by Gill Lewis
Bundi set up a trading post beneath a sheet of tarpaulin where he put himself in charge of taking names. He pushed his glasses on his nose and took details of all new miners in a creased and dog-eared ledger. The line of people wanting to work in the mine became longer each day. Imara sat down beside him and handed out the toughened sacks for the coltan.
“Next,” called Bundi.
A young man stepped forward, shovel in hand.
“Name,” said Bundi.
“Frederick,” said the man. “Frederick Ntanga.”
Imara watched Bundi write, the mysterious loops and swirls of words appearing like magic on the page.
Bundi looked up. “You are here to work in the mines?”
Frederick nodded.
“Do you have a permit?” said Bundi.
“A permit?”
“You must pay the Black Mamba a hundred-dollar payment to work in the mine. Do you have that money?”
Frederick shook his head.
Bundi tapped his pen on the desk. “There is another payment for food, water, and firewood.”
“I have no money,” said Frederick.
Imara glanced at him. He was like the rest. No one had any money.
Bundi looked at Frederick over the top of his glasses. “You can start work, but you must pay back the Black Mamba before you can keep any money yourself,” he said. “Work hard and you will pay it back quickly. Do you understand?”
The man nodded.
“Then sign here,” said Bundi. “If you can’t write, then sign an X, like this.”
The man gripped the pen and signed an X by his name on the ledger. Imara handed him a sack and watched him head toward the mine. She had heard Bundi tell the Black Mamba it would be months before any of the workers would earn any real pay at all.
* * *
Imara was free to walk among the miners. None dared look at her. They fell silent and kept their eyes down to the ground as she passed. The tales about her had spread far and wide. She was the Black Mamba’s Spirit Child. She could curse your soul. To look into her eyes was to see your death.
Only the Black Mamba and Saka looked in her eyes. Maybe Saka had already faced his death before. Each day he disappeared into the forest and each evening he brought back more bush-meat, laying it at the Black Mamba’s feet for him to have first choice. Every evening Imara watched Saka lie down next to Frog to sleep, their backs touching. In the day they moved around each other, careful not to show eye contact, careful not to let people hear them talk. Only Imara saw their silent friendship, an invisible bond between them. Only she saw the food parcels wrapped in leaves that Saka dropped at Frog’s feet. No one else saw the boys’ friendship, only Imara. Friendship was forbidden in camp. It was a dangerous secret to have. Imara smiled inwardly. To know someone’s secret was to hold them in your power.
The camp fell into a daily routine, something life with the Mambas hadn’t offered before. The Black Mamba had sent Frog to work in the mine, and Dikembe to train to be a soldier. Imara watched Dikembe’s face harden as Rat put him through his paces, doing squat-jumps, press-ups, firing practice, and runs with full packs into the forest. He was rewarded with food and beer, and he made sure he kept himself away from Saka and Frog.
Imara watched them all from the shadows. The demon kept her company while she tended the fire, cooked meals for the men, and washed their clothes. At night, she wrapped herself in her sleeping mat, preferring to now sleep in the crook of the tree, rather than the damp forest floor where she was often woken by charging lines of army ants. Her stomach churned with hunger. Except for the bush-meat Saka brought in, there was no more food to feed the growing hoard of miners. The Mambas would have to raid another village soon. She could hear the Black Mamba in his shelter talking with Bundi, their voices low. She was falling asleep as a radio handset crackled to life. She half-listened to the Black Mamba barking orders; muddled messages about a bluebird arriving in the morning. A bluebird with arms, carrying a white lioness.
CHAPTER TWELVE
imara
The bluebird was a helicopter. It wasn’t like a bird at all. It buzzed above the camp like an outsized shiny blue beetle. All the Mambas and the miners stopped what they were doing and craned their necks to look up at it.
Imara had seen the white helicopters of the United Nations patrolling the skies, but they had always stayed in the far, far distance. They never came this close. Imara covered her ears as the helicopter clattered out of the thin morning mist to land on the cleared and level ground. The air pulsed with the sound of it. She leaned into the downdraft from the rotor blades, which flattened the grasses and sent loose mud and stones into the air.
