An African Rebound

by Dan Doyle

  “Yes, sir,” said Leonard, his stoic expression belying his disappointment.

  32

  “Even though the fighting’s supposedly crossed over the border into Rwanda, this’ll be a two-jeep, four-marine trip,” Sergeant Rush said to Jim as Corporal Roberts loaded supplies, including two M-16 rifles, into the trailer.

  Along with Rush, Roberts, and Jim, the group of seven traveling to Kayanza included Mathias, Bill Foster, and the two other Marines.

  “Gentlemen, we’re in good hands. Meet Private Smyth and Private Francis.”

  Jim shook hands with the two soldiers, both of whom looked like they had just stepped out of a Marine recruiting poster.

  “Thanks, fellas. Glad to have you along.”

  Happily, the trip to Kayanza was uneventful, and when the jeep arrived at the ridge overlooking the lush green field, the men were pleased to see the boys playing soccer below.

  But ten minutes later, Mathias offered a bleak translation of his conversation with the young men. “It is not good. The boys told me Charlé was furious about Leonard’s move, which he called an escape. He told them if they attempt to leave, he will kill them all. He also said that as soon as he returns from the fighting in Rwanda, they all must join the army. They are not too young to realize that this could be a death sentence.”

  “Do they want to work out?” asked Jim.

  “They want to very much, but they are afraid to,” replied Mathias. “I am sure they would be reluctant even to be seen with us.”

  “Then, can we see Leonard’s mother?”

  “Yes. One of the boys has volunteered to take us to her, although our arrangement is for him to walk a good distance in front of us and leave a trail of broken branches.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the group arrived at Consolaté’s home, a conical thatch hut, a rugo, similar to those Jim had seen in other regions. Outside the hut, a wood and peat fire burned below a large kettle. As the group approached the open fire, Consolaté drew back the curtain that served as entryway to her home.

  When she saw that the group did not include her son, she panicked, recalling another visit when she had been informed by a company of warriors that her husband and two of her sons had been killed. The memory was wrenchingly painful, and she eyed these visitors warily.

  Taking note of her anxiety, Mathias said gently, “Do not worry. Leonard is fine. We were not sure if bringing him here would be safe, so we left him behind in Bujumbura with the ambassador—the American queen.”

  Consolaté closed her eyes and nodded. “I am so glad you came,” she said. “Please . . . please come in.”

  Amid the haste and intensity of their previous conversation, Jim had not taken much note of Consolaté’s physical characteristics. That all changed today.

  He remembered seeing the scars on her chin and cheekbone, but now he was struck by her astonishing beauty. An azure blue scarf framed her high cheekbones, dark eyes, and full lips—features similar to those of her son. Not surprisingly, she was very tall, about six feet. Dressed in a pagnes of blue and yellow vertical stripes that accentuated the soft curve of her firm breasts and slender waist, Consolaté was simply captivating.

  As the group passed by the open curtain, Jim was immediately impressed with the hut’s neatness. There was a wooden table, two wooden chairs, two straw beds—one much longer than the other—and a hutch for dry foods, such as cornmeal and flour. The hard-packed dirt floor was covered by mats and a goat skin. Most striking were the beautiful watercolor portraits of four males, one of whom Jim easily recognized, the other three he assumed, correctly, to be her dead husband and sons.

  Jim posed a question: “May I ask who painted these?”

  “I did,” Consolaté replied modestly.

  “They are beautiful—just beautiful,” said the coach, moved in particular by the lifelike portrait of Leonard.

  “I am sorry that I cannot offer all of you a chair.” As she spoke, Consolaté carefully laid a large, handmade red and blue patchwork quilt over the mats on the floor.

  When she began to ease down onto the quilt, Mathias insisted that Consolaté take one of the chairs. Jim suggested Mathias take the other chair “because you need to translate.”

  Once the group was seated, Consolaté looked at Jim, and then at Mathias, and asked, “How is my son?”

