by Gavin Chait
‘Is it easier to kill one man or many?’ Natalya had asked, sitting on their wooden porch at the dacha all those months ago after Simon escaped the jihadis.
‘I have never killed one,’ he had replied. ‘But trying feels different. Killing many is a clerical decision. They are there, and then they are not. They are never real to me. But this man is.’
‘Perhaps you fail because you do not wish to kill him,’ she had said, not asking, not judging. Fearful for what it meant to casually discuss the murder of another.
And he, his thoughts grinding on themselves, what have I missed?
25
‘I’m almost there,’ says Shakiso, as the Haval turns right over the bridge.
‘Perfect timing,’ says Simon.
The vehicle slows outside La Fleuve and opens for him to slip inside. Tuft is curled up asleep on one of the front seats.
She takes his hand, confused at the tension in his body. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Sorry,’ he says, looking withdrawn. ‘I think I may have killed someone.’
The car navigates its way out of the city and on to the highway heading east. The road passes close by the river where a group of people are washing goats in the murky water. The remaining goats stand beneath the shade of a large ditakh tree, watching nervously as their compatriots struggle against the water, their hooves in the air.
Shakiso touches his face, her nose almost against his, staring into his eyes.
‘Tell me.’
They are beyond the city, the landscape giving way to the barren white and grey salt-rimed platter of the floodplain, when he finishes speaking.
‘How long would something like that take to kill you?’ she asks.
‘It depends,’ he says, ‘but it would be a few weeks. Slow and fairly agonizing.’
‘And this Valuchkin? He will die this way?’
‘I don’t know. If he was able to vomit, get rid of the stuff before it was absorbed, maybe not. It depends what it is. I’m only guessing at polonium, but they do seem to like the stuff.’
Her eyes widen as she slumps back on the curved rear seat, rotating the empty front seat and putting her feet up. She hangs on to his hands, squeezing them tightly.
‘I know, abstractly, that they want to kill you. I just never –’ she looks up into his eyes again ‘– promise me you’ll stay safe?’
Their relationship has deepened gently over the last few months, and each has found convenient coincidences to ensure they have work in the same towns at the same time. They have reached that stage of intimacy where they would struggle to recall there was ever a time they were not together.
His face softens, and he brings her hands up to his lips, placing a kiss in each palm.
‘Hollis was with me, watching the whole time,’ he says, touching the bridge of his nose between his eyes. ‘I was quite safe, and I have no intention of dying just yet,’ pulling her close.
The car slows, turning left off the highway towards the river crossing at Rosso. They both sit up, astonished again at how much the landscape here has changed after almost two months of rain. The dry has returned. The bounty of the wet will be held for a little while longer.
‘This is what I wanted to show you,’ she says, glad to talk about something more hopeful. ‘These propstock pellets of yours are astonishing. There’s so much salt in the ground here, nothing else will grow. We’ve got agronomists travelling all along the waterways demonstrating some of the new techniques, but they tell me they’ve never seen – don’t look at me like that,’ wrestling the smirk off his face.
There is a brief, but entertaining, maelstrom of elbows and knees, livened by yowls and dabs with her paws from Tuft, before she manages to trap him between the seats.
‘As I was saying,’ she says, flicking her fringe back, Simon’s body shaking with laughter. ‘It’s going really well, but the agronomists are worried about licence fees.’
‘There aren’t any.’
‘Which is what I tell them, but they—’ lifting her head and rising off him. ‘What’s this?’
The Haval has slowed to walking pace. Outside, the car is surrounded by a dense throng of people. The low buildings and massed construction cranes of Rosso around them.
‘Something happening? I can hear music?’ she asks, melody penetrating even through the dense skin of the vehicle. The music seeming a part of the air and the earth.
‘No idea,’ says Simon. ‘Shall we get out and have a look?’
They squeeze their way between the people, Tuft taking one look at the crush and opting to remain behind. The car shifts over to a side street and parks.
Simon takes her hand as they thread their way through the crowd. Un-hulled rice lies drying in ankle-deep drifts on plastic canvas sheets up and down the side streets, people and animals walking through and churning it with their feet.
‘What’s happening?’ he asks of anyone who happens to speak French.
‘It is the griot,’ says a child with a broad grin. ‘He has returned from the desert.’
Simon grips Shakiso’s hand tightly, a look of delight on his face. He leads her along a wall, pulling her up to join others sitting on top. Not too far ahead, across a swaying canopy of heads, a man is seated on a low chair playing a koubour. He is wearing a delicately embroidered ochre-brown boubou and matching kufi skull-cap. His feet are in handmade leather sandals. His face is joy and grace.
His song captures the earth and sky, the gentle push of growing things against the soil, the sound of returning birds, and the love which a person of good heart may have for all living things. He sings of the desert, of harshness and intimacy, and of the waters which flow in abundance.
Rosso has become an immense city, sprawling along the river. In this moment, though, it has come to rest, listening quietly as the griot reminds them of their place in the world, of one to another.
Shakiso leans her head on Simon’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of his arm across her back, the regular pulse of blood against her cheek. Her breathing harmonizes with his, and with the music filling the world.
