by Gill Lewis
“Foul!” yelled Bobo. “Red card.”
But Lamu tackled the ball from him and gave it a kick, sending it flying into a pile of bins. “Goal!” yelled Lamu as the bins reeled and clattered into the road.
Bobo laughed. “Come on, walk with me to school. I have to go home and get changed and pick up my bag first.”
* * *
“Tsk,” Mama tutted, seeing Bobo walk in the house with his feet covered in dust and mud. She offered Lamu some water while Bobo washed and put on the pale blue shirt and black shorts of his school uniform.
“How is your father, Lamu?” asked Mama. “I am sorry to hear Kambale isn’t well enough to join Bobo’s father today.”
“He’s a little better this morning, thank you,” said Lamu. “The doctor thinks it may be malaria again.”
Mama handed Bobo cassava bread wrapped in a clean cloth as he headed out the door. “Bobo,” she called after him. “Don’t forget to take your sister to school!”
“She’d better hurry,” said Bobo, waiting by the door. “Or she’ll have to walk to school alone.”
Mama shook her head. “You heard what Papa said about the rebels. You must walk her to school. All the way, understand? You must walk her right to the front door. Promise me?”
Bobo glanced at Lamu. “I promise, Mama.”
Mama nodded. “And do not go talking to any strangers in town today.”
Bobo rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mama.”
“Bobo, this is not a game,” she said sharply. “If anyone tries to stop you, you take her hand and run.”
Bobo’s sister opened the door. “Who is going to stop us?”
“No one,” said Mama. “Come on, all of you. It is time you left for school.”
Bobo walked with his sister and Lamu to school. The sun had risen above the rooftops, into a pale yellow sky. The buildings cast long zebra-striped shadows and dust sparkled in a haze above the road. The air was thick and humid, yet far away on the horizon, clouds were forming over the mountains.
Bobo watched his sister skip ahead. “Have you heard about the rebels?”
Lamu lowered his voice and nodded. “The Black Mamba is in the mountains.”
Bobo glanced at Lamu. “Mbeze says they have a Spirit Child. If you look into her eyes you see your death.”
“My father saw the snake sign carved into a tree in the forest.” Lamu lowered his voice even more. “They say it is a curse. I think that is why he is sick today.”
“You said he had malaria.”
Lamu shrugged his shoulders. “They use the darkest form of magic.”
“They will be gone soon,” said Bobo. “Papa says they are passing through.”
Lamu shook his head. “My father says they have carved snake signs on many trees on the other side of the mountain. He thinks they are here to stay.”
“Have they come for the gorillas?”
Lamu shook his head. “They come for what everyone comes for . . . the gold and tin, but mostly they come for the coltan.”
Bobo shuddered. He had heard of the coltan mines in the lowland sector of the park, mines ruled by armed gangs and rebels. It was too dangerous for the rangers to patrol that area. The mines destroyed the forest. They cut deep into the earth, the trees torn down for charcoal and the wildlife killed for bush-meat. Papa had said that many gorillas had been wiped out and only a handful of forest elephants had survived the years of war. Maybe the highland sector would become too dangerous to visit too. Bobo knew the rangers wanted the tourists back to see the gorillas and bring money to the park. “The gorillas will suffer,” said Bobo.
Lamu threw his ball at Bobo’s chest. “Gorillas! Is that all you think about?”
Bobo threw it back. “You’re not going to be a ranger, like your father?”
Lamu laughed. “Can’t you tell you are looking at the greatest soccer player of all time? I can’t waste my talents. I’m going to play for the Congo in the World Cup.”
Bobo broke into a smile. He kicked the ball and watched Lamu as he charged after it.
“Come on,” yelled Lamu. “Race you to school.”
“Coming!” shouted Bobo.
Bobo dropped his sister off at her school, and watched her take her teacher’s hand and follow her into the class.
He turned for one last look at the mountains.
