An African Rebound

by Dan Doyle

  “They really love this, don’t they,” Jim whispered to Ambassador Foster at a break.

  “That they do! How about you? Are you glad you came?”

  “Yes. I am glad I came—and I’m learning, too!”

  When Mutara Karamera, a Tutsi physician who had joined the group only a few weeks earlier, read a work in Kurundi and then translated it into English, Jim was made aware of a complication he had never considered.

  While Dr. Karamera was responding to some comments, Cynthia said, “Now that was interesting. You see, Jim, while certain poems in Kurundi translate well into English, others do not. Translation in poetry is a universal challenge. Ever hear the names Robert Hass or Czeslaw Milosz?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Well, Hass is an American Poet Laureate, and Milosz is a Polish Nobel Prize winner. Hass, a brilliant poet in his own right, spends considerable time translating Czeslaw Milosz’s poems from Polish to English, striving to capture the essence of Milosz’s words.”

  The ambassador then took the podium for her reading. Before the gathering, she had explained to Jim the importance of proficiency in the two tasks facing the reader.

  “Some truly great poets are simply uncomfortable with a microphone and audience. But if you can put content and eloquence together in the way that some of the great ones do—Rita Dove and Bob Hass as cases in point—a poetry reading is cerebral theatre at its best.”

  In Jim’s unfledged view, the first readers had shown a wide range of ability, with no one really excelling in either category. The ambassador was at a whole other level. Just as she had done in the bivouac setting of Kayanza weeks earlier with her reading of the Oscar Robertson poem, she dazzled the small Emily Dickinson Society with her facile reading of a short but powerful poem on the loss of loved ones, in this case Leonard and Consolaté.

  When she finished, heartfelt applause was quickly followed by a wide smile and foreboding words: “Okay, Coach. It’s your microphone.”

  As Jim Keating headed to the podium, he thought back to an experience of many years ago—one that had caused him similar anxiety.

  When he was a sixth grader at St. Peter’s Grammar School in Worcester, Jim’s teacher, Sister John Adelaide, had split the class into two teams—Holy Cross and Notre Dame. Drawing on the rivalrous instincts of her pupils, particularly the young boys, the nun had set out a week-long contest where every activity the class undertook was for points—from answering geography, math, and history questions to Friday’s “cultural day.” On cultural day, class members would volunteer to dance, play the piano, or whatever else might help their team achieve victory and earn a coveted reward.

  At 2:30 on Friday, with class being dismissed at 3:00 and Jim’s Holy Cross team 30 points behind, Sister John Adelaide declared, “Okay, a voice contest. Depending upon your performance, you can earn up to 50 points for your team.”

  She then threw in the clincher, “And the singers for both teams must be boys.” When not one young man from Notre Dame volunteered, she turned to the Holy Cross team, only to be met with similar silence. Finally, Jim, his competitive spirit far more advanced than his crooning skills, walked to the front of the room, belted out an off-key version of “When Irish Eyes are Smiling,” and took on the giggles of his classmates, even his fellow Crusaders.

  But moments later, to the surprise of both teams—and Jim—Sister John Adelaide declared, “James, you displayed courage and a commitment to your team. Both of these attributes are important—and admirable. I am awarding you 50 points. Holy Cross wins and there will be no homework for the team this weekend!”

  It had been a valuable lesson for Jim. While he never sang in public again, he had learned that taking a chance—even at the risk of embarrassment—could have its rewards. But tonight, as he placed his one-page, handwritten verse on the podium, he was as nervous as he had ever remembered.

  After clearing his throat, he said softly, “You are all so knowledgeable. I hope I don’t embarrass myself too much.”

  His nervous state was obvious, and Erisa Mulifi, the minikin Hutu, wanted to assist. “We are all with you, Coach,” she said.

  Her welcome remark helped Jim begin. He read his work slowly, his voice gaining resonance with each line. When he finished, a brief silence was followed by a most gratifying comment by Dr. Karamera. “Jim Keating, that was good . . . very good.”

  Dr. Karamera’s praise was followed by applause and Jim felt the quiet pleasure of accomplishment.

  Later that evening, on his way out of her home, Jim pulled Cynthia Foster aside. “Ambassador—the truth. How was it?”

  “It was a fine start, Jim.”

  “But not a ‘Galway Kinnell’?” he said with a grin.

  “No, not a Galway Kinnell,” she chuckled. “But a very good start. Now, here’s a book with a simple title: How to Write Poetry!’

  Jim glanced down at the book and saw on the cover the name Cynthia Foster.

  “Ambassador! You wrote this!”

  “I did, Jim, although it will not be published until next year. What you have is called the galley or an advanced copy—which is really the final, uncorrected version before it goes into print.”

  “Wow, congratulations! Tell me, who will your readership be?”

  “Well, I’m pleased—make that really pleased—that the Indianapolis school system is buying a thousand copies for use by teachers and high school English students at several schools.”

