by Gill Lewis
Bobo paced in circles around her. “But when Papa comes back, how will he find us?”
“He knows the village where my mother lives.”
Bobo dropped his school bag on the floor. “I’m not leaving. I’m staying right here.”
“Bobo, my son,” said Mama, her voice weary. “This is not our home anymore. We have to leave. We have no choice.”
* * *
Bobo changed out of his school uniform, folding the blue shirt and black shorts on his bed. This was the bed where Papa had sat beside him at bedtime, telling him stories of the animals in the park and the people who lived around it. This was where Mama had stroked his head with a cool cloth whenever he had a fever. But now the bed was stripped bare of sheets and blankets and the small cupboard where he stored his clothes was empty. It felt as if he was shutting a door to his past life and moving on. Moving on, leaving with unanswered questions, leaving without his father. Bobo reached into his school bag and pulled out an exercise book and pen. He tore out a page and began to write, an idea forming in his mind and spilling out as words. He pulled on the shirt and long trousers his mother had left on the bed, tucked the piece of paper in his shirt pocket, and went to find her.
“I am going to see Lamu, to say good-bye,” he said.
Mama looked up from feeding the baby. She nodded. “Don’t be long. Make sure you are back before dark.”
Bobo pulled on his shoes and paused in the doorway. “Mama?”
Mama looked up at him. But Bobo just stood there.
“What is it, Bobo?”
Bobo picked at the flaking paint on the door. “Nothing,” he said. He had wanted to tell her that he loved her, but if he had, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to leave. He closed the door and left, without saying a last good-bye.
He kept up a steady jog across the town to Lamu’s house, where he found him playing soccer in the street with his brother and their friends.
“Hey, Bobo,” said Lamu, running up to him. “What’s up?”
Bobo pulled him away. “I have come to say good-bye. We have to leave town in the morning, to go to my mother’s village.”
Lamu’s eyes fell to the ground. “I’ve heard. My mother told me.”
Bobo straightened his back. “But I’m not going with them.”
Lamu looked up. “You’re not?”
Bobo shook his head. “Lamu, you said you would help me.”
Lamu frowned. “I know, and I will if I can.”
“Then give this to my mother,” Bobo said, pulling the piece of paper from his pocket.
Lamu backed away, eyeing the letter suspiciously. “What’s in it?”
“It is a letter saying why I am going to the mountains.”
Lamu shook his head from side to side. “No way. You’re crazy, Bobo. You’ll get yourself killed. People will say you have gone to join the rebels too.”
Bobo pressed the letter into Lamu’s hand. “You mustn’t tell . . . not until I’m long gone.”
Lamu stared hard at the envelope. “Bobo . . . I can’t. . . .”
“You promised me, Lamu,” said Bobo. “I need you to be the one to tell everyone that I haven’t joined the rebels.”
Lamu took the letter from Bobo, holding it with the very tips of his fingers. “So what do I tell them?”
Bobo turned and fixed his eyes on the distant mountains. “Tell them I have gone to find my father. Tell them I have gone to prove my father is an innocent man.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
imara
Imara pushed the door to the cramped makeshift hut she’d insisted the Mambas build for her. The hut had been put together from rough-hewn planks of wood and covered with plastic sheeting and leaves. There were large holes, but the hut kept most of the rain and insects outside. She put her back against the door, shutting out the drizzle and evening light. Since the White Lioness’s visit, the forest had roared with the sound of chainsaws. The Mambas had worked quickly, cutting more trees, clearing the forest around the camp for charcoal and timber. The Black Mamba had his own wooden cabin too. It was set higher up on the slopes overlooking the open mine. It had a table and stools made from wide tree stumps. The Black Mamba’s sleeping mattress was set onto a raised platform to keep it off the damp ground. He and Bundi were the only ones to have such luxury in the forest. The rest of the men still slept in hammocks or on the ground beneath stretched tarpaulin.
