by Gill Lewis
There were only two choices with the Mambas.
Keep up.
Or die.
CHAPTER FOUR
imara
The Black Mamba kept his men at a steady march, following old pathways through the forest, hacking the thick lianas with his panga. He stopped in a clearing, beside a fast stream tumbling over moss-covered rocks. The sun was high overhead and Imara glanced down to see her shadow directly beneath her feet. The hot earth steamed and insects buzzed in the shafts of sunlight.
Imara blinked in the strong light. The Black Mamba’s men sank down, dropping their kit bags and guns, some of them falling into sleep as soon as they hit the damp ground.
Imara crouched at the water’s edge to splash water over her face. She let it trickle down her neck and soak into her shirt, cooling her skin, washing the sweat and dirt away.
The Black Mamba joined her, filling his bottle from the middle of the stream. “The mountains,” he said, pointing to forested mountains reaching up into the clouds. “Soon our search will be over.”
The demon whispered in Imara’s ear, Flatter him. Tell him what he wants to hear.
Imara traced a snake in the dirt beside his feet. “The mountains are your kingdom.”
The Black Mamba scooped the dirt-snake and held it in his hand. “My kingdom,” he repeated, nodding his head. “This time, I will not let the thieves and traitors take it away from me.”
Imara left the Black Mamba staring across to the mountains and made her way upstream, climbing from boulder to boulder. She wanted to be alone, away from the men. She settled herself on a damp bed of moss, unlaced her boots and slid her feet into the water. Her heel was red and raw; the ragged edges of the blister flapped in the flow of current. She closed her eyes as the cool water numbed her skin.
The demon tugged at her consciousness. He follows you!
Imara opened her eyes to see Saka squatting on a stone beside her. He was staring at her feet. She frowned. How had he slipped away from the Mamba’s guard? How had he come so close without her hearing him? “What do you want?”
He put his fingers to his lips.
“You can’t escape.” She nodded to the men lying farther down the riverbank. “If you try, they will hunt you down.”
Saka shook his head. “I can get something for your foot. I can make it better.”
His voice was low and hushed. He spoke Swahili, not the Lingala language of the Black Mamba’s men.
Don’t trust him, Imara, hissed the demon. He is trying to buy his freedom.
Imara ran her fingers across the back of her heel. She needed something for the wound. It was red and raw, and getting bigger, making every step painful. She didn’t want infection to take hold.
She ignored the demon sniping in her ear and nodded to the boy. “Be quick.”
Saka searched along the riverbank, picking clumps of moss-like plants that thrust from between the rocks. He rolled them into a ball and put them in his mouth, chewing them like a goat chewing cud. When green juice began to dribble from the corners of his mouth, he took out the wad of moss and knelt down to press the chewed leaves against her blistered skin. He tore a piece of cotton from his T-shirt to keep the poultice in place.
“It is done,” he said. “In three days your foot will be healed.”
Imara nodded. She pulled her boot on, careful not to dislodge the dressing and walked back to the clearing followed by Saka. Only Rat was awake as they returned, watching them suspiciously with his small sharp eyes.
Imara ignored him. She was safe. She was the Black Mamba’s Spirit Child and no one could touch her. Not even Rat. She pulled some dried meat from her kit bag and chewed it, aware Saka was watching her with hunger in his eyes. His poultice seemed to be helping. The sore no longer burned within her boot. Maybe he could be useful after all. Maybe the small Batwa boy had just bought his freedom.
* * *
“Come on! Up! Up!” The Black Mamba kicked his men awake. “We must make it to the base of the mountain by nightfall.” He turned to one of his men. “Bundi, how far now?”
Bundi opened a map and spread it on the ground. He pored over it, tracing his finger along the wiggly blue lines of rivers. “Four hours’ march, maybe five,” he said. Bundi was different from the other men. He was tall and thin, with lighter skin, high cheekbones and a long nose on which perched a pair of glasses. The men distrusted him. He was a man of books. Some said he’d studied in the university in Kinshasa. Some said the Black Mamba had paid him well for his knowledge of the mountains.