Gently, his song comes to an end. Silence. And then the roar of thousands of people celebrating their pleasure.
Simon caresses her body until his hands reach her face, drinking in her eyes and kissing her softly on the lips. She hugs him tightly.
‘This is the griot?’
The griot smiles. ‘I bring a memory of the desert,’ he says and begins a story.
‘Painted-dog’s child lifts her head from her paws . . .’
Tales from Gaw Goŋ: Baana, le génie des eaux indomptables
Painted-dog’s child lifts her head from her paws, looking up at Baboon as he raises the lid of the great black pot, sending out plumes of gravy-laden steam. He unfastens a leather pouch at his waist and scatters black wakando seeds into the stew.
‘Aha, aha,’ he says, stirring gently. ‘It will be ready soon, pup.’
Painted-dog’s child whimpers as the lid is sealed once more, her stomach in almost unsustainable anguish.
Baboon smiles kindly. ‘Patience, pup. What do you think of my story?’
She stifles thoughts of fragrant feasts and concentrates on the question. ‘It is a good story, grandfather. The power of the genii is indeed great.’ She lowers her nose, nervous to speak a troubling thought, ‘Yet, I do not understand why he would pick one man to return when he permits so many more to die so wastefully?’
‘Aha, you are a wise pup. You would see those hurt made whole?’
‘Yes, grandfather, for my uncles tell me that we do not hunt for sport, and we may not kill for pleasure, but only to serve the needs of our family. Without the herd, we would not survive. Would this not also be true for the genii, for all living things are of the genii?’
‘That is true, Painted pup, but the genii are not hunters as we. Their ways are not our ways. Neither do they serve Men. Their lives are as one with the earth, dry and unending, and they lack our capacity to im
agine the world as other than it is.
‘So that they may unburden the sameness of the turning of the sun, they act upon the world. Changing things so that we are forced to change too. It is why the seasons are not always the same, that the waters may rise or vanish.
‘We are as vessels to create the stories they cannot write for themselves.’
Light and understanding in her eyes. ‘I understand, grandfather. Do the genii then guide the great migration of Men you showed me?’
‘Yes, my child. They follow Baana’s rivers through the hazards of war, remaining safe and nourished by the shores of his waters.’
Painted-dog’s child looks north, beyond the plenty of this shady ouahe, into the searing sharp edges of the hamada, the stony desolation of the reg, and the vast sand ocean of the erg.
‘Grandfather?’ she asks, her voice filled with plaintive dread.
‘Aha, aha,’ he smiles. ‘You see this sacred place, how small it is, and you wonder how Baana will protect these wandering Men once they are beyond the reach of his waters?’
Painted-dog’s child nods, her eyes wide and frightened.
Baboon chuckles, the sound the delight of small pebbles being tumbled in a fast-flowing stream. ‘We speak of Baana: one of his feet is above, one is below. The genii of one hundred pairs of wings. He is of our time and of all times.
‘Once, Sahara, Al-Kubra¯, the grandfather and most impassable of all deserts, was filled with the rivers of the genii. The greatest of these were the Irharhar, Sahabi and Kufrah. So wide that even a swift-footed pup would travel days to cross them.
‘They linger in memory and, for the genii, they run still.’
Painted-dog’s child yips in excitement. ‘Does that mean we may visit these rivers?’
‘Aha, aha,’ he laughs. ‘Only the most powerful of gaw may call on the genii to reveal these hidden waters. It is a great one indeed who could open a way so large for so many.’
‘Do you have such power, my grandfather?’ she asks, her tongue hanging loose.
Baboon waves with his sombé at the waters of the ouahe as answer, and scratches behind her ears. Painted-dog’s child slaps wildly at the dust with her hind paw, going cross-eyed in delight.
‘Come, Painted pup, we will resume our story where the great migration of Men rest on the shores of the hamada, waiting to cross.’
He takes again a handful of dust, whispers to it, and it is Gaw Goŋ who blows it into the flames, the red-brown mist glowing in his eyes. A swirling green-grey pool opens above the flames, shot through with flecks of red and black.
Gaw Goŋ motions at the portal, pulling it wider until it fills the space before them. He whispers again, and the pool clears.
-
At first they can see nothing but darkness, then points of light which flicker and dance. A constellation of millions of fires all along the banks of the last river bordering the desert ocean.
They fly in towards a single hearth on a rise above the reflected facets of the waters.
It is the familiar face of Joshua, laughing and playing with a group of children, Rachel, Hannah, and Isaiah, the child reborn from the rubble of Kampala, among them. The children are thin but strong, running and chasing each other in the firelight.
Esther sits with a group of women, keeping the fire and tending to their meal. The people seem jubilant, as if preparing for a celebration.
Waiting all along the river bank are the silent bomboutou: water drums made from half a calabash floating in a pool of water within another, larger, calabash.
It was Joshua who travelled all along the riverside, speaking with the other bands of seekers, telling them of the genii. Of the opening of the way and of the path which lies after. The seekers will need a tremendous batou, the ceremony to call the gaw to intercede with the genii. Only then will the way through the desert be opened for them.