But Imara was relieved to have a small hut of her own. If she spread her arms, she could almost touch all the walls, but it was her space, away from the men. It was somewhere she could keep her sleeping mat and a roof over her head. She rolled out her sleeping mat on the damp ground and lay down, pulling her blanket around her. She closed her eyes, trying to reach the place between wake and sleep where the woman with the coffee-colored skin might find her. She inhaled deeply, hoping to smell the scent of sweet ripe mangos that came before her.
Shouts came from the camp, pulling Imara from her slumber. She sat up and crawled to the door, opening it just a crack to peer out.
In the firelight she saw Rat, Saka, and two of the Mambas returning from their trip into the forest. Rat dropped two sacks to the ground. He picked one up and held it high. “Come and see,” he called. “See what I have brought back from the forest.”
Imara could see the other Mambas crowd around him.
The Black Mamba walked out from the shadows. “Have you got what I wanted?” he said.
Rat reached into one sack and pulled something out. At first, all Imara could see was a long arm covered in dark fur. As Rat pulled, the arm was followed by the rest of the creature it belonged to. A young gorilla. Rat held it up and grinned, triumphant. The gorilla’s head flopped forward, the other arm and legs hung loosely by its side.
The Black Mamba walked around Rat in a slow circle. “This gorilla is no use to me dead.”
The Rat jabbed the young gorilla in the stomach. The gorilla flinched, curling its legs up to its chest. “See, it’s alive,” said Rat.
The Black Mamba pulled up its head. “It is sick,” he said.
“Just tired,” assured Rat. He dropped the gorilla on the ground, where it lay, unmoving. “We have been walking all day with it inside this sack. It needs food.”
The Black Mamba stroked his chin and turned to Saka. “Where did you find it?”
Saka pointed to the mountains silhouetted against the night sky. “Higher up there, moving toward the other side.”
“I killed the silverback,” blurted out Rat, keen to have his moment of glory. “He charged at me thumping his chest. Big as two men.”
“Where is it now?” asked the Black Mamba.
“We had to leave it,” said Rat. “There were rangers protecting the gorillas.”
“Many?” said the Black Mamba.
“Ten, maybe twenty,” said Rat.
The Black Mamba turned to Saka again. “How many rangers?”
“We saw only one.”
Rat glared at Saka. “We dealt with the ranger. Here,” he said, nodding to the other sack on the ground. “I have his stuff.”
Imara watched the Black Mamba tip the contents of the sack on the floor. He picked through them, turning things over in his hands. Imara strained her eyes, but it was too dark to see what he was looking at.
“Well done,” said the Black Mamba, turning to Saka. “I reward loyalty and bravery.” He took Saka’s arm and pushed back the sleeve of his shirt to his elbow. He traced an S shape with his finger across the skin. “Soon, Imara will mark you with the sign of the Black Mamba.” He smiled, showing his gold tooth. “Well done, Saka. Soon, you will be one of us.”
Imara watched Saka clutch his arm and move away into the shadows to seek out Frog. Rat used the moment to rummage through the contents of the second sack and slink away into the night. Imara tried to see where he had gone and what he was carrying close to his chest, but Rat had already disappeared into the dark spaces between the trees.
“Bundi,” the
Black Mamba called. “Come and see what to do with this gorilla.”
Bundi walked over and crouched down, pushing his glasses farther up his nose to examine the gorilla.
“The gorilla is sick,” said the Black Mamba. “What do we do?”
Bundi turned the gorilla over, lifting its arms and legs. He wrinkled his nose at the foul-smelling diarrhea smeared around its backside. “This gorilla needs medicine.”
“Then get some,” snapped the Black Mamba.
Bundi disappeared into the Black Mamba’s cabin and returned with three sachets of medicine and a bottle of water. Imara had seen Bundi use the medicine to treat Mambas for the sickness that was sweeping through the mines. Bundi mixed the powder from one of the sachets in the water and shook it. He poured the liquid into the gorilla’s mouth, but the young gorilla spluttered and choked and didn’t swallow.
Bundi tutted and shook his head. “I am not a doctor,” he said. “But I think this gorilla is too young, too sick. I don’t think he will survive the night.”
The Black Mamba hit the ground with his fist. He sought out Rat in the shadows. “Rat, where are you?”