Imara hoisted her kit bag on her back and joined the line of men. They were moving slowly now, as the men took turns to hack a new path through the forest. Her feet fell into the steady rhythm of the ting, ting, ting of swinging pangas slashing the vines ahead.
All the time they were rising higher, clambering over fallen trees and fording streams. The forest began to change. Here, the trees huddled closer together. The canopy grew thick above, and vines twisted down from the light into the twilight world of the forest floor. These trees were gnarled and squat, hunched over, like fat-bellied old men. Moss covered their twisted branches like wet green fur, glistening with beads of moisture. A steady pit-pat-pit-pat of water dripped from the leaves. Damp fingers of mist reached into Imara’s clothes. She shivered and rubbed her bare arms. A fire would be difficult to light tonight.
As the light was fading, Bundi signaled them to stop. He scanned the landscape, tracing the line of a river gulley with his finger. It cut a deep gorge into the mountainside. The water tumbled over small waterfalls and separated into several streams farther down the hillside. The sound of rushing water filled the valley.
Bundi knelt down and pulled at the thick undergrowth to reach the soil beneath. He rubbed the soil between his fingers and looked up at the Black Mamba and nodded.
The Black Mamba clicked his fingers for the three boys to come forward. “Dig,” he ordered, pushing a shovel into each of their hands. He aimed his gun at them. “Dig a hole big enough to fit the three of you.”
Imara glanced at Black Mamba. He had killed many, but this was not his way, to make his victims dig their own graves. Dikembe pushed his shovel into the ground, tossing a lump of earth aside, his eyes sliding across to the Black Mamba’s gun as he worked. Frog’s hands shook as he tried to break up the soft earth and avoid the tree roots. Saka dug hard, shoveling the earth aside, digging deeper and deeper into the ground.
The Mambas sat and watched the boys work until Bundi shone a flashlight into the hole. “It is enough,” he said. “Come out now.”
The three boys clambered out of the hole, while the Black Mamba walked around its rim, his finger twitching on the trigger of his gun. “Stand aside,” he ordered.
Imara turned away. See! jeered the demon. They are to die anyway.
But it was Bundi who climbed into the hole. Imara could hear him scraping at the soil. He emerged with a pan of muddied stones, which he swirled in the running water of the stream. The Black Mamba bent down to look. Imara peered over his shoulder, but all she could see were dull gray rocks.
The Black Mamba picked one up and turned it over in his fingers. He looked at Bundi and nodded. A smile broke across his face, his gold tooth glinting in the light from Bundi’s flashlight. He held the lump of gray rock up high. “We have found what we came looking for,” he said. He reached into a crate for a bottle of banana beer. “Tonight we celebrate.”
He bit the metal cap off the beer and spat it on the ground.
“Tomorrow, we dig.”
CHAPTER FIVE
imara
Coltan!” The Black Mamba took a swig from the bottle. Beer dripped through his smile and trickled down his chin. He kissed the lump of rock and held it high for his men to see. “Columbite-tantalite,” he said, rolling the words around his mouth. “Otherwise known as coltan. Needed in every computer and mobile phone in the world.” He paused and repeated the words slowly for greater effect. “In . . . the . .
. world ! Every country wants it, and we have it here, in Congo. With this rock, we can rule the world. With this rock, we will be rich.”
Imara stared at the dull rock. It looked just like any other lump of rock, yet the Black Mamba had trekked miles through the forest and made his men kill for this. She had overheard Bundi say this rock could be worth more than gold.
The men threw their kit bags on the ground outlining their makeshift camp and opened bottles of the stolen beer, flicking the caps into the bush. Rat killed one of the goats, slitting its throat and skinning it, working his knife along the flesh. A cigarette hung from his mouth as he worked, its glowing end bright in the growing darkness. The other goat bleated mournfully from its tether.
