Gorilla Dawn

by Gill Lewis

  “I’m sorry,” said Bobo. “I shouldn’t have put your life at risk like that.”

  Saka switched on the small flashlight he kept in his pocket. He shone the yellow light in Bobo’s face. “We are free,” he said.

  Bobo shook his head. “No one will believe me when I get home. It is my word against the police chief’s. There is nothing to prove his guilt. The proof was burned with my camera in the fire.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” said Saka. He pushed his fingers in his mouth and pulled something from the inside of his cheek. He shone his flashlight on a small square of blue plastic, the metal strips catching the light. “Is this what you wanted?” he said.

  Bobo leaned forward, eyes wide. He took it from him, turning it over and over in his fingers as if trying to make sure it was real. “The memory card from the camera!” He looked up. “But how?”

  “I knew they would take the camera from me,” said Saka. “So, I slipped the memory card out before I climbed down the tree.” He paused. “Only I didn’t think I would ever get away.”

  “Did you get the photo of the police chief and the Black Mamba?”

  Saka nodded. “I’m not sure, but I think so.”

  Bobo wiped the dampness from the memory card and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He shook his head slowly from side to side. “This could change everything, Saka. Everything.”

  “It was worth risking my life for,” said Saka.

  Bobo felt the corners of his mouth break into a wide smile, stretching muscles he hadn’t used for some time. “We are going home,” he said. “And I am going to prove my father was an innocent man.”

  * * *

  It was late the next evening when Bobo and Saka found the main logging road that cut between the mountains. They managed to climb unseen aboard a logging lorry heading east, scrambling up to hide between its cargo of huge tree trunks, while the driver was picking his way slowly through a pot-holed section of the road.

  Saka slept while Bobo lay awake watching the forests recede into the distance, the mountains silhouetted against a storm-drained sky. The lorry picked up speed along the straight roads toward the city, only stopping once at a trading hut for the driver to show his papers. Away to the east, the lights of the town glowed dull orange. Saka woke and stared wide-eyed at the beginnings of the town, criss-crossed with electricity wires. They passed buildings with steel-shuttered windows and long straight roads busy with traffic. The headlights of cars and trucks glared in their eyes as they passed.

  When the lorry stopped at a junction, Bobo gave Saka a shove. “Come on, jump down; I think I know my way from here.” Bobo led them through the maze of streets, keeping in the shadows. He paused at the entrance to his school, dark and locked up for the night. It seemed a lifetime ago that he’d left, and impossible to wonder if he could return as a student there one day.

  Saka rubbed his bare feet. “How do you find your way in the city?”

  Bobo laughed. “How do you find your way in the forest?”

  “Are you going home?” asked Saka.

  Bobo shook his head. “My mother and brother and sister had to leave. We are going to see the only person I know I can trust.”

  “Who?”

  “Kambale, my father’s boss,” said Bobo. “He will know what to do.”

  * * *

  Lamu peered out from behind his father, his eyes wide. “Bobo! What are you doing here?”

  “Can we come in?” said Bobo.

  “Of course,” said Kambale, ushering Bobo and Saka inside. He glanced up and down the road before shutting the door.

  “Who’s this?” said Lamu, taking a step away from Saka.

  Bobo tried to answer, but he felt his head spin. His knees buckled and he crumpled to the floor.

  Kambale called to his wife. “Marie! Bring some blankets and some food too for Bobo and his friend.” He crouched next to Bobo. “Rest first, Bobo; then tell us your story.”

  Bobo shook his head. “No,” he said. “There is not much time. I need to tell this story now.”

  Kambale’s wife fussed around them, sitting them down on floor cushions and wrapping blankets around Bobo’s and Saka’s shoulders. She fetched them each a bowl of hot stew.

  Kambale pulled up a chair. “What is it? What have you come to tell me?”

  Bobo reached into his jacket for the green beret. He held it out with shaking hands.

  Kambale took it and turned it over and over, tracing his fingers around the bullet hole. He looked up at Bobo. “I am so sorry.”

  Marie folded her arms around him.