“Here,” said Rat. He appeared out of the forest puffing and out of breath. Imara noticed he was now empty-handed.
“Rat,” ordered the Black Mamba, “this gorilla is no use to us. You must go back and find an older one.”
Rat swallowed hard. “This was the only young one. The rest were adults.”
“Saka,” yelled the Black Mamba, “is this true?”
Saka nodded. “It was the only one.”
The Black Mamba turned back to the gorilla again. It lay limp and lifeless on the ground. “We have a problem. The White Lioness wants this gorilla. How do we keep it alive until she comes back?”
Rat turned to face Imara’s hut and she shrank back, feeling his eyes search for her. “Ask the Spirit Child. If she can talk to the spirits, surely she can use her great powers to keep this gorilla alive.”
Imara felt the demon rise inside her. Be careful, Imara. Rat is challenging your power.
The Black Mamba turned to face the hut. “Imara!” he called out.
Don’t go, don’t go.
“IMARA!” he called a second time.
Imara slid out from the hut and walked slowly across to the fire. The men parted to allow her through. She looked down at the small gorilla curled on the floor and the demon recoiled inside her.
It is sick, Imara. It will die. You can do nothing for it.
But Imara couldn’t pull her eyes away.
Don’t touch it. Say it is evil. Tell them to kill it now.
Imara knelt down beside it and lifted the gorilla’s arm from its face.
It turned its head toward her and Imara found herself falling deep into its amber eyes. The young gorilla was barely holding on to life, yet it held Imara there. It blinked and blinked again. It seemed to look beyond her scar and beyond the demon, to some forgotten place inside, a place somewhere just beyond her memory. Imara felt a small glow ignite within her chest and flare like a fire taking hold of the dry grasses. It spread outward, filling her with warmth.
She reached down to scoop the young gorilla in her arms.
Don’t look at it, Imara. Don’t look.
“Hush now,” whispered Imara to the demon.
Imara! screamed the demon. They are all watching you. Don’t let them see me.
“Hush, now,” Imara repeated, speaking softly to the demon. “Go. Leave me for a while.”
Imara held the gorilla close. She stood up, rocking it gently in her arms, humming a song. She ran her fingers through the coarse hairs on its back. She felt its long fingers grip onto her clothes and pull itself closer. Its small heart beat against hers. She buried her face in its fur, smelling the dampness of the forest. She felt the demon flow out of her, through her breath, her fingertips, and the pores of her skin. The demon left her quiet and still, her mind clear of voices.
Imara felt the Black Mamba and his men watching her, transfixed, as she cradled the gorilla baby against her. She became aware of some deep power between her and the gorilla that held them, watching, as if it stirred some deep forgotten part of them too.
The gorilla reached up and traced his long finger down Imara’s scar, resting his finger on her lip.
The Black Mamba broke the silence. “Imara, can you save it?”
Imara pulled the gorilla against her chest, shielding him within her arms.
“Of course,” she said. “I am the Spirit Child.” She turned to face the men. “I name him Kitwana. The one who lives.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
imara
Imara scooped up the two unopened sachets of medicine and walked away through the line of men, with Kitwana in her arms. She stepped into her hut and shut the door, wrapping Kitwana and herself in darkness.
Stupid girl. You can’t save it. The gorilla will die and the Black Mamba will see your powers are weakened.
It was too dark to see anything in the hut, but Imara could feel Kitwana’s short shallow breaths. His palms were cold to the touch and his stomach felt hollow and empty, yet he gripped Imara’s hand in his as if he was clinging to life. Imara leaned against the walls of her hut and closed her eyes. She had promised she could look after this gorilla, but she didn’t even know what to feed him. Bundi was probably right. Kitwana wouldn’t survive the night.
She lay Kitwana on the ground and hid the unopened sachets of medicine between the sheets of tarpaulin on her roof.
“Pssst!”
Imara heard a soft knock at the door and Saka’s whispered voice. “It’s me, me and Frog. We have food for the gorilla baby.”
