An African Rebound

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An African Rebound Page 20

by Dan Doyle


  “My view as well,” said Jim. “So, let’s assume that Leonard’s mother agrees to let her son move to Bujumbura. Where would he stay, and are there funds for this sort of thing?”

  “As far as a place to stay goes, as much as Bill and I would love to have him stay here, US diplomatic policy will not allow us to host a native for any more than a brief period. So, after Bill called you this morning, I asked Clive Rush to go by Mathias’s home and bring him here. Mathias lives alone and he has very nice quarters. I bet he’d love to have Leonard stay with him.”

  Looking down at his plate, Jim realized he hadn’t touched his breakfast. He was too anxious, distracted. Gotta make this happen, he thought.

  “On the matter of expenses,” Cynthia continued, “I have some discretionary funds I can use to pay for food and clothing. Also, I’m sure that Jesse can enroll Leonard in a local school run by Irish missionaries. That will be good for him, because in most of the war-torn regions like Kayanza, the violence has dramatically cut educational opportunities for young people. Plus, if he turns out to be an elite player, acquiring a fluency in English will be of great help to him.”

  “You’re right, Ambassador,” said Jim. “And you’ve laid out a terrific plan. But now we’re back to the mother. I told Leonard and the other boys that we’d return next Thursday. I guess I’ll seek her out and speak with her.”

  “Jim, as a mother myself, I’d like to come along. Would you mind?” asked the ambassador.

  “Not at all. I’d love to have you come!”

  It was not long before Sergeant Rush arrived with Mathias Bizimana. Ambassador Foster presented the proposal, including her contribution of food and clothing. Without hesitation, Mathias said, “It would be my honor to host young Leonard.”

  “Thank you, Mathias,” said the ambassador. “Now, let’s hope Leonard’s mother agrees to the plan.”

  Jim Keating added his own words of caution. “At this week’s practice sessions, how ‘bout if we hold off on telling the players about Leonard. As the ambassador said, we need to make sure he’s moving to Bujumbura. Plus, I’d rather that he arrive without any fanfare.”

  They all glanced at Cynthia Foster, who was nodding her approval.

  “Before tonight’s practice,” Jim continued, “I’ll tell the others who traveled with us to Kayanza to keep quiet about him.”

  The practice sessions that week at the Nimbona Court went better than Jim had hoped. He saw marked improvement in several of the players, and four new athletes turned up who looked good in the drills.

  “It’s obvious that some of you guys are practicing the skills on your own. It shows. Some of you are getting better. Good job!” Jim bellowed.

  During a shower back at the apartment, Jim decided to call Jesse.

  “Jesse, I was enthusiastic about Cynthia going to Bukeye and Kayanza with us, but now I’m wondering if that’s a good idea. I mean, it’s one thing for a gnarly old hoop coach to venture into the boonies, but the US ambassador?”

  Abbott’s response was serious and measured. “Jim, as soon as you showed no hesitation, I got on the horn to the province chief in Muramvya where Bukeye is located to ask for the latest updates. He said things have been quiet for the last two months. Mathias’s contacts said the same about Kayanza. It’ll be safe, Coach.”

  “Okay, Jesse. Now I can concentrate on who’s going to be our point guard!”

  On Wednesday, Cynthia passed on her cherished poetry session to join the travel party. Upon arrival in Bukeye, the group was met with disappointment.

  Though Jim’s thoughts were primarily focused on Leonard Tangishaka, he had told Ambassador Foster about the considerable potential of Omella Kurabitu. She was anxious to meet the young lady and to watch her work out. In her heart, Cynthia Foster fervently hoped that Project Oscar would be a gateway to basketball opportunities for Burundian women.

  Maybe Omella will be the first beneficiary, she thought.

  But when the jeep pulled into the makeshift dirt basketball court, the forlorn face of Omella’s brother, Alain, signaled a problem. “Omella will not be here. Our father has decided she will not learn basketball,” he told them.