  “Your son is just fine, but there is more—and it is good. You see, ma’am, your Leonard has been blessed with extraordinary gifts. I have worked with basketball players for nearly fifty years. Over this time, I have seen all the great players in this game.”

  From his Indian-style seated position, Jim paused for a moment, then leaned forward, ready to emphasize the full import of his message.

  “While it is still too early to tell exactly how much Leonard will achieve in basketball, I can tell you today that, in my opinion, he will be among the greatest players ever. He has that much potential.”

  Having no idea of the implications of Jim’s statement, Consolaté asked, “What will this mean for my son?”

  “What it means, ma’am, is that your son will become very famous—and very rich.”

  Realizing that Consolaté might not have any concept of wealth, Jim added, “He will have a great deal of money to buy himself—and you—whatever you both want.”

  “Will he live in Bujumbura?”

  “No. For Leonard to achieve the fame and wealth I speak of, he will have to move to another country—likely America.”

  “And when would this move occur?”

  “Not right away.” Jim paused. “Probably in a year or two.”

  Consolaté realized that the information the white man had just delivered was good. But it was also overwhelming, and she needed several moments to process the facts. Not yet ready to delve further into the subject, she changed the course of the discussion.

  “It is best that you did not bring Leonard here today,” she said.

  “We heard this,” responded Mathias. “But tell us more. Will his life be in danger? And you—are you in danger?”

  Consolaté looked down at the quilt for a long moment. “I am in no more danger than any other woman in Kayanza. And they could kill him, yes. But more likely, they would simply force him to join the army, as they will force his other young friends to. So you must, at least for now, keep Leonard away.”

  “And you—what about you?” Mathias asked again. “Your son wants to see you very much.”

  “And I want to see him very much. But not here, not now, anyway. If the war ends—or even if there is a truce that we have heard about—then Leonard can come home. But not now.”

  “Well, then, would you like to come to Bujumbura?” asked Bill Foster.

  “Because I want to see my son so much, at some point I will come to Bujumbura. But not just yet.”

  Jim momentarily thought it odd that Consolaté would not simply pack up and go off with the group. But he recalled the words of Mathias on the matter: “In the Tutsi culture, it is the widow’s duty to stay near the graves of her dead. The length of this period of mourning is usually about a year.”

  Sensitive to this unusual tradition, Mathias said to Consolaté, “Leonard misses you as much as I know you miss him. If there is a truce, or if the fighting continues to remain over the border and away from here, these Marines will bring him here to see you. I know that he would like that very much.”

  “As would I,” said Consolaté. “But the militia, the machetes, are everywhere.”

  Looking straight intoJim eyes, she asked one more question.

  “This fame and money that my son will soon have—will it be good for him?”

  At first, Jim was startled by the question. But after a moment, he said, “What you ask is important. Let me try to answer it as best I can.”

  He cleared his throat. “As you know, ma’am, we all have to face change in our lives. In Leonard’s case, the fame and fortune he will soon encounter will be a powerful force. As this force confronts him, it wil
l be up to all of us to help guide him through the challenges. Many good people have fallen prey to the evil side of wealth and fame. There is a saying we use in America: ‘Be careful not to get discovered too early.’ This relates to the problems that early fame can bring. But we will all act as Leonard’s guardians to ensure that this discovery is incremental . . . that it does not happen all at once.”

  Jim looked at Mathias, who was about to begin to translate Jim’s words. The old man had folded his arms across his chest, pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. Leaning toward Consolaté, he slowly and kindly translated Jim’s explanation.

  Consolaté nodded, and Jim continued.

  “Leonard is a special person, and you have grounded him well in good habits. As I said, I’m sure that there will be some challenging times, as there are for all human beings. But in answer to your question: Overall, the wealth and fame will be good for your son. And because he is such a fine person, I am certain that he will use his position to help others.”

  “Thank you, sir. You have made me feel very settled,” said Consolaté.

