by Gavin Chait
‘We were moving him constantly. In and out of AnoniCars, back and forth across the city. It helped that the government were comfortable that the moment he turned up at a border they’d have him. And they were right too. Except we still had the private keys for AnoniCar.’
‘And Zhi was able to use that identity?’
‘Not on his own. The whole point of this is that, once you’re in the car, there’s no information going in or out. He had no access to the system. And I couldn’t do it because I needed an alibi,’ says Simon.
‘Which left me,’ says Tiémoko, grinning.
‘Where were you?’ asks Shakiso, looking at Simon.
‘Fortunately, Hollis was celebrating his engagement. I was witnessed by all his guests and never once left during the evening,’ grins Simon.
‘Did Hollis know?’
‘Of course, we arranged the date exactly. The ambassador gets into the AnoniCar and travels into our warehouse. Waiting inside are nine other vehicles, one of which contains Zhi. Ten vehicles leave the warehouse. We know which one contains the ambassador.’
‘I began leaking information from Zhi’s vehicle,’ says Tiémoko. ‘Very tiny, difficult to crack, but sufficient to identify it as the one carrying the ambassador. The government is extremely interested in what these ambassadors get up to, and they send agents to follow. We took Zhi to the airport, where there’s a seat booked in the ambassador’s name going direct to Shanghai. No one blinks at an unfamiliar ambassador. Zhi went straight into his seat and was out of English airspace before the real ambassador had returned to the office.’
‘And I spent the entire evening eating canapés,’ says Simon, with a flourish.
‘Completely mad,’ says Shakiso, looking around for their waiter and noticing the old man with his two-headed metal stave. He turns away from the console, stares at her and nods in recognition, then stamps the foot of his stave hard on to the tiled floor of the restaurant.
‘Hey, that’s Gaw Goŋ—’ she starts, and falls silent as he begins to speak, his voice filling the restaurant, magnetic in the moonlight, beginning a story.
‘Painted-dog’s child sighs in deep satisfaction . . .’
Tales from Gaw Goŋ: Dragon, la brèche dans le mur de la honte
Painted-dog’s child sighs in deep satisfaction, rolling over on to her back with her paws in the air so that her swollen belly may rest.
She has licked her calabash of thiere neverdaye until it shone. The lamb so tender, it melted away in her mouth, the millet couscous so light she thought it would carry her off into the sky. Unashamed, she ate three bowls.
‘Aha, aha. Was it worth the wait, Painted pup?’ asks Baboon, wiping the inside of his calabash with a forefinger and licking it clean.
‘Oh, yes, grandfather,’ she says. ‘That was the best stew I have ever eaten.’
The last moments, when the stew was ready, but before she could eat, were agony.
Baboon had carefully filled a calabash with millet and stew, covering it in spicy kaani sauce. Walking to the waterline, he stood his sombé upright in the sand, took the calabash in both hands and went out into the water until he was up to his waist.
‘Great Baana, please enjoy this offer of thiere neverdaye even as we join you in celebrating your feast,’ tipping the calabash into the pool and washing it clean.
He then stood silently, a wondrous smile on his face – the moments almost unendurable for the starving pup – nodded as if in answer and returned to the shore.
Each has eaten to satiety, and each now sits in contemplation, stomachs warm and gently burbling.
‘I do not feel I could move, grandfather,’ says Painted-dog’s child.
‘Aha, aha,’ he smiles. ‘It is better so, my child. You should not be in haste after eating. And our story is not yet complete.’
‘Grandfather,’ she says, lowering her nose as she does when nervous to speak a troubling thought.
‘Yes, my child,’ says Baboon, placing a branch on the coals and rekindling the flames.
‘Grandfather,’ nervously, ‘are the genii ever wrong?’
‘My child?’
Hastily continuing in fright, ‘The genii cause change so that we must create new stories. I understand this. But, could it be that the genii sometimes cause a harm they did not intend to one in their favour?’
Baboon smiles, a look as of the depths of the harmattan in his tawny eyes. He strokes her gently between her ears, letting her know that there is no danger from such questions.
‘Yes, Painted-dog’s child. The genii cause change in the fullness of knowledge that they cannot know the outcome of their intrusions in our lives. Sometimes this means they reward those who cause evil, or punish those who deserve nothing but honour.
‘When such events occur, we of the gaw say that it is as if the genii have misspelled wrath. Their purpose may not have been unjust, but that is where events have led.
‘We gaw may attempt to intercede, to request of the genii that they make right the wrong, but it can also be that the genii enjoy this unexpected story. We cannot know, and it is why our intercession with the genii must be performed with care. For we have no power to control the might of the genii.’
Painted-dog’s child quivers, her fur shivering as she considers her vulnerability.
‘Is that where the Casamance come from, the twice-dead?’ she asks. ‘When the genii return a person of honour to their people, to allow them time that has been unfairly taken?’
Baboon tousles her ears, nodding, and his eyes are filled with the dust of wild places.
