Bound to Secrecy

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Bound to Secrecy Page 4

by Vamba Sherif


  The Lebanese was emboldened by his silence. ‘There was nothing special about his childhood,’ he went on, ‘except for his nickname, Tetese, the Torturer.’ The nickname had stuck after Tetese had bound a childhood friend to a tree teeming with killer ants. This Tetese had gone away and had returned after years of absence bearing with him a bagful of stories, claiming he’d collected them all at various ports in the world. For a while, the townspeople, especially the young women, had taken to him. Tetese, to everyone’s surprise, had ended up with one of them, the most beautiful girl in Wologizi.

  ‘Boley’s daughter,’ William said.

  The Lebanese nodded and fetched two bottles of soft drinks, one of which he gave to William, but it was lukewarm and only aggravated his thirst. The Lebanese was now convinced that William believed every word he’d uttered, but in fact William paid scant attention to these details. All he wanted was to get to the heart of the matter.

  ‘They say Tetese vanished,’ he said, ‘and not of his own accord.’

  The Lebanese agreed.

  ‘That’s what I was told.’

  ‘By whom?’

  William wanted to mention Makemeh but decided against it, but just before he could give a convincing lie, the Lebanese said: ‘Tetese seems a victim, but don’t underestimate him, Mr Mawolo. Never underestimate that man. Once he staged his own demise and everyone in Wologizi, including me, rushed out to celebrate his death, only to realise that he was alive and as healthy as a fish.’

  The Lebanese left the counter and led William out to the front of the shop. Then he pointed at the horizon. ‘You see those mountains, Mr Mawolo,’ he said. ‘Once upon a time when this region was plunged into internecine wars, they protected the town from invaders,’ he said and paused to look William square in the face. ‘But there was a less admirable aspect to them. Once a man found himself within their confines, it was difficult and sometimes impossible to escape them. So you see, the mountains function as haven as well as hell. Remember the duality, Mr Mawolo. ’

  ‘What have the mountains got to do with Tetese?’

  ‘They could be a hiding place, a prison, or even a grave.’

  William gaped at the mountains: they were huge, and their eternal presence, their majesty and the deep mysteries in which they were shrouded affected him. At that moment he was inclined to believe the Lebanese, but what if the man was embellishing these stories with the sole aim of persuading him with regard to his innocence? The Lebanese were a shrewd people. Most had come to the country penniless but had managed in a matter of a few years to control its economy, and this was achieved by whatever means. So perhaps the man was being untruthful to him for reasons of his own. Nevertheless, William thought that it was better to befriend him.

  William patted the Lebanese warmly on the back and shook his hand before leaving him, a symbolic gesture, the Lebanese thought, that implied friendship and trust – the very things he’d hoped to gain from the stranger the moment his identity was revealed. ‘That man is capable of protecting me,’ the Lebanese told himself, not realising then that during all his years in Wologizi, it was the first time he had taken sides in anything.

  CHAPTER 6

  The setting sun framed the mountains that embraced a town that was often placid at noon but which, as the day fused into the night, gradually awoke. The mountains, knitted to the horizon on all sides of the town, were covered with sprawling canopies of verdant forests. The spectacle was so awesome that it could have been a scene from a mythical story, about an ancient town lying dormant within the confines of imposing mountains which, deep down their precipitous edges, harboured a secret it was reluctant to unveil.

  William stopped to marvel at the craggy slopes that descended into deep valleys, and at minarets of mountaintops that pierced violet-red horizons. Behind him on the road, almost insignificant in relation to the mountains, he suddenly heard voices. He turned and saw women with bundles of goods on their heads returning from the market near the police station. They were conversing in cheerful voices as if the hectic hours at the market had only energised them. To a lewd remark from the men congregated under a tree at the roadside, drinking palm wine and conversing in amused voices about loves lost, conquered or about to be, the women responded with spirited jibes that only incited the men to throw more titillating phrases at them. For a while William was taken by the exuberant abandon and the contagious ease with which life unfolded in that place.

