best way I can, and serving your leadership.”
“The ambassador is pleased with you.” Then he grinned. “Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you. Do you know Janan?”
Shaba and Janan smiled to each other. “Oh, yes,” Shaba said.
“Good. I am certain Kintubi wants to introduce you to the others. We can talk later.” He sat with a groan, crushing the sofa.
As they headed towards the bar Kintubi whispered, “What do you think?”
“A good opening. He seems nice.”
The three men were government officials, Busambi’s trusted confidants, one in his forties, two in the fifties. With five men and six women, Shaba felt like the spare tire on a ten wheeler. The conversation mixed. Two couples drifted out to the patio. Kintubi and Shaba sat by the President and Janan. When Shaba sat, Kintubi motioned to Janan to leave.
“Janan, I need your help. I’m unhappy with the kitchen’s performance and canapés. We’ll be right back.”
Shaba hated Kintubi’s hasty departure. She cast a quick nasty glance at him conveying her feelings about leaving her alone with Busambi, but saw it as an opportunity to talk to him alone. She turned and faced Busambi as he said, “Kintubi never mentioned he had a beautiful wife. I can’t imagine how he can approve your returning to New York.”
“We have a compatible understanding.”
“Compatibility should make both happy. Kintubi is invaluable in my Administration, a close confidant. He told me of your separation.”
“You’d know sooner or later.” Shaba looked around the room and extended her arms to indicate awe. “I see some of his success.”
“And you still want to return to New York?”
“Even with all this.”
“By the time your vacation ends, you may change your mind. We need good people here. Would you like to work for me?”
“I’m already working for you in New York.”
Busambi grinned. “You know I mean here.”
“Maybe after three weeks we can discuss the subject further.”
“I look forward to the meeting.”
The others in the room left for the patio. Shaba and Busambi were alone. Shaba considered this an opportunity to talk about hunger and poverty while he was a captive audience, and before Janan and Kintubi returned.
“I’m concerned about our
country’s future and freedom. My children died for its freedom.”
“I assure you democracy will always reign as long as I’m president.”
“There’s a project I’m involved with at the United Nations, primarily UNICEF. UNICEF is alarmed at the increasing rate of hunger and malnutrition of children around the world. The number of deaths is staggering, in the hundreds of millions. Poverty and hunger exists in our country. I’m curious as to what your Administration is doing about feeding the needy. Is the elimination of poverty and hunger a part of your long range plan?”
“All will be done in due course. The problems of our country are overwhelming. We are trying to catch up with the twenty-first century. The problem is more than feeding the people, but also educating them. I can tell you that I am working with the International Monetary Fund and World Bank to help with an economic plan. I have already implemented reforms. Some things take longer.”
“I know what the many problems are, Mr. President. Can you tell me your plan about poverty and hunger?”
“As I said, those problems will be dealt with in turn.”
“There’s no specific program?”
“Not yet, but in due time we’ll have an outstanding program. Poverty, hunger, and illiteracy have been here for centuries. I’m sure they can wait a few months longer.”
“I wouldn’t appreciate the statement, Mr. President, had my children died of starvation instead of in the war.” He felt the coolness of her cold tone. “My children died in your war to make you president. The way you can repay me for their sacrifice or anyone else who lost someone, is to serve the people in a humane manner; to improve their standards with freedom, and democracy as well.”
“Do I sense dissatisfaction?”
Shaba realized her attitude leaned toward chastisement and bitterness, early for acrimony.
“Goodness, no. Kintubi has told me of your accomplishments and the great goals to come. No, I approve what you’re doing. I just wish you could implement the programs faster especially eliminating hunger.”