  “My father was innocent,” said Bobo. “I have been in the rebel camp. I have proof.”

  Kambale leaned back. “The other side of the mountain is out of bounds. The Black Mamba rebels are too dangerous. The police chief says it isn’t safe to go there.”

  “I have just seen the police chief there,” said Bobo. “He is in the pay of the Black Mamba.” Bobo put his hand into his pocket and slipped out the memory card. “I have proof to bring the police chief down.”

  Kambale glanced at his wife.

  Marie shook her head. “It wouldn’t surprise me. I hear he has bought another house on the other side of town, and another in Kinshasa, but ay . . . ay . . . ay . . . he is a powerful man. I wouldn’t want to cross him.”

  Kambale stood up and walked to the windows. He pulled the curtains closed. “I have my work laptop here,” he said. “Let’s see what is on the memory card.”

  Bobo and Saka sat next to Kambale while his laptop came to life, the blue screen lighting up the room. Saka stared, transfixed.

  Bobo gave the card to Kambale. “I hope it’s not damaged.”

  “We’ll soon find out,” said Kambale. He pushed the card into the slot and waited. Bobo fiddled with the corner of the blanket. Maybe the photo wouldn’t be in focus. Maybe it wouldn’t show the police chief. Maybe it wouldn’t come out at all.

  The images came up on the screen, and Kambale scrolled through until he reached the one he was looking for. The photo was clear and sharp. Kambale sucked air sharply through his teeth. There was no doubt about the man standing with the Black Mamba, staring into a briefcase full of dollars. It was Mr. Mutombo, the chief of police.

  Kambale leaned forward to get a closer look at a young gorilla held by someone half hidden behind the police chief. “Is that Hisani’s son?”

  Bobo nodded.

  Kambale peered more closely at the photo. “But who is holding him?”

  “A foreigner,” said Bobo. “You can’t see her face.”

  “Hisani’s son is alive,” whispered Kambale.

  “A girl in camp looks after him. She calls him Kitwana.” Bobo shook his head. “But I think he has been smuggled out of Congo already.”

  Marie looked over Bobo’s shoulder. “Ay, ay, ay, Bobo! The rebel camp! You are lucky to be alive.”

  Bobo smiled at the small Batwa boy. “It was Saka who saved me. I’d never have escaped without him.”

  Kambale breathed out slowly. “What do we do? Who do we tell that the police chief is corrupt?”

  Marie glanced at the windows and the doors. “Keep your voice down,” she whispered. “The police chief and his guards are powerful men.”

  Kambale drummed his fingers on the table. “We need to make sure this photo reaches enough people. We can’t let this image disappear. But it is difficult to know who to trust.”

  Lamu spoke up. “What about the army?”

  Kambale stood up and paced the room. “There are many in the army just as corrupt.”

  Marie sat back in her chair and folded her arms. “Then you must trust his biggest enemy. Find the man who wants to bring the police chief down.”

  “General Mulumba,” said Kambale. “It’s plain knowledge that there is no love lost between the general and the police chief.” Kambale sat back at the computer and opened up his emails, his fingers poised to type. “I’ll send this photo to the United Nations and th
e conservation groups I know, and then I’ll try to see the general.”

  “There is no time to lose,” said Bobo. “The police chief may still be at the camp. Mulumba will find him there.”

  Kambale nodded. “I’m sure the general will want his victory.”

  Bobo got to his feet. “I must go back.”

  Kambale looked up. “Go back?”

  “For the girl, Imara,” said Bobo. “I must go back.”

  Kambale put his hand on Bobo’s shoulder. “I will tell the general about the girl and the gorilla. I will ask him to keep them safe, but I can’t let you return.”

  “I have to,” said Bobo. “They need me.”

  “I will take you to your mother,” said Kambale. “Your family needs you now. You can’t go back into the forest. There is no more you can do.”

  Bobo shook his head. “No,” he said. “I didn’t do enough to save them.”