  It was obvious from Alain’s rueful tone that he disagreed with the decision. But as Ambassador Foster knew well, changing the deeply rooted Tutsi traditions took time, and any attempt often ended in disappointment.

  “Perhaps your father might reconsider if I spoke with him,” the ambassador said.

  “I’m sorry, but I do not think this will happen,” said Alain.

  So, much to his disappointment, Jim ran an all-male practice in Bukeye. At the end of the session, after telling the players he would be back next week, he approached Alain.

  “Omella has fine potential, and I’d really like to work with her. I hope your father will someday change his mind.”

  Alain looked down and repeated what he said to Ambassador Foster: “I’m sorry, but I do not think this will happen.”

  On the journey to the campsite in Kibira National Park, near Leonard’s home, Jim began to consider ways he might approach Omella’s father. Similar thoughts ran through Ambassador Foster’s mind. Even Alain began to formulate his own plan.

  Once the tents were pitched, Corporal Roberts stood lookout. The rest of the travel party nestled close to the campfire in quiet conversation.

  “Cynthia,” said Bill Foster, “since you missed tonight’s poetry session, would you be willing to read some of your poetry to us?”

  Before she could answer, Mathias exclaimed, “Oh! Would that be a grand treat!”

  Bill knew that even when his wife traveled she brought along her spiral notebook full of poems. Each morning, no matter where she was, she would spend twenty to thirty minutes on her beloved hobby.

  Without hesitation, she warmly assented. “But with a big day ahead tomorrow, how about if I read just two?”

  Flipping through the notebook, she said, “I’ll start with one called ‘The Curse of the Iron Maiden.’”

  The poem was one of Bill Foster’s favorites. He looked around and saw five other men listening intently as Cynthia recited in graphic, riveting detail a story about her experiences with Burundian women and the enormous heartache the violence had brought them. Bill had to wonder, Are these guys simply being polite?

  The answer was reflected in enthusiastic applause, but especially in Mathias’s quiet comment, “I like this poem, Madam Ambassador. I like it very much.”

  “Thank you, Mathias,” said the ambassador. “Now this second poem has special meaning to Bill and me. In some ways, the theme of the poem is the reason we’re all gathered around this campfire. It’s called ‘Oscar’s Gift.’”

  The title piqued interest. As Cynthia began, and in unplanned unison, the men all edged a bit closer to her.

  “Before the triple double

  Or the many valiant advances

  To the altar of triumph,

  Only to be rejected

  By a goateed Zen master.

  Before the gold medal

  Or backing an overmatched NBA guard

  Down low

  And lofting home a soft one hander

  Making mastery seem effortless.

  Long before his greatest assist,

  The life saving pass:

  A kidney from his perfect body

  To his daughter.

  Or feeling the need

  To remind us

  That whatever Michael could do

  So, too, could he.

  But a dust mote

  Of difference in skill—if that.

  Before he was discovered

  By the world

  He was ours

  Our link to honor roll status

  Memphis had Elvis

  Latrobe had Arnie

  Harlem had Sugar Ray.

  At Crispus Attucks,

  We had Oscar

  And when he rose

  With photogenic form

  Higher and higher />
  The perfect release coming

  At the very peak of his jump

  We all rose with him

  Braided by

  Our unfettered pride

  In a young man’s

  Fluid skill.”

  As he listened intently, Jim Keating reflected that, until now, he had never been present at a poetry reading. In fact, he knew almost nothing about “the supreme fiction,” as the ambassador, quoting Wallace Stevens, had described it.

  Yet on a peaceful night in Kibira, by a warm fire, embraced by the light of a full moon and inspired by the thought of being in what surely seemed to be a holy place, the veteran coach was transfixed by the emollient effect of his new friend’s verse.

  I wish I could do that, he thought.

  29

  At 7:00 am on the dot, the group broke camp. En route to Kayanza, as they drove slowly through the small village ravaged by AIDS, Cynthia Foster experienced a similar range of emotions as those felt by the others the previous week. She was horrified but not surprised; she had seen the same devastation in other regions of Burundi. Her sense of despair remained as the jeeps lurched down the stone road leading to the soccer field, where Leonard and his friends would, Jim hoped, be waiting.