‘You are indeed a wise child,’ he says. ‘You do honour to your family.’
Pride and fear twitch across her fur.
‘Do not be afraid, child, for the genii intervene but infrequently, and they are never deliberately cruel. It is far more often that our own weakness betrays us.
‘Shall I continue our story?’
She scratches her snout with a thoughtful paw, then looks up brightly. ‘Yes, please, grandfather. I would enjoy that.’
Baboon takes up 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.
-
A little blond boy with pale white skin stares back at them, a combination of curiosity and apprehension in his blue eyes.
‘Why don’t you tell our viewers what inspired you,’ says a neat, professional voice.
The little boy glances up at his mother, looking at him with pride and affection. He grins. ‘OK. We were at the beach in Cornwall during the summer.’
‘Before that, sweetie,’ says his mother.
‘Oh, yes,’ he says, brushing back his fringe with his fingers, continuing to stare into the camera. ‘We were watching on the news how all the seekers are waiting on the beach, and I asked Mum what they were waiting for. She said that they want to cross the sea, but they have no boats and they cannot swim because it’s too far.
‘Then we went to the beach, and Mum put me in my floater because,’ blushing slightly, ‘I can’t swim properly yet. I asked Mum why we don’t draw a floater for the seekers on the beach.’
‘And you’re a materials engineer?’ asks the news anchor, turning to the boy’s mother.
‘Yes,’ she says, looking embarrassed.
‘Mum helped me draw a floater which has a light so you can be seen in the dark, and covers you completely so you don’t get cold, and has a small jet to help you swim faster, and a snorkel that keeps the water out your mouth even when the sea gets rough,’ says the little boy, in a rush.
‘We even added in clips so that mums and dads can keep their children close, and a pouch so they can store something to drink and eat.’
‘And then what happened?’ asks th
e news anchor.
‘Mum put my drawing in her console and showed me how we could make it. She printed one at work for me, and I tried it on at the beach.’
‘Were you confident it would work?’ the man asks of the young mother.
She laughs. ‘No, not even slightly. His dad went out in the water with him, but it was amazing. He was almost undrownable. We had a few other parents come and ask us about the suit. It’s completely impractical. Your kid will stay warm and dry, but they’re not going to have fun splashing around in something like this. The only real benefit to it over other floaters is that it’s cheap to print and can be done in one machine.’
‘Is that when you released the designs?’
‘Yes. I thought other parents might find it a fun project to play with. I never thought—’ she hesitates.
The news anchor nodding to indicate she should stop, ‘We go now to Algeria, where millions of seekers are hoping to cross the Mediterranean.’
A news anchor, a twin of the first, is walking along a beach, the sea flat and grey and the surf tumbling white. Behind him is the short stump of a breakwater.
‘Petit Port, here in Algeria, only two hundred kilometres across the Mediterranean from Spain, is one point along a coastline that is now estimated to be the entrepôt for almost thirty million seekers hoping to cross into Europe.
‘There’s only one thing trapping them here: the wall of steel.’
Out to sea, midway between the two coasts, is a line marked in metal. Every country along the northern shore has gathered every military craft they have – whether it flies, floats or swims beneath the waves – and created an impenetrable fortification spanning the Mediterranean. Nets hang beneath and between the surface vessels, and the coast is endlessly patrolled by both submersible and flying drones.
They have been here since the first sparks of the arc of fire were lit: from the moment the first seekers attempted a crossing.
Relief crews are flown back and forth. The eyes on the wall must never lessen their gaze. Any attempt to cross must be blocked.
Every coastal vessel on the southern shore, no matter how small or unseaworthy, has been destroyed. Any new launch is holed before it is scarcely into the surf. There are even rumours of special forces operating amongst the waiting seekers, destroying boat-building works.
Few seekers attempt to swim across, and those who do are easily captured and returned to the beach.
Still the seekers arrive, piling up along the shore, staring out at the pounding surf, imagining how to cross. Coastal towns are overwhelmed with the millions of new arrivals. Sanitation systems have failed, prices for even the most basic goods nearly unaffordable.
Many of those who have come are not with the seekers but hope to profit from them. The seekers have need of accommodation, clothing and all the necessities of life. Thousands of coastal towns have seen industry surge as new printing machines are flown in, producing clothing and goods influenced by such diversity as the Nuer of the Upper Nile, the Dinka of the southern Sudan, the Luo of western Kenya, or even the Azande of northern Congo.
The music, food and culture of the seekers have become an immense ethnic profusion of Africa: a rich stew in which all find nourishment.
The news anchor turns his gaze to where a Luba family from central Congo are preparing their evening meal.
‘We are told you will soon attempt to cross the waters,’ he says to the eldest man in the group.
That man turns, acknowledging the cameras, and laughs. ‘It is no secret.’
‘How do you intend to cross?’
He laughs again. ‘That is no secret either. We will dress in the floatation suit we have purchased from the printers. See how each of my family has a suit?’