  Mathias smiled as he translated. “‘Settled’ is a good word, Coach Keating. It covers much. You have done well.”

  After the men left, Consolaté slumped in her chair. She had just listened to news that would dramatically alter the course of her son’s life. In an hour’s time, she would officially learn more news. In that case, the news concerned her own fate, delivered by the Red Cross volunteer who had taken samples of her blood.

  IV

  The Game

  33

  Project Oscar was only one of several initiatives Cynthia Foster had conceived to “get the Hutus and Tutsis talking.” Her skilled diplomacy not only drew praise from as far away as the White House, but also began to attract the notice of the media.

  Finbar Finnegan was a CNN correspondent assigned to cover the Hutu-Tutsi conflict in Rwanda and Burundi. Finnegan had grown up in Athy, Ireland, a small town in County Kildare forty miles west of Dublin. A brilliant student, he had been awarded a full scholarship to Trinity College, where he graduated with honors as a double major in English literature and international relations.

  Upon graduation, Finnegan took a job as a fact-checker in the International Herald Tribune London office. Three promotions later, at only twenty-seven years old, he found himself the youngest senior correspondent on the Tribune staff. His assignment was to cover the on again-off again peace talks in Northern Ireland. While in Belfast, he befriended Sandra Boland, a CNN correspondent.

  Finnegan was a solid reporter, and he was disarmingly handsome. At 6’3”, he had a chiseled frame, which resulted from the weight training he’d undertaken to tone his body for successful participation in Irish basketball. His brown, curly hair rested atop a face of well-favored harmony. Most striking of his facial characteristics were his deep blue eyes; “Paul Newman-like” was a common observation among women.

  “Finbar,” said Sandra one morning over breakfast in the Europa Hotel located in downtown Belfast. “Have you ever thought about working on the telly?”

  At forty-nine and twice divorced, Sandra Boland knew that a romantic relationship with someone as young and attractive as Finbar was unrealistic. But beyond his charm and roguish good looks, she saw a young man with the eloquence and grit to go far in her field. Like most others in TV journalism, she looked upon those on the small screen as “the elect,” and she felt that Finbar was worthy of such a “promotion” from what she perceived to be the mundane world of newspaper reporting.

  Finnegan had always been fascinated with television journalism, and he made no attempt to hide his interest.

  “I’d say I’ve more than thought about it, Sandra.”

  “Well, we have an opening in our African division. I can arrange for an audition if you’d like.”

  Two weeks to the day of their Belfast breakfast, Finnegan flew to London. An hour after his audition, Sandra Boland received a call from Eleanor Pardy, the CNN producer who conducted the try-out.

  “He was brilliant—absolutely brilliant. It’s as if he and the camera were old friends. Before he came in, I checked with the Herald Tribune bureau chief. While he was a bit annoyed that Finbar was thinking of moving over to our side, he told me that his journalistic skills are as impressive as his gorgeous face. Well, he didn’t say gorgeous—that’s me talking,” Pardy said, excitement in her voice. “I’m going to hire him, Sandra. Send him to our Johannesburg office.”

  After just two months in South Africa covering the affairs of Nelson Mandela and State President Frederik Willem de Klerk, Finnegan was transferred to Bujumbura to cover the heightened violence in the region. Within days of his arrival, he could see that Cynthia Foster was playing a major role in the peace initiative.

  “More so than most ambassadors,” he was told by a highlevel Burundian official.

  Finnegan was fascinated with The Regal One, as she was referred to by the official.

  Having read up on the plight of minorities in America, Finbar found it remarkable that an African American—who was also a woman—could have advanced to such a position in the staid, male-dominated world of American diplomacy. He found it equally notable that leaders from both the Tutsi and the Hutu sides held her in such high regard.

  Finnegan decided to explore the possibility of a piece on the work of Cynthia Foster for CNN Worldwide News. He arranged a preliminary meeting with Jesse Abbot, who handled all media inquiries.