  He resumed his walk. The checker players, on seeing him this time round, waved to him. ‘So you are the one who came to deliver us from the darkness,’ one of them said. They waved with enthusiasm to him, and he overheard them say he was a wonderful man.

  Then it happened. On the very edge of the hill that led to the mansion, William almost trampled over a bundle of vine lying in the middle of the road. On its top, as if on display, were palm kernels, perhaps an offering to one of the gods, he thought. Slowly he approached the bundle out of curiosity and was about to touch it when it sprang loose like a trap, scattering the palm kernels, one of which hit his face, just missing an eye. In the shimmering air of that elapsing afternoon, William felt a sharp chill run down his spine. As he hurried away he saw threads of vine flanking the hill up to the mansion.

  William feared no one, a disposition that had resulted from his interaction with some militiamen during his childhood. His aunt, the woman who had single-handedly brought him up after the death of his parents, would often claim that it was not the militiamen who had evicted them from their first home and thereby altered the course of their lives forever, ‘but our fear of them, Moisoko.’ Indeed, they had looked on helpless as the men had thrown their belongings on the street and then had burned them, cursing and swearing to boot. William and his aunt had been paralysed by fear, by the reputation that preceded the militia as a bunch of lawless men. Scarred forever by that incident, he had trained himself to conquer fear of men of whatever shade or build. In the process he had learned that the only way he could truly achieve his goal, this mastery of fear, was by attaining greater power than those who might threaten him. So he had joined the government, the source of power, and had risen through the ranks so quickly that he had been noticed by the president.

  However, other fears remained, like the fear of the inexplicable, of loss of ability or of the lack of ambition, but the last two fell within the domain of his will power, which had never once failed him. In fact it had served him so well that at the Ministry of Interior, where he worked, everyone was convinced that one day he would become a minister. The inexplicable, like the incident with the palm kernels, troubled him.

  Climbing up the hill, he hastened to the radio station to repair it but could not concentrate because his mind kept returning to the symbols on the road. What did they mean? Were they meant for him?

  He longed to see Makemeh and to ask her about them, but she was not alone when she came that afternoon.

  She was accompanied by the head of the militia, the policeman, whom William and Old Kapu had encountered that morning, marching with his men on the street. The policeman wore the same insolent look as before, and he was in his black and white uniform which, despite being worn out, seemed well ironed. The man looked healthy, and only his copper face, pinched here and there, betrayed his age. William was quick to note that between Makemeh and the policeman, an uneasy sort of relationship existed: the policeman appeared dismissive of Makemeh, but somehow she seemed to exercise a kind of power over him that had compelled him to follow her to see him.

  ‘Corporal Gamla decided to come with me.’

  The corporal grunted, as if he did not agree entirely with Makemeh, but extended his hand. The hand, though sweaty, was devoid of warmth, and this surprised William.

  ‘I thought you would need his support and that of his militia if you are to make headway with your investigation,’ she said.

  William threw her a questioning look.

  ‘There’s no way you will get the townspeople to cooperat
e with you if you don’t have the necessary force to back your words.’

  He couldn’t tell her how much he hated the militia, the men who had driven him and his aunt from his first home, only because a power greater than that of his aunt’s had willed it. He remembered the days spent in search of a new home, penniless in a city of millions, and how finally the two had ended up in a shanty with a zinc house that rattled in the winds. He was afraid she wouldn’t understand.

  ‘I’ll ask for help if I need it.’

  ‘You need it now, Mr Mawolo.’

  She made him feel redundant, which angered him. So, he left her and walked to the bench under the acacia tree. She must have noticed that he was upset because she followed him and set the bundle of dinner she had brought on the bench next to him. On opening it, the smell of potato- greens occupied the air, delicious, tantalising.

  ‘I’m here for you, Mr Mawolo.’