  At the rendezvous point, though, she felt reassured by the sight of the half-moon hoop and the gaggle of towering young boys.

  Jim noticed immediately that the group’s number had grown back to fourteen; the four boys who had scurried into the woods one week earlier had rejoined the gathering. After warm greetings were exchanged, Mathias asked the boys for their attention.

  “Young men,” he said in Kirundi, “I am pleased to introduce you to a great friend of our country. She is also the person most responsible for this basketball project, and she is the United States ambassador to Burundi. This means that she is the official representative of her country here in our country. I want you to know that she is also a great supporter of anything that will help end the violence. Plus, she is extremely excited to meet all of you. Her name is Ambassador Cynthia Foster.”

  Not one of the young men had any knowledge of what an ambassador did. Yet all sensed that this woman was very important—like a queen. Following Leonard’s lead, they all bowed solemnly in deference.

  “Thank you Mathias, and thank you young men—not only for your kind welcome, but for your willingness to learn this new game from such a great coach.”

  Motioning to Jim to join her, Ambassador Foster said, “As you know, Coach Keating is also from America, and he’s just as excited as I am about this basketball project, which we call Project Oscar after a very famous American basketball player who you will learn more about.”

  Stepping forward, Jim said, “Thank you Ambassador, and, yes, I am very excited. So let’s get started, let’s learn some more basketball today, and, most importantly, let’s have some fun!”

  “Okay?” bellowed Jim.

  “Okay!” roared fourteen boys.

  Despite the constraints of a court with one hoop and a dirt surface, Ambassador Foster could easily see why the men were so energized about young Leonard. He was as fluid as he was powerful, and she also noticed that he gave the coach his full attention.

  For his part, Jim was again struck by the boy’s focus, not to mention how much he had improved in only seven days.

  “Bill,” he said in a low voice to Bill Foster, “it’s obvious the kid’s been working on his skills. And he seems to have some other great attributes. He’s certainly bright, in the way he picks things up, and he sure has leadership qualities.”

  Jim’s words rang true. Mathias had approached two of the boys and asked about their practices. They said that in each of the last six days, Leonard had led the group in a lengthy session, diligently practicing the exact moves the coach had taught in the first practice, as well as the drop-step rotation line Jim had asked them to work on.

  “So, young men, do you and the other boys like the game?” Mathais had asked.

  Both boys had nodded, and one said eagerly, “We love the game. We love being able to use our hands and we love jumping in the air!”

  “A good answer,” Mathias had replied, wondering how all of the boys would feel once they learned that Hutus were included in Project Oscar.

  “Now,” said Jim to the group, “I’m going to teach you a new shot called the jump hook. And when I teach you a new shot, I’m also going to tell you about the great players who made these shots famous. Okay?”

  “Okay!”

  “About the jump hook: There was great player by the name of Dave Cowens, who played a position called center. For now, think of the center as generally the guy who’s the tallest man on his team, and the man who plays closest to the basket,” he said. “Anyway, even though Dave Cowens was a center, he was a little bit shorter than many of the other centers he played against. So, he developed a jump hook so he could score points against the taller centers he faced.”

  He continued, “Even though all of you guys are very tall, this is a great shot to learn because, as those players who tried to guard Cowens found out, it’s a very hard shot to block. Also, teaching this hook will make it easier for you to learn the other shot—called the regular hook shot—that I’m going to teach you later on.”

  Jim looked around at the other adults, all basketball enthusiasts in their own right and all familiar with the story he told. “Bill,” he said, “please line up in the low post.”

  Bill Foster took his position, and Jim continued, “First thing you need to know, guys, is that the drop-step is an important part of this jump hook move. The only difference from what I taught you last week is that instead of laying the ball in the basket, you’re pulling up a little short and taking a jump hook. Now, watch.”