  “Bobo,” said Marie, putting her arms around him, “you have done more than enough. You have proved your father’s innocence.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  imara

  The storm had raged into the night, battering Imara’s hut, tearing through the trees. Imara had curled up with Kitwana, feeling his body against hers. He clung even harder, his fingers gripping onto her clothes, while she had slept a restless sleep. She had thought of escape, of running into the forest to try to follow Bobo and Saka, but it would have been impossible to get away. The Black Mamba had ordered Rat to guard her hut.

  “Get up,” said Rat, pushing open her door. “The Black Mamba wants to see you.”

  Morning light cut through onto the floor. Imara pulled her blanket around her shoulders and lifted Kitwana into her arms. She blinked in the bright light. Outside, the sky was clear and blue, the air cool and fresh. Small clouds fringed with golden sunlight hung in the pale dawn sky. In the west, a few stars still clung to the night.

  Imara looked around at the aftermath of the storm. Trees on the edges of the cleared forests had come down in the night, their huge roots upended and exposed. The river in the deep gorge churned red with mud washed from the crumbling banks and the lower trenches of the mine had flooded. But Imara couldn’t take her eyes from the flattened part of the ground where the helicopter should be. The helicopter had been blown over in the storm, and had slid into a deep trench, its rotor blades digging into the thick mud. The pilot and Clarkson were thigh-deep in mud, inspecting the damage.

  The Black Mamba grabbed Imara’s arm. “You did this,” he hissed.

  Imara shook her head. She tried to pull away, but the Black Mamba dug his fingers deeper.

  “You conjured the storm,” he said, his eyes wild. “We saw you. We all saw you.”

  He doesn’t trust you anymore.

  “Am I losing you, Imara?”

  Imara gripped Kitwana against her. “No. I am your Spirit Child.”

  The Black Mamba pulled her close. “I will kill you before I let you go.”

  The White Lioness marched across to the Black Mamba, ignoring Imara and Kitwana. She held her phone in the Black Mamba’s face. “I need to charge my phone.”

  The Black Mamba shook his head. “The generator isn’t working.”

  “I’ll use the radio instead.”

  “There’s no signal,” said the Black Mamba. “Storm damage.”

  The White Lioness pushed her hair from her face and glared at the Black Mamba. “I need to get out of here,” she said. She lit a cigarette. Her hair had lost its gloss and had turned the color and texture of dried grass. She looked older to Imara too, her eye-paint smudged, her lips pale, her skin deeply lined.

  She breathed out pale blue smoke, the hand holding the cigarette shaking slightly and the other hand turning the cigarette packet over and over and over. “Can you fix it?” she called to the pilot.

  The pilot looked up. “I think so. We need to tie some ropes to pull it back up again. But I don’t think we can leave today. Tomorrow maybe.”

  “Another night?” the White Lioness snapped. “Another night in hell.” She turned and marched back to the Black Mamba’s cabin.

  The Black Mamba loosened his grip on Imara. “Go and make some food for me. Watch Imara,” he called to Rat. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

  * * *

  Imara slipped past with the bag of maize for porridge. She turned her back on Rat and built the fire, scattering some of the maize beside her for Kitwana. As she stirred the porridge, she watched Kitwana sitting on the ground, his legs tucked under him, picking up maize between his finger and thumb, carefully inspecting each flake before putting it in his mouth. She glanced into the soft darkness of the forest. Maybe she could slip away, but Rat was watching her, his leg jiggling up and down as if waiting for her move.

  Imara carried a pot of coffee and a pan of thickened porridge to the Black Mamba’s hut and served it into cups and bowls. The men ate their porridge quickly, scraping around their bowls with their spoons. The White Lioness stirred hers, but didn’t touch it, leaving it to go cold. “Isn’t there any decent food in the forest?” she demanded.

  The police chief put his empty bowl on the ground and glanced at his watch. “We must go soon,” he said, his hand resting on the briefcase full of money. “It will take half the day to walk to the jeeps.”

  The White Lioness shook her head. “No, you have to stay. You will escort me if the helicopter doesn’t start. I need your protection.”

  Imara watched a frown line form on the police chief’s forehead. He sipped his coffee, watching her.