  There was no hint of coquetry in her voice, and it was this contradiction in her, this ability to astound him, that appealed to him. Suddenly he was aware of her proximity: she exuded the faint odour of a virgin bush, and she was so young and so full of vitality that he was momentarily assaulted with doubts as to his ability to influence her. This was new to him, because women were his territory.

  ‘How many militiamen are there?’ he asked.

  ‘Fifty men or more,’ she answered.

  Meanwhile Corporal Gamla, who stood a distance away from them, grappled with a mixture of emotions. The moment he had seen William that morning with Old Kapu, the policeman had loathed and admired him at the same time. The stranger embodied the man he, Gamla, once was and should have continued to be, impeccably attired and with an enviable air of importance. It was the realisation of the loss of that irrecoverable past that had had the upper hand.

  So he avoided the two, making as if he was going to pass water behind the mansion. He whistled as he disappeared from their sight. William began to discuss the corporal with Makemeh.

  ‘They call him the town-crier,’ she said.

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because nothing ever escapes him.’

  They could hear him whistling an old soldier song William knew from his school days. It was about a soldier who went on a murdering spree. When asked as to what incited him to commit those heinous crimes he answered that it was because he was given a gun.

  William brought up the subject of the vines.

  ‘Did you touch it?’ Makemeh asked.

  ‘It sprang loose in my face.’

  Silence of an awkward sort lingered on for a while between the two, which was broken only when Old Kapu walked through the gate of the mansion. Corporal Gamla ceased his whistling and there was no sign of him. But Makemeh did not budge, even when William turned to her, imploring her with his gaze to leave. This was not the situation he had bargained for, not at that stage of the investigation. He did not want the old man to see him with Tetese’s daughter, and when he stood up he saw himself moving away from Makemeh.

  Old Kapu walked up to them in slow steps, as if it had cost him a great deal to climb up the hill. On reaching them, he coughed a couple of times to clear his throat, and then bowed his head as though to say something, but thought otherwise and kept silent.

  With him were two of his wives, one of whom was Hawah Lombeh. She eyed William with such longing in her eyes that he was amazed; how could his fleeting action the other night have unleashed such a passion in her?

  ‘We brought your food,’ Old Kapu said.

  The old man did not nod to Makemeh or acknowledge her presence in any way, and with his wives he entered the mansion. William was about to join them when Makemeh stopped him.

  ‘The bundle of vine,’ she whispered to him, ‘is a symbol subject to various interpretations, both dark and colourful. They were perhaps not meant for your eyes unless you were the target.’

  ‘The target of what?’

  Cold sweat dropped down his armpits and on his feverish skin, and as he waited for Makemeh to go on he felt certain that Old Kapu was watching them from one of the windows.

  ‘Perhaps of revenge or mere rage.’

  ‘But I’ve only just arrived!’

  ‘They know, Mr Mawolo.’

  He knew it was true because he saw her beautiful face transform into hideous wrinkles of fear, as though all the while fear had been gathering like a storm in her and had now crashed across her calm and otherwise collected face.

  ‘You have to act quickly.’

  Then she headed for the gate. Although she left him as confused as prior to the revelation, he could not follow her because he thought that Old Kapu was still watching him from the windows. However, when he entered the mansion, he met the old man seated at the dining table with the disarming smile of a child spread across his face.

  CHAPTER 7

  The moment William entered the mansion, Old Kapu sent the two women away. On her way out, Hawah Lombeh paused at the door and her gaze rested on William, as if it contained a message for him, a gaze so intense it made him fidget in his seat. He knew it was unwise to encourage a woman who longed so much for him, because she might turn out to be unpredictable in her behaviour towards him, so he looked away. Hawah Lombeh and the other woman climbed down the stairs, the crunching sounds of their feet on the gravel receding into the distance.

  The old man did not refer to the fact that he had seen Makemeh with William, but opted for long silences which were interrupted with a reference or two to the generator. The two were still playing the game begun the other day, but William decided to wait and see how events would unfold, and he vowed to remain alert. He knew he could not dine with the old man, not after what Makemeh had told him.

