Africa39

by Wole Soyinka

  Even after the declaration of the communal fast, I still prepared the special meals. The fast was meant for the rest of the congregation who were not in direct communion with God; everyone except the vicar, the bishop, Owa Puroguramu, the twelve apostles and the Blessed Ones. For their sake the rest of us had to fast in order to get closer to him. The regular fasts were on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. This time the fast was for all the seven days of the week. We were to drink only water.

  I peeled the bunch of matooke and wrapped it in banana leaves before placing the load in a saucepan and pouring water round the bundle and putting it on the fire to steam. I put the peelings on a woven tray by the door. The kitchen cleaner would carry the peelings to the rubbish pit later. Next I poured rice on another woven tray, cleaned and sorted the rice before putting it to boil, and set about preparing the sauce: eshabwe, beef, beans and dodo vegetables. This made me forget the rest of the world for a time, as I concentrated on the meal I was preparing, careful that nothing burned.

  I later set the dining table in the house near the chapel, where the elders always had their meals, wondering why they would eat food when they had ordered the rest of the congregation to go without for a week.

  I carried a meal to the Secret Woman and entered without knocking on the door. A damp smell filled the room. She crouched in her corner. Her long hair was uncombed and wild, and it seemed like she had been pulling at it. Her eyes looked through me as I set the food down before her and sat waiting for her to eat or to start talking. We sat in silence, listening to the sound of each other’s breath. She stretched her hand over the food and clasped my wrist, holding my gaze as she turned my palm over. I dropped my eyes.

  ‘He does not believe you,’ she spoke.

  I stared at her.

  ‘He told you not to mention me to the vicar in your confession. He’s right. Every man has a secret that must be guarded. Even the vicar who listens to your sins every Thursday has his own secrets. His own sins. But he does no penance.’

  ‘You should not talk so,’ I whispered.

  She laughed softly in response.

  ‘But I can. I should. They say something ate my brains and held my tongue. He told you last night. Yes! Something ate my brains and put something else there instead. But you are special. That is why my tongue is loosed when you come in here. You are special.’

  I tried to disengage my hand from her grip. This was the first time someone was telling me I was special. It sent warmth through my body. I smiled – a shy smile that started slowly and took over my face. My other hand went to my cheek. I saw my smiling face in her eyes. She did not let go of my hand but tightened her grip.

  ‘No, I’m not. There is a demon that sits in my body. I carry it like the memories in my head.’

  ‘That’s what they tell you. But what do you tell yourself?’

  ‘I have paid for all my future sins,’ I heard my voice say.

  ‘You should learn to smile more often,’ she said.

  ‘But what is there to smile about?’

  ‘The man. You have started to love him. You feel a burning in your heart when you see him.’

  I looked at her and dropped my gaze because her eyes were searing through mine, reading secrets I did not want revealed. It was wrong that she would read me so well. It was wrong to start to love the man. It was wrong.

  ‘I am not special,’ I mumbled. ‘I am a child of sin.’

  ‘We all are children of sin. And we all have secrets.’

  ‘No,’ I burst in. ‘The apostles do not have sins. They are God’s messengers.’

  ‘Ah, but they have the biggest sins and secrets too.’

  ‘I have to leave,’ I said.

  ‘Nothing ate my brains,’ she replied letting go of my hand. ‘I see things and hear many things. The man who doubted was not at the Way of the Cross?’

  I had forgotten about Mzee Turomwe. I had not searched for his face during the Mass.

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Hmm . . .’she grunted and spat on the floor. ‘His life left him. Look again.’

  I stumbled out of the room. This time I had not cajoled her to eat. She had taken over the conversation. How could she accuse the elders? They were in direct communion with the Blessed Mother and received messages from her. They had the powers to punish and pardon any of us. We led a life according to the visions passed on to us through the apostles.

  When Byaruha and I met in the plantation that night, I asked him.