For months, the printers have produced these suits, but no seeker who acquired one has endeavoured to use them. Despite differences of culture, language and ethnicity, each people has kept to a single plan. We do not go until all can go.
There has been no organizing figure, although one has been sought. Military and political leaders on the northern border have been paralyzed as to what will happen or how they should respond.
And, yet, someone had to have been first. Someone had to have found the design thought up by a young English boy, adapted it and brought it to the attention of the printers.
‘You seek Joshua,’ laughs the Luba man.
‘Yes,’ says the news anchor.
‘Good luck,’ he says, gesturing along the beach where thousands of people have gathered, some already wearing their floatation suits and looking apprehensively at the waves.
It is said that this Joshua is an engineer from far to the south. That he arrived with one of the largest groups of seekers who emerged mysteriously from the Sahara. It was he who sought out a solution to breach the steel wall, who challenged the printers to produce it, and who set out the condition of ownership. None may cross until all may cross.
His meaning is understood.
It has been months since the first printers took up the task. At first it appeared impossible, then excitement took hold at the potential, until – at last – all are ready.
It is tonight, when the sun touches the horizon.
In the watching ships, thousands of sailors turn their eyes to the sun and to the shore.
Movement amongst the seekers as they prepare their suits, secreting money, valuables and cherished memories of home within, and shuffle uncomfortably along the shoreline.
There are gaps along the coast. Places where seekers have not ventured. Where the fighting is too fierce and where there is no safety even in numbers.
The first place to see the sun kiss the edge of the earth is in Susah, a small town far to the east. Tens of thousands walk out into the water, wash their faces, pray to their gods and commit themselves to their journey.
An old Shona woman, travelling so far on her own, sobs in terror in the surf, unable to move any further. A young Haussa girl notices her, takes her hand and kisses her on the cheek.
‘It is well, my grandmother,’ she says. ‘It would be my privilege if you would take my hand so that I may cross with you.’
The old woman clasps her tightly, ‘Thank you, my daughter, for I am without family and much afraid.’
‘You are of my family now,’ says the girl, leading her towards her brothers and parents.
And so they paddle out into the water, clipped together.
A wave of seekers following the setting sun, launching themselves into the waters. The millions pushing themselves out into the unknown deep.
The old Shona woman begins to sing, a song of courage to overcome her fears. It is in the language of her people, but it is a song of all peoples. Her new family joins her in their own tongue.
‘Inshallah. Inshallah,’ the words floating above the waves, carried by a crashing tide. ‘What the genii will.’
A wave of song follows with the seekers entering the waters. The millions sing and their voice can be heard on the waiting boats in the wall long before they can be seen.
Their singing gives them strength and permits each to know where they are even as the waves rise above their heads and obscure the horizon, even as the dusk gives way to darkness.
It is a young marine looking out from HMS Dragon who is first to see the drift of seekers heading towards the wall.
In the moonlit darkness, he can see a thin line of warm orange lights floating in the water, each indicating a single person. He shouts.
‘We have our orders,’ says his Captain. ‘None shall pass.’
The young marine feels a tightening in his chest. He cannot breathe. He stumbles out on to the open bridge. As he opens the door, all inside the deckhouse can hear the singing coming across the waters. In the sky and in the water, a face buried in a burst of fur watching him, curious in him.
‘Close that door,’ shouts the Captain, but he cannot, held in place by some power he dare not name.
The rhythm swells, drawing the
m close to the millions who near.
A young radar operator begins to weep. On her console she can see how many, how vast the hope of the millions, how brave their dream. In their song, she can hear their fear and the trust they place in her and her companions. Offering her their lives.
She flees her station, joining the young marine on the open bridge.
‘Do your duty,’ shouts the Captain as others break ranks to stand in the moonlight, but there is a crackle of doubt even in his throat.
Out on the open bridge, the radar operator takes the hand of the marine. She looks into his eyes.
‘What are we?’ she asks.
‘We’re the good guys,’ he says, and smiles.
Their Captain joins them, standing alongside. He looks out at the approaching tide. He weeps.
‘How would we be remembered?’ he asks.
He nods, and leads them down on to the deck. They cast out rigging to hang down into the ocean.
Sailors on the Italian vessel alongside emerge on to their deck. Their captain looks across, and each captain shares a glance. It is unsaid but each knows: the wall is breached.
Out in the water, submersible drones rise to the surface, inflating pods to their sides.
All along the fortress of steel, men and women tasked with holding the wall look to their souls and ask, ‘What would we be?’, and they find their answer.
The young marine begins to sing, joining those in the coming tide, holding the hand of the radar operator.
The Captain is first to reach out and raise a seeker from the grasp of the ocean.
It is the old Shona woman, weeping in exhaustion and relief, clasping him tightly to her bosom. It is the Captain who feels as if he has been released.
All along the way, vessels fill with seekers.
The wall is breached.
Inshallah.
The way is open.
32
There is no clear space near the Climate school in Aroundu, and they loop around the prefabricated building complex looking for somewhere to land.