In the distance, massing clouds unfurled across the sky, their dark-gray underbellies folding over the forest, obscuring it from view. The rumble of thunder rolled across the valley. Bobo thought of the gorillas and rebels on the far side of the mountain. He thought of Papa trekking toward them.
His father was heading right into a storm.
CHAPTER NINE
imara
Imara stirred and scratched at the fresh insect bites she had gained in the night. The thick sweet scent of ripe mangos hung in the air around her. She opened one eye and watched the woman with the coffee-colored skin kneeling beside her. The woman was smiling and humming softly. The tune had floated through Imara’s dream, familiar, yet drifting somewhere just beyond her memory. Imara tried to stay in sleep, but she could feel the demon rising deep inside. She reached out her hand, but the woman dissolved into the light, slipping between the worlds of wake and sleep, the sweet scent of mangos fading with her.
Imara sat up and rubbed her eyes. She was cold and wet. The night’s rain had crept into the plastic sheet she had wrapped around herself and her muscles were tight and stiff from sleeping on the damp earth. The bitter smell of smoke clung to her blanket and her skin. She breathed out, watching her breath rise in spirals of mist in the cool air.
Above, beyond the framework of leaves and branches, light was coming back into the sky. The darkness of the night was softening. Imara could make out the shapes of the men wrapped in blankets. Even Rat was slumped forward, his gun fallen out of his arms onto the damp ground. It wouldn’t be long before the morning light filtered to the forest floor. But Imara knew she had plenty of time today. The men would sleep long into the morning, full on fresh meat and beer.
Imara allowed herself a smile. This was her time. When the men were deep in sleep the devil inside her slumbered too. She sat up and shook out her blanket, shaking out the dirt and bugs from the night. She was still cold and the day promised more rain. Above, the clouds glowed with the deep blue light of a coming storm. She rubbed her arms and pushed the log in the fire with her foot. The fire was awake despite the night rain, the glow of embers still crawling in the ash beneath blackened half-burned wood. She pulled dry grasses from her kit bag and blew softly, letting the flames catch. The smoke curled and trailed across the forest floor. The air was idle and sleepy, like the men. She placed the last supply of charcoal on the fire. They would need more charcoal soon.
She moved closer to the fire for warmth and removed her boot, examining her raw heel. The poultice had helped, although it had turned slimy and slipped from her foot.
“Let me make another poultice for you.” Imara looked up to see Saka watching her.
The demon inside Imara snapped awake. Don’t trust him. He wants our fire. He wants our heat.
“You need more moss to make it better,” he said. “I will find it for you in the stream we passed not far from here.”
Don’t trust him.
Imara glanced at the Black Mamba lying in his hammock. She could see his chest rising and falling as he slept. Maybe Saka could find more of the plants for her foot before the men woke up. She needed something. She’d seen grown men lose their feet from gangrene, where sores had turned into infected wounds.
Imara watched Saka. Frog was awake beside him too, although Dikembe slumbered, his eyes twitching beneath their lids.
Imara rose, holding her gun close to her. She reached down to untie Saka and Frog, then stood back and aimed the gun at them both as they rubbed their wrists. She kicked an empty water can toward Frog. “Get up,” she ordered in a harsh whisper. “Both of you. Come and fetch water and firewood.”
&n
bsp; Saka pulled Frog to his feet and whispered words Imara couldn’t hear. “No talking,” snapped Imara. “Move.”
She walked behind them, following Saka as he led them to the end of the river gorge where the fast water separated into small streams rushing down through rocky gullies. Saka crouched down and started foraging for moss along the riverbank.
Imara nodded at Frog. “Fill the can from the fast water in the middle of the stream,” she ordered.
The boy waded in, leaning against the fast flow of the current and filled his can. He stumbled back to join her on the bank, spilling some water. Imara could see his hands shaking and his cheeks were wet with tears. The demon writhed inside, clawing and pulling at her.
Don’t let him in, Imara. He is weak. He will destroy you if you let him in.
Imara jabbed Frog with her rifle butt. “Don’t cry!” she yelled.