Saka stood beside her, pointing into the cockpit. “Mzungus,” he said. “White people.”
Three white-skinned figures sat inside the helicopter, their faces half hidden by their sunglasses and helmets. They waited until the rotor blades slowed, the whirling blur separating into four long blades. The whine of engines faded and the pilot climbed out, holding the door for the other two passengers. The first was a big man, red faced, with a fuzz of grayish hair. His round stomach stuck out over his faded jeans. The second passenger was tall and slim-hipped. Imara watched the passenger slide the helmet off to release a mane of long hair, the color of the sun.
Imara stared.
This mzungu was a woman.
Imara watched the Black Mamba walk into the clearing. He was clean-shaven and had changed out of his T-shirt and combat trousers into a military uniform, decorated with medals. As he passed, Imara could smell the false flower scent of soap on his skin. He preened himself, brushing the creases out of his trousers and running his tongue along his teeth. He looked smaller to Imara. Ordinary. Weakened. Just a man. A man pretending to be a king.
The gray-haired mzungu’s eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses. He walked with a long swagger as if he owned the mine. But Imara could tell he was nervous. He chewed on gum, his jaw muscles working hard. His fingers twitched where a pistol lay outlined beneath his shirt.
The woman was different. She shook out her mane of hair, put her hand on her hip, and surveyed the mine, looking down her long thin nose. She pushed her sunglasses on top of her head, revealing eyes the color of a pale morning sky. She swept them across the Mambas, standing in a ragged circle, finally coming to rest on the Black Mamba, with Bundi and Rat at his sides.
“Well,” she announced, “I thought I had come to the camp of a great leader, not a rag-tag army. I have come to meet the Black Mamba.” She spoke French, the business language of the Congo.
The Black Mamba gave Bundi a shove and nodded toward the woman. Bundi ran his finger around his collar and wiped sweat from his forehead. He shuffled forward. “The Black Mamba welcomes the White Lioness to his camp.” He held out his hand. “Please come this way; the Black Mamba would like to offer you to sit with him and take some coffee.”
The White Lioness walked past Bundi to the Black Mamba. She paused, looking directly in his eyes. “Come,” she said. “Let’s talk some business.”
Close up, Imara could see the White Lioness was older than she first thought. Her face was pale, the color of blood-tinged milk, and her skin looked pinched and lacked the smoothness of youth. Fine lines ran across her forehead and around her downturned mouth. She wore a simple white shirt and khaki trousers, yet her lips and nails were painted red. A diamond pendant hung from a gold chain around her neck.
Imara couldn’t stop staring. The demon inside her was transfixed too. Never had she seen a woman in control of men before. The White Lioness had neither the Black Mamba’s strength, nor a weapon of any sort, but it was clear to Imara that what this woman possessed was power.
The Black Mamba snapped his fingers. “Imara, bring coffee to my tent.”
Imara nodded, aware the White Lioness’s eyes lingered on her scar.
Imara filled the pan with fresh water and stoked the fire. She added crushed coffee beans and sugar cane into the pan
and let it boil to a treacly liquid, just how the Black Mamba liked his coffee.
She carried the pan of coffee and separate cups to the Black Mamba’s shelter and placed them on an upturned beer crate, keeping her face down as she poured the hot drink. She backed away, turning to leave.
“Wait,” said the White Lioness.
Imara stopped.
The White Lioness got to her feet and stood in front of her. “So, is this the Spirit Child I hear people speak about?” Imara flinched as the White Lioness reached out to touch the long scar on her face.
“Pity,” she said, putting her hand beneath Imara’s chin and pushing her face up for a closer look. “I expect you were once such a pretty child.”
Imara pulled her face away.
The White Lioness smiled. She leaned forward and whispered, “We are alike, you and me. Men fear us, and that gives us power.”
Imara remained silent, but the demon rose up inside.
She likes you. She sees your power.
The White Lioness moved her face closer so that Imara could see tiny flecks of darker blue in her pale irises. “I am told that to look at you is to see your own death. Tell me, Spirit Child, how am I to die?”
Tell her what she wants to hear.