As the evening drew in, the air became colder and mist settled in the canopy of leaves above. It was not the fast nightfall of a clear sky, but a slow fading of colors into the night. The Black Mamba tied the three boys together to stop them from escaping into the darkness. Imara watched them shiver and huddle together. Frog curled himself into a ball, his shoulders heaving with silent sobs. Imara noticed Saka grip Frog’s hand and hold it in his. Only Dikembe kept his back to the other boys, as if he wanted to separate himself from their weakness.
Imara rubbed her arms and looked around. She felt chill and damp. There was no dry ground to rest on. The forest sagged with the heaviness of water, as if the trees held the rain clouds in their branches. Water glistened on the leaves and swelled the moss and lichens. It hung in veils of fine mist and soaked into the leaf-littered floor. A fire would be difficult to light, but Imara was the Spirit Child. She could do anything. She cleared away the leaves and undergrowth to reveal damp earth and unpacked the dry wood, grasses, and charcoal from the bottom of her kit bag. She laid the fire, building up a platform of wood for the grasses and tower of charcoal sticks. She lit the fire with the blue lighter the Black Mamba had given her and gently blew the smoking bundle of grasses until the small flames leaped and took hold.
She would need to cut more wood to cook the goat meat, and already it was almost too dark to see. She left the men, took her panga and cut her way through the trees, tapping them to see if there were any dead, hollow ones, which would be drier and easier to burn.
She reached a small clearing where the ground had been freshly trampled. Here, branches had been broken, their ragged ends showing the greenwood beneath. Young saplings had been ripped up and tossed aside. A sour musty smell of sweat filled the air. Somewhere beyond the screen of vines, something moved. Something raced past her in the darkness, thumping against the ground.
Imara froze. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Were there other men in this part of the forest too? Had another rebel group claimed this land? The smell of sweat was pungent now. Imara crouched low and tried to peer through the trees. There was more movement, a crashing in the trees above, and something heavy moving down through the branches, snapping twigs and leaves as it came. For one brief moment, Imara thought she glimpsed a face watching her from the thick leaf cover, a small black face with amber eyes. But in another moment it was gone. The cracking of undergrowth disappeared into the darkness, leaving only the rasping song of insects and the drip of water from the leaves.
Imara dragged some of the broken branches back to the fire, looking over her shoulder. She shuddered. They were not alone. Maybe there were powerful spirits in this forest, too powerful for her. Maybe they didn’t want her here.
* * *
That night she feasted with the men on goat meat and bean stew. The goat fat fizzed and flickered in the fire, keeping forest spirits at bay, leaving them dancing in the shadows. The three boys stared hungrily at the food, but Imara knew the Black Mamba didn’t feed the new recruits at first. They would have to earn their keep.
As thick mist closed in, the camp fell silent except for the snores and groans of men, full-bellied and drunk on banana beer. Imara could make out their sleeping forms, huddled under blankets. They slept with their arms around their guns, dreaming of promised riches to come. The Black Mamba slept in a hammock strung between two trees, a tarpaulin tent stretched over him to keep him dry.
The three boys were quiet now too. These boys were young, too young. The Black Mamba should have killed them or let them escape into the forest. Ones like these were no use to anyone. Imara had heard Frog moaning and whimpering as the daylight faded. He had called for his mama, like the new recruits always did at first. But she had covered her ears, knowing that the ones who cried loudest for their mothers were always the first to die.
* * *
Imara wrapped herself in her blanket and the sheet of plastic she kept bundled in her kit bag. Her skin prickled with cold. She was colder than she had ever been before. She shuffled closer to the fire for warmth. A restless wind swirled the smoke low across the ground and the embers crawled with worms of light. She lay down and tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t find her. She turned her face away from the firelight, glad of the darkness. It hid the scar and let the devil inside her sleep. The darkness was a place where secrets could escape into the night and silent tears flow.
“Imara?”