  ‘What’s your secret?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We all have secrets. Those little sins we polish and pretend are harmless. What is yours?’

  ‘You,’ he said. ‘You are my secret.’

  ‘Why doesn’t the Blessed Mother punish us?’

  He did not answer me.

  The closed meetings intensified after the declaration of the fast. The apostles, the bishop, the vicar and Owa Puroguramu spent hours locked in the meeting room, only taking a break to eat the meals I prepared. It made the air around the place thick with anticipation. It reminded me of the time in the mid-nineties, when Father Romaro left the Movement, a few months after Restetuta, the first deserter had left. Restetuta, a widow, had been the first person to leave the Movement enclosure and walk down that winding dirt road out of the imprisoning fold of the compound back to the one-street town that stands on a roundabout. Nothing was done because the Movement did not consider Restetuta a threat. The departure of Father Romaro, one of the apostles, shook the foundation of Movement. Meetings had been held for days. Only then, the elders had not raised their voices at any time. It was obvious that something was amiss. We had not been told what the matter was but from the little Byaruha said, it had to do with Father Romaro’s disagreement with Owa Puroguramu over the vision, which ordered the followers to sell all their property and give the money to the Movement. Father Romaro’s argument had been that when Jesus walked this earth thousands of years ago, he had not requested people to sell their property and give him the money. The meetings had been held to discuss the matter at hand and to bring him back to his senses. They had yielded nothing and Father Romaro had addressed us in the church, asking those against the selling of their property to return with him to the main church. Only a few people had followed him, while the rest of us had looked at them in sympathy. Sorry for them, that they were returning to the world of sin. That the End of the World would pass them by while we ascended to glory to sit at the right hand of Jesus Christ, our Saviour. We had pitied them. After all, Owa Puroguramu had warned us of the fickle ones who would lose their faith in favour of worldly riches. They had not understood the meaning of separation, of oneness, of humility and sacrifice. Of nothingness in exchange for eternal life.

  Owa Puroguramu called us to Mass after the deserters left and asked us to pray for their damned souls. For the souls of those who had been fooled by Father Romaro. As for him, she declared that he would not live to see the end of the month of July. He would die, his bowels would burst open, and no one would come to his aid as he lay writhing in pain, pleading with the Blessed Mother to forgive him. He would bleed to death because it was already decreed in heaven, and nothing could change that. He was not meant to enter the Year One of the new generation. He would be like Moses who was not allowed to enter Canaan, the Promised Land. Like Judas Iscariot who died in an open field. Father Romaro would die in an open field and grass would grow on his remains. She had asked us to join in cursing Father Romaro and damning him to a painful death.

  Father Romaro had lived beyond the month of July. He still lives.

  These meetings now were different from those held before Father Romaro’s departure. They were more strained and silent. Even Byaruha could not tell me much except that something serious was being discussed. The rest of us kept on praying and fasting as ordered. Even the sick were ordered to fast. They were told that if they did not intensify their prayers, then Sitani would come and steal their souls. We had to recite the
scripture: the thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly – John 10:10. The sick had to pray harder than everyone else so as not to miss Paradise and to build a shield against the thief.

  After four days of intense praying and fasting between our chores, Owa Puroguramu called us to a special Mass at 4 p.m. We shuffled to the church still sweating from the pineapple fields, banana plantation, cattle sheds and other places where we had been working. The visionaries and apostles were already in the church. While our skin was ashy, the skin of the apostles and visionaries was shining in the light. Their eyes were bright. They were already seated as always on the bench at the front of the church, looking as if they had just left the presence of God. It made us more conscious of our own sinful nature – our inability to commune directly with God. We took our rightful places as the archangels, as the Sunday church guards were known, positioned themselves at the doors and windows. From the way their eyes darted back and forth round the room, it was evident they were conducting a head count.

  After a few prayers and singing, Owa Puroguramu stood up.

  ‘My children,’ she started, ‘there is evil that has infiltrated our Movement and it pains my heart to see us come to this.’