  On the other side of the river, Imara could see the miners and their families begin the day. Smoke rose up from their fires; women shook out blankets and tent covers to dry from the night before. The miners climbed down into the sections of the mine that hadn’t flooded and fell into the rhythm of another day.

  But the camp had changed.

  Imara could feel the tension. The White Lioness stayed in the Black Mamba’s hut, insisting on an armed guard outside her door. The police chief lit one cigarette after another, pacing outside the hut, while the Black Mamba walked up to his viewing platform to oversee the mine. Imara could see him standing with his hands behind his back, silently watching the miners. He stared straight ahead, unmoving, but as she watched she could see he twisted the snake-bone amulet round and round and round, counting the bones beneath his breath.

  The day stretched out long and slow. Imara was glad of the evening when she could return to her hut with Kitwana and curl up beside him. The helicopter had been pulled from the mud and the pilot had said it was fit to fly, but it had been too late in the day. The pilot planned to leave the next day at first light.

  Imara pulled the blanket around Kitwana, drawing him closer. His chest rose and fell in steady sleep. But Imara couldn’t sleep. The roar of last night’s storm was replaced by silence. Deep silence, as if the forest was waiting and holding its breath. As if the forest held a secret, and knew that everything was about to change.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  imara

  Gunfire shattered the dawn, spiraling birds into the sky.

  Kitwana woke, clinging to Imara. She could feel his heart thumping in his chest. His eyes were wide with fear.

  Imara tried to calm him, grunting to him and stroking his fur, but his fingers gripped her, pulling himself closer.

  Rat burst into her hut. “Get up, get up.”

  Imara sat up. “What is it?”

  “Government troops! The army is here.”

  Imara scrambled to her feet. Through the door she could see Mambas pulling on jackets and boots and ammunition. More gunfire crackled from the trees beyond the mine. Miners and their families were spilling out from their tents and running away into the darkness between the trees.

  The White Lioness emerged from the hut and looked wildly around. “Clarkson!” she yelled. “We must go.”

  The Mambas spread out along the camp and lay on the ground, their guns pointing toward t
he forest edge. A shell from a rocket launcher shrieked over Imara’s head and exploded deeper in the forest, splintering the trees. The shockwave threw her to the ground, forcing Kitwana from her grip. The camp had turned to chaos. Mambas flitted between the trees taking up new positions to attack. The police chief stood back in the shadows searching left and right for his escape, the briefcase of money clutched against his chest.

  The Black Mamba was on the platform over the mine where he fired down at the troops in the forest. Imara saw him standing at the top, the orange flare of his rifle pumping shots. For a moment, he looked invincible, one man against an army. But he had no protection from the bullets. He was just a man. She heard another round of gunfire from the forest and watched the Black Mamba as he crumpled and fell forward, spinning over and over, cartwheeling into the flooded mine. Imara stared as the waters closed over him. Ripples spread outward and a few bubbles rose and broke the surface. Then all was still. The Black Mamba had finally gone.

  Imara turned around to see if Rat had seen him fall, but Rat had already fled. She saw his feet flying up behind him as he ran away from camp, deep into the cover of the forest.

  Maybe this could be her escape, too. She pulled herself to her feet and held her arms out for Kitwana, but someone else lifted Kitwana up instead. The White Lioness whisked him away before Imara had a chance to grab him.

  “Give him back!” yelled Imara.

  The White Lioness was already running, her head bowed low, toward the helicopter. The rotor blades were spinning, Clarkson and the pilot already inside. Kitwana’s arms were reaching out for Imara. He shrieked above the sound of gunfire.

  Clarkson reached down to pull the White Lioness and Kitwana up into the helicopter.

  Imara ran and launched herself forward, wrapping her hands around the White Lioness’s knees and they spun and slithered across the mud. Imara grabbed Kitwana and pulled him close.

  The White Lioness pushed herself up, reaching out for Kitwana. “Give him to me.”

  Imara glared back. “He’s not yours to have.”

  The White Lioness grabbed Kitwana’s arm and tried to pull him from Imara, but Kitwana sank his teeth into her hand.