Imara opened the door. Frog stood in front of her holding a small paraffin lamp in one hand and two bananas in the other. Saka held up an empty wooden beer crate.
“You can use this crate as a bed for Kitwana,” said Saka. “See, I have lined it with leaves, like he would sleep in the forest.”
Imara took the crate and put it on the floor of her hut.
“And some bananas,” said Frog. “So he can eat.”
Imara nodded, took the lamp and bananas, and closed the door on Saka and Frog.
“Imara?” whispered Saka from the other side of the door. “Do you want us to help?”
“Go away,” growled Imara. “I can do this myself.”
She placed the lamp in the corner of the hut where it threw long shadows of her against the wall. She lifted Kitwana onto her lap and tried to get him to eat one of the bananas, but each time he turned his head away. She tried to press mashed banana in his mouth, but Kitwana pushed it back out with his tongue. It squeezed between his teeth and dribbled down his chin. She half-wished she’d asked Saka and Frog to help, but knew the demon wouldn’t allow her to rely on anyone.
“Come on,” she whispered, pressing more squashed banana into Kitwana’s mouth, but he pushed her hand away and flopped his head against her chest. He wouldn’t drink any water from a cup either, but spluttered and coughed it out. “Maybe you are just tired,” she said. “Maybe we will try again tomorrow.” She lifted Kitwana and placed him down in the bed of leaves and hoped that she was right. She blew out the lamp, lay down next to the crate, and fell into an uneasy, broken sleep, worrying that Kitwana would not wake to see the dawn.
* * *
Imara woke to the pattering of rain on the hut roof and morning light slicing through the gaps in the wall. She sat up and inhaled deeply. Rain had fallen in the night. It ran in rivulets of red mud across Imara’s floor. Her clothes were cold and damp and her sleeping blankets were soaked. She hardly dared look across to Kitwana in his crate. When she did, he looked so still. She tried to see if his chest rose and fell, but she couldn’t see any movement at all. She reached out to touch him. His fur was wet through to his skin where water had leaked into the crate, and the palms of his hands and feet were cold and clammy. Imara placed her hand on his chest and beneath her fingers she could feel the flutter of a he
artbeat. Relief flooded through her. She sat up and hauled Kitwana into her lap, wrapping her arms around him. His eyes half opened and looked back at her.
“I’ll find you food today,” she promised, stroking his head. She curled her hand in his, but his hand was too weak to grip hers.
Imara pushed open the door to her hut and looked out. Saka had already lit the fire and put water on to boil and Frog was stoking the fire with more charcoal.
“Saka!” she called. She walked across to him, holding Kitwana’s limp body close against her. “Kitwana needs food from the forest. Come with me and find what he will eat.”
Frog stopped to look down at the small gorilla. He reached out to touch its hand. “Wait! He is too cold.” Frog slipped away and returned with his own threadbare blanket. “Here,” he said, placing it around Imara’s shoulders and Kitwana. “You are cold, too.”
Imara flinched at his kindness.
Don’t let him in, warned the demon. He is the weak one. Don’t show him mercy.
Frog looked across at Imara’s hut, at the water streaming through its center. He picked up his shovel. “I will make sure you both stay dry and warm at night.”
Imara watched him lumber over to her hut, where he began to dig into the earth.
She followed him. “What are you doing?”
Frog continued to dig two deep channels around the hut. “I need to stop water coming through your hut. See, now the water will flow around it. Now you will be dry.”
He wants something from you, Imara. Don’t trust him. Ask him what he wants. Why’s he helping us?
“Why?” Imara narrowed her eyes. “Why are you doing this?”
Frog leaned on his shovel. Imara could see he had lost weight despite Saka’s food parcels.
Don’t trust him, Imara.
“Why?” she demanded.
Frog shrugged his shoulders.
He’s using you.
Imara pushed the boy’s head up with her hand. “Why do this for me? What do you want in return?”
“Nothing,” said Frog.
“Nothing?” Imara took a step back and glanced back at Saka. “I see you two together all the time. Why do you look out for each other? What business have you got with a pygmy boy? He is not your kin. Don’t you hate him?”