Imara stared back. “You will die rich,” she said, “in a bed of gold and diamonds.”
The White Lioness laughed. “You flatter me.” She sipped her coffee, rolling the sticky liquid around her teeth. “But I have no interest in people who flatter me. What else do you see?”
This woman is like the Black Mamba. She cares for no one but herself. People die because of her. Play her game, Imara; make her fear you.
Imara frowned. “You will die alone,” she said, “stained with blood that is not your own.”
The White Lioness raised an eyebrow and paused. “Well, thank God for that.” She reached for a cigarette in her pocket and lit it, drawing in heavily and then breathing out, creating a screen of smoke between them.
The White Lioness looked across at the Black Mamba, her lip curled up in amusement. “Is this your secret weapon in the jungle? A Spirit Child? What else do you have? Voodoo dolls and witch doctors? Is this all you have here?” She flicked ash at him. “Isn’t it time to catch up with the modern world?”
She is powerful, whispered the demon. See how she plays with the Mamba like a mouse between her paws. Stay and watch, Imara. See who wins this battle.
Imara waited. The White Lioness could pretend she wasn’t afraid, but the gray-haired mzungu did not dare look Imara in the eye.
The White Lioness continued her game. “Is this all you have for me? A few spells and witchcraft, and a few boys with snake tattoos running in the woods?”
The Black Mamba frowned. Imara could see he gripped the coffee cup tightly in his hand. “Bundi,” he ordered, “show the White Lioness what we have here.”
Bundi left the shelter and heaved in a large sack, straining under the weight. The Black Mamba reached in and picked out a lump of gray rock and threw it at the White Lioness’s feet. “Coltan,” he said. “You will not find a better grade of coltan anywhere else in Africa.”
The White Lioness picked up the rock and handed it to the gray-haired mzungu. “Clarkson, take a look at this.”
Clarkson rolled it in his fingers. He took a hand lens from his pocket and peered at the rock. Imara leaned forward to see. The rock looked larger beneath the small glass lens, picking out all the small details she couldn’t see by eye.
Clarkson nodded in approval.
“I have many clients who all want this coltan,” said the White Lioness. “How can I be sure you can supply me with a steady trade?”
“Have you brought me what I asked for?” said the Black Mamba. “We need weapons to defend the mine.”
The White Lioness studied him. “In the helicopter I have arms for you. I have Kalashnikov rifles and three rocket launchers and ammunition. I have also brought the other things you asked for: rice, beer, the oil-fired generator, and the chainsaws.” She leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. “I can supply your every need if you can supply me with the coltan.”
“We need to work out our price,” said the Black Mamba, glancing at Bundi.
The White Lioness smiled, showing a line of perfect white teeth. “I decide the price,” she said. She pushed a piece of paper toward the Black Mamba, who studied it, squinting at the wiggles on the paper. He handed it to Bundi, who muttered into the Black Mamba’s ear.
“It is not enough,” said the Black Mamba. “I know many clients willing to pay more for my coltan.”
The White Lioness shrugged her shoulders. “Then we do not have a deal,” she said. She stood up to leave, dropping the cigarette end on the ground and crushing it beneath her foot. “But I ask you, do you really want to sell your coltan in the backstreets like some small-town miner? I doubt many of your other clients have a helicopter to transport the coltan out of the Congo.”
The Black Mamba picked up another piece of coltan rock and twirled it in his palm. “Wait . . . ,” he said.
The White Lioness turned. She lit another cigarette, a smile playing on her lips as she inhaled.
“I need to think,” said the Black Mamba.
The White Lioness leaned toward him. “I have many, many clients who want your coltan,” she repeated. “My clients are from some of the biggest electronics companies in America, Europe, and Asia.” She paused. “I represent the world. Remember that,” she said, blowing out a halo of smoke. “Hold that thought in your head before you turn me down. I represent the rest of the world.”
The Black Mamba stood up and glanced at Bundi.
“Black Mamba,” said the White Lioness, her voice suddenly soft. She smiled at him. “I can make you a big man, a rich man.” She ran her eyes from his head to his worn leather boots caked in mud. “I can make you a king. A coltan king. Think about it. If I can have your coltan, you can keep your kingdom.”