Imara held her breath. The Black Mamba was awake. She could hear his footsteps on the damp ground. She sat up, keeping her face in the shadows as he crouched next to her. He seemed even bigger in the darkness, filling up the night-space between them. She didn’t look at him, but fixed her eyes on the snake-bone amulet around his wrist.
“Spirit Child . . . ,” he whispered.
Imara felt the demon stir inside her at the sound of his voice. She poked at the fire with a long stick, sending sparks up into the air.
“I need to ask something of you,” said the Black Mamba. He twirled the snake bones. “Are we safe here?”
Imara could see his hand shaking as he touched the amulet, his lips moving as he silently counted the snake bones. She had never seen the Black Mamba fear anything before. Maybe the Black Mamba let his secrets slip out into the darkness too.
He needs you for his protection, the demon whispered in her ear. And that gives us power.
“Imara!” The Black Mamba’s face was so close she could smell the stale tobacco on his breath. He gripped her arm, his fingers digging into her skin. “Are we safe here? Will the spirits protect us?”
Tell him, Imara! Tell him what we saw today!
“Imara! I need to know.”
Tell him, Imara. . . . Tell him what we saw in the forest.
Imara pulled her arm away from the Black Mamba’s grip. The image of the small face behind the forest vines filled her mind. She stirred the fire, so that more sparks spiraled upward.
“We are safe,” said Imara. She paused. “For now, at least.”
The Black Mamba stared into the flames. “What is it that you see?”
Imara traced a face in the hot ashes of the fire. “The forest has eyes,” she whispered. “We are being watched.”
CHAPTER SIX
bobo
Bobo pulled his blanket over his head. He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t find him. He could hear the steady breathing of his sister on the mattress beside him and the rain drumming on the corrugated iron roof above. The clouds on the mountains had descended on the town. Outside, a few cars swished through the wide puddles, their headlights briefly lighting up the room.
Bobo turned onto his back. The rain usually soothed him, but tonight was different. Tonight, something was wrong.
The light from the paraffin lamp flickered from the next room. He could hear his baby brother’s cry and his mother’s soothing words.
Bobo swung his legs out of bed and followed the soft lamplight into the next room.
“Is Papa home yet?” he asked.
His mother shook her head, rocking the baby in the shawl tied around her chest. The baby closed his eyes, one small brown hand outstretched in sleep.
“It is late,” said Bobo. He crossed the room and opened the door onto the night. Water pooled into the room and
a moth batted past him, finding the light.
“Tsk! Bobo, do not let the night in,” scolded his mother.
“There was gunfire in the mountains today,” said Bobo. “Mbeze says the rebels are back.”
“Mbeze says many things,” said Mama. “He likes to drink and tell big stories.”
“But Papa was in the mountains today, and he is not yet home.”
Mama picked up her needle and began sewing thread into the soft green beret on the table. “Papa is on duty with Kambale, the head ranger today. Kambale knows the mountains better than anyone. Papa will be safe.”
“No one is safe from the bullets,” said Bobo.
Mama dimmed the lamp. “Papa will be fine. He said he was tracking the Tumaini gorilla group to see if Heri has given birth.” She smiled, stroking the baby’s soft head. “It could happen any time in the next few weeks. Every birth is important for the gorillas. You know that. Papa said he might be late tonight.”
Bobo sat down at the table and ran his fingers across the green beret, letting them linger on the gorilla badge.
“See?” Mama smiled, showing Bobo Papa’s name embroidered inside the beret’s rim. “Look at Papa’s new beret. We must be proud that he is being made a senior ranger of the park.”
“I’ll stay up and wait for him,” said Bobo.
Mama shook her head. “Tsk! Go to bed, Bobo. You have school tomorrow. Staying awake will not bring him back to us any faster.”
Bobo climbed back into bed. He was falling asleep when he heard running feet splashing through the puddles and the stomp, stomp, stomp of boots on the porch. He crept out of bed and stood in the shadows by the door and watched Papa step into the house, his green cape dripping water on the floor. Mama wrapped her arms around her husband, held him tight, and would not let go.