  This time I was sure she was going to point me out as the cause of the sin. It was like I had been waiting for this time to come since the closed meetings started.

  ‘We need to pray harder than before, to get rid of Sitani in our midst. The Blessed Mother is grieved with your lack of belief in her messages. She cries for you the chosen ones. Her back is turned to the world, but to you she beckons you to come join her.’

  A child coughed as we waited for the message. Owa Puroguramu continued softly, trying to mask her anger.

  ‘Someone pushed Sitanish writings under my office door.’ At this point she waved a Picfare exercise book, contorting her face as if the book emitted a sickening odour.

  ‘Why do you doubt the work of God’s chosen? Why are you threatening the wrath of the Almighty one upon us? He has had mercy and sent the Blessed Mother and Jesus Christ our saviour to warn us of the impending suffering to the rest of the world. He did so because he loves you. He does not want you to perish. But now you doubt him and threaten to make him turn his back on us.’

  We were quiet as we stared, wondering who had caused this outburst.

  ‘Don’t you remember Sodom and Gomorrah? How Abraham interceded with God on behalf of those two sinful cities? How we have taught you the way of the righteous and still you doubt. The end time has not come because of God’s mercy. He has listened to your prayers and fasting. Because you have interceded for today’s Sodom and Gomorrah, he is giving more time to the world. He wants more people to enter Noah’s Ark and survive the suffering spelt out in the Book of Revelation. But you still doubt his mercy and goodness.’ She waved the book, ‘You reward our merciful God with this, asking for the return of your property. This is Sitani at work and we must get rid of him.’

  At this point, the visionaries stood and walked towards us. They each carried plastic bowls and twigs, which they dipped in the holy water and sprinkled on us to cleanse us of the Sitani sitting in our midst. One of them emptied the contents of her bowl directly on my head. As the water washed over me, I shivered for a second because the sudden coldness attacked my skin. I rubbed the water from my eyes and kept my head lowered on the ground. I remembered the woman’s assertion when she said I was special. But this reminded me of my original sin that followed me wherever I went.

  Alú

  Recaredo Silebo Boturu

  Time and weather did not dawdle, between thunderstorms and too much sun, the falling raindrops ringing out harmonious melodies as they hammered on the zinc roofs, a pitter-patter that filled the space. Time ran on ahead, it almost flew. Days and nights came and went. Alú kept growing. People said his birth had not been easy, that the boy had come into the world with little help from anyone. Life is unpredictable, and Alú’s mother was still in her native village when her waters broke. Since there was no clinic and no midwife, she was forced to rely on the wisdom of an elderly woman, an aunt of her mother, who was known for helping those women who defied the odds in their attempts to bring a child into the world.

  The old woman boiled up leaves and bark offered by the forest to remove the dried blood and did not charge a single franc. It was an arduous task. I cannot say exactly what the old woman did since, if truth be told, I do not know. What I do know is that it took several slaps before the baby began to bawl, before the first blast of air, burning though his little lungs like fire, finally offered itself to this life, this world.

  Alú’s town was bordered on one side by the sea and on the other by dense, dark forests. There were afternoons when it was possible to make out the humpbacked form of a rainbow impregnating the belly of the earth and the depths of the sea. The child would stop to stare and ask:

  ‘Mamá, what’s that?’

  ‘It’s a rainbow.’

  ‘What’s a rainbow?’

  But no answer ever came. If Alú persisted, he was told not to ask so many questions.

  Alú’s mother, like the other mothers, the fathers, the uncles, the aunts, the grandmothers, the grandfathers and the big brothers found it difficult to explain to their children, their grandchildren, their nephews, their nieces, their little brothers and sisters what exactly a rainbow was and how it came to be. Some did not know. Some knew but did not take the time to explain. This was why they were irritated by the insistence of the little children who had to content themselves with knowing that, on certain afternoons, a rainbow would appear, and when it did, was beautiful to behold.