The boy squeezed his eyes tight but his breath caught in his throat. He bent over, his chest heaving with silent sobs.
Imara kicked him. “Don’t cry. Keep your tears inside. Your mama is not here for you now.” She walked away, leaving him curled on the ground, his arms wrapped around his stomach.
Well done, Imara. Well done.
Imara turned and spat onto the ground. “Bring a full can of water, or don’t come back at all.” She pulled her panga and began to hack at young saplings to take back for the fire, wiping the sweat from her forehead. The day was heating up, the clouds building higher in the sky. Wispy tendrils of mist reached down and trailed across the treetops. In the river, Saka was helping Frog fill the water can. Imara could see him whispering to Frog.
“No talking!” she shouted. “Where is my poultice?”
“I have it,” called Saka. He scrambled out of the water and laid the wad of chewed moss on a flat stone on the riverbank.
Imara pushed her hand into the small of her back and leaned her panga beside the cut saplings. She slung her rifle across her shoulders and slid down the rocks to join him, removing her boot to wash her heel in the flowing water. She rested her foot on the rock to dry, and closed her eyes, listening to the heavy silence of the forest. The mist was pressing in, muffling the sounds of the rush of the river. Even the drone of insects seemed dulled in the thick air. At least the men wouldn’t be marching today. If the Black Mamba decided to set up camp here then it would give her time to rest her foot. Imara tore a strip of the bottom of her shirt and tied the poultice in place, pulling her boot on. Maybe she should get Saka to pick some more moss for a poultice for the next day too.
“Saka!” she called.
She turned, but the boy had disappeared. All she could see was Frog standing beside the cut saplings, his eyes wide.
Imara jumped to her feet and lifted her rifle to her shoulder. “Where is Saka?” she demanded.
Frog just stared into the forest.
Imara stared after him, into the dark spaces between the trees.
But there was no one there.
The small Batwa boy and Imara’s panga were gone.
Saka was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER TEN
imara
You stupid girl! screamed the demon. I told you not to trust the boy. If the Black Mamba sees your weakness, you know what he will do to you!
“Where is he?” yelled Imara, aiming her rifle at Frog’s chest.
Frog just stared at Imara, his eyes bulging, the water can shaking in his hand.
“MOVE!” yelled Imara, jabbing her rifle in the direction of the camp. “Or I shoot.”
Imara forced Frog at a steady march back to camp. Thunder rumbled in the sky above as the clouds swelled with more rain. The forest floor darkened, even though it was not yet midday.
When Imara reached the camp, the Black Mamba and the men were already awake. The Black Mamba was strutting with his hands behind his back, barking orders at his men.
Imara pushed the end of one of the saplings into the fire and hung the water over the flames to boil. “We need more charcoal. This forest wood is too wet to burn.”
The Black Mamba pointed to a stack of cut wood the men were covering with earth. “Soon we will have as much charcoal as we need.”
Imara looked across at the charcoal kiln the men were making. From the size of it, it was clear the Black Mamba was in no hurry to leave this place.
The Black Mamba glanced around. “Where is the Batwa boy?” he grunted.
Imara tried to keep her hands steady as she poured water into the pan of mealie maize. The demon turned somersaults inside. “He is gone,” she said.
The Black Mamba’s eyes widened. “Gone? Escaped?”
Imara nodded and stirred the porridge, chasing the spoon round and round the side of the pot.
Slow down . . . hissed the demon. Don’t let him see your fear.
The Black Mamba shook his head. “But you said to let him live, Imara.”
Rat narrowed his eyes. “Maybe Imara was wrong this time? Maybe her powers are weakening.”
Imara took a deep breath. “I have cursed the boy,” she said. “If he does not return by nightfall, he will die in the forest.”
The Black Mamba kicked the fire. “I hope for his sake he dies in the forest. It will be better than what I will do to him if he returns.”