  At the US Embassy security gate, Finnegan saw one of the guards wearing a t-shirt that featured the words Project Oscar and a likeness of one of his favorite basketball players, Oscar Robertson, holding a basketball. Guessing Ambassador Foster had something to do with the t-shirt, Finbar decided to raise the issue with Abbot, which he did the moment the two sat down in Abbot’s office.

  “What’s this Project Oscar?”

  Abbot knew that it would be unwise to withhold information. “Okay, on this one—for now at least—we’re off the record.”

  “Hmmm, sounds even more interesting,” said Finnegan with a wide grin. “Okay, we’re off the record.”

  When Abbot finished a brief description, Finnegan exclaimed, “Using sport to bridge the divide . . . and naming it for The Big O . . . what a grand idea!”

  He continued, “When I was in Northern Ireland, there was a similar initiative called Belfast United. Brought equal numbers of Catholic and Protestant youth together on sports teams. It was quite successful in breaking down barriers.”

  “That’s exactly what the ambassador and Jim Keating, the American coach we brought over, are trying to do here,” said Abbot.

  Finnegan nodded, then, with a glimmer in those striking blue eyes, leaned forward and said, “Jesse, I played a bit of baskets myself back in Ireland. Don’t mind tellin’ ya I was more than a fair baller . . . made the Irish National Team, in fact. . . . Tell me something. Do you think this Coach Keating would mind if I worked out with the team some night? Might help me to develop the story angle better. Plus, I’d die for the odd run—and sweat.”

  Jesse was still hesitant to match the Irishman’s enthusiasm. He came on a little strong, but he had to admit Finnegan’s idea had merit. The diplomat rose from his chair, walked around his uncluttered desk, opened a closet door, retrieved a Project Oscar t-shirt from the upper shelf, and tossed it to Finnegan.

  “Let me find out,” Abbot replied evenly. “In the meantime, add this Project Oscar t-shirt to your wardrobe. Ambassador Foster got a friend from the States to send over a hundred for free.”

  Next morning, Abbot called Finnegan. “The team is practicing tonight. Our American coach, Jim Keating, the one I told you about yesterday, said you’re welcome to join in on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No story yet,” said Jesse.

  Finnegan asked, “Why so secretive?” His curiosity was now thoroughly piqued.

  “You’ll see tonight,” said Abbot.

  As a follower of
the European basketball circuit, Finbar Finnegan vaguely recalled reading about Jim Keating’s stint in Spain, including the favorable publicity Jim received when he was terminated. Finnegan’s conversation with Jesse Abbot filled in some gaps and increased the reporter’s curiosity about the coach. Finally, a call to his bureau in South Africa produced a twenty-page fax full of clips on Jim’s dismissal at New Jersey State.

  As the reporter headed off to the Nimbona Court for a workout with the National Team, he was looking forward to meeting Jim.

  “Coach, I’m Finbar Finnegan,” he said upon arrival at the court, his right hand extended. “Sure it’s okay for me to workout with the lads?”

  “Long as you take it easy on ‘em, Finbar,” said Jim, amused at Finnegan’s kelly-green Irish National Team uniform and black high-cut Converse sneakers. “By the way, last time I saw those Chuck Taylor high-cuts, Bob Cousy was wearin’ ‘em.”

  Finnegan was surprised with Jim’s easy and humorous demeanor, but he enjoyed the ribbing and took an immediate liking to the coach.

  “Back in style, Coach,” said Finnegan. “Though only for a select few—all of us pre-approved by the Cooz!”

  Jim chuckled and then said, “We’re about to start, so let me introduce you to the team.”

  After quick introductions and cordial greetings by the players and coaching staff, Finnegan joined the lay-up line. He was immediately impressed with Jim’s use of the line to teach such fundamentals as back-door cuts and pick and roll. He also took note of a young giant with muscle definition unusual for a Tutsi in Burundi. Finnegan was struck, too, by the young man’s complete attention to his coach’s instructions.