The Black Mamba swallowed hard and nodded. “We have a deal,” he said.
The White Lioness shook her hair and smiled. She examined her nails and tutted. “But there is such bad press about coltan in the news these days. It is such a bore. My clients will want to be reassured that armed gangs and rebel groups do not control the mine. You are a considerate man, Black Mamba. Can you provide documentation that your coltan is conflict free?”
The Black Mamba stroked his chin. “I know a man who can,” he said.
“Good.” The White Lioness smiled. She sat back down. “Now,” she said, holding out her hands, “the question is, are you a man of your word? Have you found what I asked for in return? Do you have it here for me now?
The Black Mamba swigged the last dregs of his coffee. “Soon,” he said.
The White Lioness raised an eyebrow. “You do not have it?”
“I will have your gorilla baby soon.”
The White Lioness nodded. “Next time,” she said, “have it for me when I come, or we do not have a deal.”
gorilla
Hisani’s son pulled a piece of bamboo, stripping the hard outer covering and chewing the sweet inside. He stole glances at the silverback. Hodari was agitated. He patrolled the group, keeping the family close. One of the Watchers had followed them through the day’s brightness and slept near them in the dark. The Tall Ape had pushed them higher into the mountain, away from the bamboo on the lower slopes.
Hodari had mock-charged him, with roars and short barks, but the Watcher did not challenge the silverback. He lay quiet and still, and kept his eyes down, but he didn’t move away.
All day the Watcher had moved them upward. Hodari pulled at vines and stripped bark, glaring at the Tall Ape intruder who forced his family to move away from their favorite food.
The Watcher settled with them for their afternoon rest. Hisani’s son could see the other gorillas pull leaves around themselves and doze, belch-grunting in contentment after a morning’s foraging. He watched his mother che
w on a leaf, her eyes closing. She flicked at insects buzzing around her head and shifted to find a comfortable sleeping place in the leaves. Her stomach rumbled with food in her belly.
Even Hodari began to settle. He sat back, casting his eyes across his family, rolling nettles in a ball to hide the stinging hairs before putting it into his mouth while one of females groomed him. She ran her fingers through his fur, picking bugs and flakes of dead skin.
Only Enzi, the blackback, had energy to play. He chased Hisani’s son round and round, mock-charging and slapping his hands on his chest. But even Enzi began to tire and he too settled down to rest, yawning and scratching his belly.
Hisani’s son looked around for another playmate. He stripped a small branch from a sapling and charged in a circle, beating the ground with it. The other gorillas yawned in the sun and ignored him. He slapped the sapling in Enzi’s face, but Enzi grunted and turned away to sleep. Hisani’s son gave up. He chewed a leaf and tried to curl up next to his mother, but he didn’t feel tired. His mind raced and his limbs felt fidgety and restless. He sat up and looked around his sleeping family. No one wanted to play. Even the Watcher was sleeping, his eyes closed and his mouth wide open.
Hisani’s son glanced slyly at his mother. She never let him near the Tall Apes, but right now she was asleep. Right now, she couldn’t stop him. He crept toward the Watcher for a better view. The Watcher’s head had lolled back and Hisani’s son could see right into the Tall Ape’s mouth, at the pink inside and the rows of small white teeth.
He reached out to touch the Watcher’s face. It was smooth and warm and hairless. He pulled at the soft coverings the Tall Apes wrapped around their furless bodies and pushed a finger up one of the Tall Ape’s nostrils, but the Tall Ape batted him away, turning over in sleep. Hisani’s son sat back down, scratching at his fur, pondering what to do.
He reached out for the wad of square white leaves that lay beneath the Watcher’s hand. He tore one leaf and put it in his mouth. It tasted of dry bark and stuck around his teeth and beneath his tongue. He tore out another, listening to the dry ripping sound. He could see Enzi stirring. If Enzi woke, he’d want this wad of leaves and would take them away. Now that he had them to himself, Hisani’s son wasn’t going to let them go. He clambered up into the trees, higher and higher, until the branches bowed beneath him. Enzi would be too heavy for these branches. He wouldn’t reach him here.