* * *
Imara kept out of the Black Mamba’s way all day. She made herself a shelter of leaves and branches and watched the men clear a patch of level ground beyond the river gorge. She listened to the steady thwack of axes. Huge trees groaned and fell, opening up the sky. Bundi ordered the men to dig up stumps and roots. He wanted the area to be flat and level. He paced around it, looking up to the sky. The Black Mamba joined him, nodding in approval. She heard them talking about a blue bird flying in from the east, but when she looked, all she could see were the dark gray clouds and the coming rain.
Dikembe and Frog were kept busy cutting and stacking wood, building another kiln to burn wood to make charcoal. They heaped leaves and damp soil onto the wood and stood back when the kiln was lit, the burning wood sending blue smoke up into the air. Soon there would be plenty of fuel, but the food was running low. Imara counted three sacks of rice stolen from the village. There would be enough for another week, maybe. But to feed thirty men, they would need more soon. The men would want meat too, and that would mean another raid. She wondered how far the nearest villages were from here.
Rain had fallen steadily all through the afternoon, dripping through the trees, scouring the loose soil. The water ran bloodred across the ground.
Imara wrapped her plastic sheet around her, and worked hard to keep the fire alight. She didn’t want to anger the Black Mamba again today. The fire smoked with the damp wood, but burned just hot enough to boil rice for the men. Rat slaughtered the last goat, the last of the fresh meat in camp, and cut it into chunks to cook in the pot too.
As night closed in, the men left their work clearing the trees and gathered around the fire for food and warmth. The Black Mamba slung the finished rice pan to Dikembe and Frog. “Share what’s left between you.”
Dikembe snatched it and turned his back on Frog, crouching over the pan like a dog over a bone. Imara watched him wipe his fingers around the base to scrape the last few grains of rice, glancing back at Frog with quick sharp eyes, daring him to challenge him. Hunger changed people. Dikembe was beginning to understand the laws of the forest. Only the strong survive.
Imara cradled her own cup of rice and slunk back into the shadows, scraping the rice out and sucking the starchy water from her fingers.
As the daylight faded, a figure emerged from the shadows of the forest.
Rat shot to his feet, pointing his gun at the incomer. “Who’s there?”
Saka walked into the firelight, an antelope slung across his back and a large chickenlike bird hanging from a twisted vine in his hand. Imara could see her own panga dangling from his waist.
The Black Mamba circled the boy. He pushed the end of his panga into his chest. “No
one runs from the Black Mamba and lives,” he said.
Saka dropped the antelope at the Black Mamba’s feet, the limp body thudding on the ground. He held up the bird. “I have found bush-meat for you.”
“I say kill him,” said Rat.
Imara watched the Black Mamba from the shadows. He stroked the stubble on his chin.
“He’s a spy,” whispered Rat.
Saka held the dead bird even higher. “You need meat and I can find more. Much more. I can track anything: antelope, bush-pig, monkey, porcupine. I can find gorilla, too.”
“Gorilla?” said the Black Mamba. He let his panga drop away from Saka’s chest. “Gorilla? Are you sure?”
The boy nodded.
“Tell me,” the Black Mamba said. “Are there gorilla here?”
Saka nodded again. “Very close.”
“Are there young ones? Babies?”
“Yes,” said Saka, pointing into the forest. “I’ve seen them, not far from here.”
The Black Mamba smiled, showing his gold tooth. His eyes searched out Imara in the shadows. “Well,” he said, “it seems our Spirit Child was right to let the Batwa boy live. He will be very useful to us, after all.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
imara
In just five days, Imara had watched the Black Mamba’s men clear the lower slopes around the river gorge. The Mambas dug into the rich soil and opened up the ground like a wound, the red soil exposed like flesh. The men worked with spades and trowels, their bodies covered in mud as they hauled out the dull gray rocks of coltan to be washed and sifted.
The news of the Black Mamba’s coltan mine spread like wind across the forest, reaching the villages and the refugee camps where people lived, displaced by war. Men came at first. Thin men, with broken teeth and broken lives. Then women and children started arriving from their villages, all coming to find fortune in the mine.