  Jim passed the basketball to Foster, who drop-stepped. Using his body and left forearm to shield the ball, he lofted a soft jump hook through the net.

  “Okay, Leonard, come on out and try to guard Bill,” said Jim.

  By calling on Leonard Tangishaka, Jim knew that he might well be abandoning his normal practice of choosing a defender who would not cause the offensive player much trouble. But Leonard had never played any defense in his life, and Foster, while seven inches shorter, was an expert practitioner of the move.

  Jim made the entry pass, and Bill Foster did everything by the book. He head-faked Leonard out of defensive position, he drop-stepped to gain an even better angle to the hoop, he used his body and forearm to protect the ball, and he let go with a perfect jump hook.

  There was only one problem: After being faked out by Foster, Leonard recovered his defensive position with remarkable quickness, and, as Foster released his shot, the young man timed his jump perfectly.

  The ball was swatted thirty-five feet—onto the soccer field!

  The other boys roared with delight, and Jim smiled at the grim-faced shooter. “Well, Bill, maybe I should have chosen Sergeant Rush to demonstrate.”

  Knowing that her husband had considerable pride in his offensive repertoire, Cynthia Foster turned away to hide her irreverent smile. Then, looking out into the woods, her eyes unexpectedly met those of a tall, handsome woman. While half hidden behind a cluster of bushes, it was evident this woman wanted the ambassador to see her.

  Though she couldn’t be certain, Cynthia guessed she might be the mother of Leonard Tangishaka.

  From behind her cover of Olea bushes, Consolaté Tangishaka had watched the black woman arrive in the strange vehicle. Consolaté had never met, nor even seen, any woman who possessed such a commanding presence. Yet it was obvious from the manner in which this woman was treated by the men who accompanied her that she was a umuzungu-kaikuru . . . a powerful woman. And, like the white teacher Consolaté wished to meet, this woman had a kind, bright face, a sign perhaps that she was a person of wisdom and goodwill sent by God.

  As she squatted quietly in her hideout, Consolaté thought she heard God tell her that this special woman was here for an important reason
and that she, Consolaté, must meet her. So, when the woman gazed out into the woods, Consolaté bravely moved from behind the shrubs and into her field of vision. As their eyes met, Consolaté felt a strange and powerful bond with the umuzungukaikuru.

  “Mathias,” Ambassador Foster whispered, “I have just seen a lady out there in the woods. Is it safe for me to go and meet her?”

  “I will come with you, Madam Ambassador,” replied Mathias.

  “You know, somehow I feel certain she is Leonard’s mother.”

  After making eye contact with the powerful woman, Consolaté took cover behind the bushes, only to see the woman and a Tutsi man walking cautiously in her direction. Fear momentarily overtook Consolaté. At the same time, though, she felt a strange kinship with this woman. Her fear was further allayed by the calming words of the Tutsi man:

  “We come in peace. May we speak with you?”

  “Ego” said Consolaté in Kirundi, as she took a small step away from the bushes.

  “I am originally from this region,” he continued, “and this is Cynthia Foster, the United States Ambassador to Burundi.”

  Like the boys, Consolaté did not know the word ambassador, though she was certain it carried great importance.

  “What is your name?” asked Mathias.

  “Consolaté.”

  Cynthia hadn’t mastered the accent, but she had a good facility with basic Kirundian. She decided now was the time to use it. Smiling warmly, the ambassador bent slightly at the waist and said, “I am Cynthia and I am honored to know you.”

  Consolaté nodded. Feeling much more at ease, she returned Cynthia’s smile.

  As Consolaté relaxed and stood more erect, Cynthia was suddenly struck by her compelling demeanor. She was at least six feet tall and very attractive. Good Lord, thought the ambassador, she looks like Lena Horne. The only marks that marred her face were two scars, one on her chin and the other on her left cheekbone, both no doubt the perverse legacy of a cruel man. Yet Cynthia would later write in her diary that Consolaté was so attractive that the scars might just as well have been beauty marks.

 

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