  Alú also enjoyed watching the sun as it rose and set. It seemed to him to be one of the finest spectacles that nature offered to delight her children. He found the shifting colours of the sun’s ever-changing faces infinitely poetic. Often, he would watch and think to himself, not bothering to ask anyone for an explanation since, as likely as not, no one would give him an answer. Sometimes the sun would set slowly, slipping behind the mass of earth that rose to form a triangle and seemed to hang, suspended in space, a mass of earth that seemed to follow the walker wherever he went. This mass of earth, I should have mentioned earlier, was the Pico Basilé. This feeling of the mountain as a constant companion from the moment you arrived on the island was spectacular. Alú knew, because he had been told, that in its day the Pico Basilé had been much bigger and had been sundered in two by the eruptions of nature. Now, the two great mountains faced one another, though the second peak towered over another country and the two were separated by a stretch of sea. At other times, Alú would watch as this same sun, depending on the evenings, silently plunged like a diver into the depths of the sea.

  The Pico Basilé was covered by a green mantle. It was, as I have said, a wonderful sight to behold when the clouds permitted, since often they would laze peacefully over the encircling trees, resting on the lush green foliage, forming undulating lines like a quivering froth of bubbles shrouding the peak in an impenetrable mist. The belly of the mountain concealed many mysteries. Alú had been told that the volcano was extinct now, that it could no longer spew lava, that hidden in its belly lived a bird incapable of surviving in any other place in the whole round world.

  These and many other details made Alú realise that he had been born in an exceptional land ringed about by seas, a place that was mysterious and unique. Even as a boy, Alú felt that if sociologists could rise above the politics of monolingualism and dedicate themselves to analysing human behaviour – our behaviour – they would go down in history. Through their books and their theses, they might teach humanity not to create breeding grounds for rapacious minds, censorious minds, malicious minds, they might teach humanity not to produce people with dull minds, with dead minds. But, he also believed – as I have already said, he was a boy with a very particular way of seeing, thinking and reasonin
g – that as likely as not they would die of starvation because here people, many people, were forced to live through corruption.

  Alú was nicknamed the ‘witch child’. Not because he disappeared from his bed at night using some magical power and caught a Boeing to other latitudes to live his other life only to reappear at dawn to live his everyday life. No, I am not referring to the type of witch who lurked in the subconscious of Alú’s neighbours. Alú was a child like other children; the colour of his hair, the colour of his eyes was no different to his friends. There was nothing to distinguish him physically from the others. He played with other children. He went to the same school they did; the only difference between Alú and the other children was that he took the time to question while those around him never stopped to wonder at the why of things. This is what made the boy different from others: his way of seeing, thinking, reasoning and doing things.

  You already know that the boy’s first name was Alú. This was followed by his father’s surname and then his mother’s surname. Out of respect for the boy, I reserve the right not to tell you these surnames, since you would be able to find him on a map and since most of us here know each other, you would be able to track down his parents, his neighbourhood, his town . . . So let us just stick to his first name, Alú.

  There is something you do not know, or perhaps you do but I will remind you: many years ago, there were men who believed themselves to be greater and more intelligent than others and they decided to journey miles and miles, carrying with them a cross. They rowed and they rowed until they came to some remote countries where, with neither permission nor compassion, they plundered the lands of foreign peoples, their seas, their forests, their names, their surnames, plucked out their personalities, stripped them and gave them different clothing, indoctrinated them so that they abandoned their traditions and their culture. And since that time, the people in Alú’s town have not had African names, they are ashamed of their names and instead they bear contaminated names, and with these Christian names, the people were forced to take the surnames of their father and their mother. In this small patch of land surrounded by the sea on all sides, it was rare now for a father or a mother to give their child a typically African name. Was it an act of courage or a matter of principle that led his parents to decide to call him Alú? No one ever asked the boy who had chosen his name.