He showed them how to prepare the calabash so that it floats, how to play the water drum so that the sound it makes seems to come up out from the earth. His teaching taken by others to the millions all along the shore.
When the fragrant stew is ready, small bowls are prepared and carried to the water. The children chosen to make the offering to the genii walk out till they are up to their waists in the flowing river.
All along the waters, the children tip their bowls, submerge and wash them clean, saying, ‘Great genii, please enjoy this offering of thiere neverdaye, even as we join you in celebrating your feast.’
The words spoken, the children return to the bank, flinging themselves into heartfelt embraces.
Each person receives a portion of stew, prepared with the last of their meagre reserves. No one knows how this night was chosen, why it is the most auspicious, but all join in the ceremony.
The millions of seekers have been waiting for this moment, making ready for the crossing. And all celebrate this night.
Joshua and Esther eat together, sharing a bowl. She rests on his shoulder, and they watch where Rachel, Hannah and Isaiah eat with the other children.
There is laughter, a murmur of shared conversation, of memories of the journey so far.
‘Thank you, my husband,’ she says.
‘My wife,’ he says, stroking her head. ‘I truly believe that the worst is done. The journey ahead will be long and strenuous, but we shall be well.’
She smiles and kisses him, her lips warm and soft on his cheek.
They have camped weeks here at the riverside, waiting for the wet season to arrive and reach its peak. The war zone is behind them, trapped for the moment within the forests to the south. The journey through the swamps and jungles was filled with evil and dread. Many times they thought that they had stumbled into the midst of the conflict, but always the waters led them by.
The great migrating wave of seekers flowed past the refuges set up to deliver the drone packages they have relied on. They are grateful for the aid but do not wish to be dependent on the benevolence of others.
Not all have come this far, though. Even as many seekers now rest along the river, many in the tens of millions more have stayed to start new lives in the new cities growing in the unclaimed land between the border crossings.
Those who continue feel the presence of the genii, a song sung in their breasts, calling them ever onward.
-
‘You should stay,’ said Tayib, an immense Sudanese man who joined their group as they crossed over the drying remains of the Aoukalé River into Tchad. They had thought they lost the path there, but Joshua was unfailing, leading them on.
‘The toubab do not want us. Why be a peasant in their cities? Stay where you are welcome. We are educated people, and there are many opportunities here for seekers. Your children can go to school. The desert is unsafe, why travel further?’
The border city of Aroundu grew daily, expanding outwards and absorbing all those arriving. Overhead, drones flew by bringing in building materials and machinery for new factories. Around them the steady arrival of seekers from all across Africa. This was the first safe space many seekers had known, and their energy and optimism were quickly rewarded.
The road into the city was lined with market stalls selling fresh fruit and vegetables, electronic goods, bright fabrics and glittering clothes, and bubbling with the call of people recruiting new workers for the factories and farms which formed the engine of this new place. There was an exciting energy of hope as seekers set aside the fear and horror of their escape and took on the opportunity before them.
Joshua smiled, holding Esther’s hand. ‘It is well, my friend, but there are few guarantees, even here. We are called north, and we will trust in the genii to take us through.’
Tayib sighed, nodded, and then seized Joshua’s hand firmly, embraced Esther, before he turned and led his family into the city.
Joshua and Esther watched him go, then continued, following the river along the border lands, going ever northwards.
They travelled another week along the river, through b
anks thick with bourgou grasses and kabou shrubs. It was peaceful there, and their journey was untroubled.
Eventually, under a sprawling baobab tree on a ridge looking across the hamada into the deep desert, Joshua halted and set out their camp. There to wait for the appropriate moment to make their crossing.
As days passed, others – similarly drawn to the river – gathered and set up their own camps. Word passed along the waters and soon, in the manner of such things, it was made known that on the sighting of the new moon they would make their batou.
-
It is time. The offering of the genii’s favourite food, thiere neverdaye, has been made and shared by those gathered along the shore. Their hunger is sated. They have made ready their belongings, dressed in clean clothes and prepared for their journey.
Joshua grasps Esther to his chest, and she feels his heartbeat and the warmth and love and light of him. He embraces each of his children, their eyes radiant by the fireside: Rachel, Hannah and Isaiah.
He walks to the shore, standing before his bomboutou, his back straight and his body strong. All along the bank, thousands upon thousands more, lining the water before their drums.
He raises his hands to the bomboutou, hard and strong, pauses and breathes.
It is Joshua who releases the first beat, birthing the rhythm taken up by the other drummers along the shore.
A drumming from the bones of the hamada, as if the heart of the earth itself is beating. The water drums send out their call, the booming so vast it can be heard days to the south in Aroundu and the other border cities. Setting pulses aflame and stirring restless passion in the waiting seekers.
Esther begins to clap and sing, the children following her lead.
All along the southern shore of the softly flowing waters: clapping, drumming, dancing and singing; the crashing of falling mountains, the dancing of continents, the rhythm of the deep.
Each person feels at once both subsumed within the collective soul of all seekers and alone in the complete clarity of knowing their own hearts. The stomping, charging drumming takes possession of them, within their muscles and marrow, driving on their song.