  The two men sat at the dining table while the last sun rays glinted against the resplendent chandelier above it.

  Old Kapu said: ‘I would like to keep you company in this house for the time being, Mr Mawolo.’ His words were slurred by the effect of the considerable amount of snuff on his tongue.

  William suspected that the old man just wanted to keep an eye on him, just like the first time when the two met each other.

  ‘I’m quite capable of being alone.’

  ‘You might be bored in such a large house,’ the old man insisted. ‘You need the presence of someone like me, an old man, to entertain you with stories.’

  William could not refuse, because on the surface and in the eyes of everyone he was still a guest, a repairman.

  ‘Stories about what?’ he challenged Old Kapu.

  ‘About the town,’ the old man said, rising to the challenge, and then after a short pause he said: ‘How long do you think it would take you to repair the generator, Mr Mawolo?’

  The old man knew exactly why William was in Wologizi, but still feigned ignorance, so William decided to do the same.

  ‘Tomorrow I’ll know more.’

  Meanwhile the night had stolen up on them. In the darkness Old Kapu spat the residue of snuff on the floor but wiped it with his foot, as though he suddenly realised it was a concrete floor, not a dusty one. Later the lights came on. Insects of various kinds performed suicidal acrobatics around the chandelier; a large moth, singed by one of the bulbs of the chandelier, landed on the table before William. Its wings and antenna convulsed until it perished.

  ‘The food is getting cold, Mr Mawolo. Since you are my guest, the saviour of Wologizi, for that’s what everyone is calling you now, I want you to do me the honour of taking the first bite.’

  ‘I dined a long while ago, Makemeh...;’

  ‘You would be insulting me and throwing my hospitality back in my face if you refuse to take even a bite, Mr Mawolo.’

  How much poison made up the sauce, William wondered.

  ‘My stomach can’t even bear a morsel.’

  ‘You are my responsibility, Mr Mawolo, unless you tell me that I have fallen out of favour with you for no apparent reason.’

  This game, this ability to pretend that nothing was amis
s, began to upset William, and he was growing troubled in his seat.

  ‘In fact I’ll not take a bite until you do,’ Old Kapu said, and he stood up to leave. ‘You’ve spat in my face, Mr Mawolo.’

  ‘I said no, old man! Or are you deaf?’

  William was surprised by his own outburst, but relieved.

  Old Kapu left his side of the table, walked up to him, and held him by the arms. ‘It’s an offence to anger a guest,’ he said.

  He fell on his knees before William, holding his feet, begging him in exaggerated phrases, refusing to stand up. The sight of the frail old man on his knees, a man who could have been his father or even his grandfather, compelled William to lay his hand on his head as a sign of forgiveness and to help him to his feet.

  The old man had achieved his goal, but the food remained untouched and William was unable to strike up a conversation with him. After a while, Old Kapu retired to one of the bedrooms upstairs, from whence a crude symphony of his snores issued.

  William, left alone to deal with the aftermath of the fallout, could not extricate himself from the clutches of the absurd thought that he was a target of someone’s rage, nor that he had an enemy in the house in the person of the old man.

  He longed for Makemeh, for her company and insight. Solitude compelled him to move to the window.

  Wologizi lay in a deep slumber below him. The thought that within that darkness perforated with somnolent dots of light dwelled a force that protected a mystery, ready to vent its wrath on him, disturbed him. To cast off such uncanny thoughts he repeated to himself until he believed it that nothing would befall him.

  The master bedroom to which he later retired owed its distinction solely to a life-size portrait on the wall. It was of the president. The octogenarian was a tobacco addict, with a pipe in all his portraits. Few ever saw him, and this had triggered wild rumours of his demise, which were refuted with another that claimed that he stayed alive by feeding on a concoction of bitter root-juices that would secure him a century and half of existence. Everything about him was veiled in a profound secrecy. Because the president identified himself with every city, town and village in the country and spoke all its languages fluently, every group claimed that he was one of their own and even invented outlandish stories to justify that claim.

 

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