  “That is so great!”

  “Thank you, Jim. And I hope it will be of some use to you.”

  “I’m sure it will, Ambassador. And I’ll return it soon.”

  “No need, Coach. It’s a gift.”

  On the way home, Jesse Abbot was glad that his friend was in such high spirits.

  “I knew that she was writing a book, Jim. But she kept it kind of quiet. I bet it will be a big help to you,” said Abbot.

  “Like so many other things she’s done for me.”

  “Oh, and by the way, Jim,” he said, “The ambassador mentioned that I could come to one of the readings.”

  “Let’s wait awhile on that,” said the coach with yet another smile.

  49

  Satisfied with his first poetry reading, Jim Keating slept soundly and long. He was awakened the next morning by a three-car caravan moving slowly up the driveway toward his apartment. Parting the curtains, Jim spotted Ambassador Foster in the lead vehicle. Seconds later, when his eyes fell upon two teenaged boys in the back seat, he made the connection.

  The two familiar young faces were from Kayanza—friends of Leonard’s who’d been in the group that learned the new game from the American coach. They were surely the two boys who had gone missing. Jim was certain their visit related to Leonard’s death. As he dressed quickly, he found himself trembling.

  The car door swung open, and Ambassador Foster was the first to step out on the gravel driveway. Moments later, Jim met the group. “Coach, do you remember Mutara Kabaija and Habimana Yuhi?”

  “I sure do,” said Jim. As he shook hands with both boys, he noticed that their eyes reflected both fear and sadness.

  “Last night, Mutara and Habimana were picked up by the Red Cross about thirty miles outside of Bujumbura,” said the ambassador. “They were brought to my home about an hour after you left. By the way, Jim, this is Art Schokett. Art is one of the Red Cross workers who found them.”

  Jim shook hands with Schokett, and the ambassador continued, “The boys have been hiding since the murders of Leonard and Consolaté—and with good reason.”

  At this point, even though his curiosity provoked countless questions, Jim instinctively knew to restrain himself and calm the boys. “Please, let’s go out on the veranda where everyone can sit.”

  Once the ambassador settled into a wicker chair, she went straight back to her story.

  “They know a great deal about the deaths, Jim. For example, they know that Leonard and Consolaté were not killed by a machete or a gu
n, but by something far more cruel.”

  “What?” Jim was incredulous. How could anything be worse?

  “We’re not sure. They are still so fearful that they’re having some trouble relating all the facts. But from what we can gather, let me tell you what we think happened.”

  The ambassador went on to explain that the two boys were walking to Leonard’s hut at dusk on the evening of the murders. When they were some distance from the hut, and hidden by the forest, they heard loud cries—they have explained the noises as wails. They knew instantly that these wails came from Leonard and Consolaté, so they grew fearful and very cautious.

  “About a hundred yards from the hut, behind a cluster of trees, they saw three Tutsi men—none of whom they recognized—and a fourth man whom they described as one of olive complexion and jet black hair,” Ambassador Foster told Jim.

  “The guy Mathias saw at the game,” Jim thought aloud.

  “That’s what we’re guessing. Both boys said this man was definitely in charge of the group.”

  She continued relating the rest of the story, telling Jim that Mutara and Habimana said that the three Tutsis appeared to be standing guard outside the hut. Their first instinct was to go for help, but they knew that there were probably no adult men in the region since nearly all were off at war. They also knew that they themselves could surely not overtake the large Tutsi men, and so they stayed in their hiding place all night and listened to Leonard and Consolaté’s horrid cries.

  The ambassador’s voice was laden with grief, and, for a moment, she had to stop. But she quickly regained her composure. “By early morning, the wails had subsided and they knew that Leonard and Consolaté were dead.”

  When Cynthia Foster paused again, Jim asked gently, “Ambassador, do you have any idea what they died of? I mean—were they being tortured all night in the hut?”

  At this point, Schokett interjected. “Jim, the fact is we don’t know, and at this point, it’s fruitless to speculate.”

  “But if you had to guess?” asked Jim.

  “I’m afraid to guess,” said Schokett grimly. “But we’ll be able to find out. . . . Jim, the boys know where the bodies are buried.”

  Schokett stopped for a moment to allow Jim to digest that fact and then continued. “The boys told us that an hour or so after they knew that Leonard and Consolaté must be dead, a jeep with Americans pulled up one hundred meters or so from the hut.”

  “The Marines who reported the deaths?” asked Jim.

  “Exactly,” said Schokett. “And when the men in the hut— the three Tutsis and the olive-skinned man—heard the jeep, the boys said that two Tutsis approached it.”

  “What about the other two?” Jim asked. Schokett could see the veteran coach putting the pieces of the story together in his head. Jim’s face conveyed an eagerness to learn all the facts.

  Schokett and the ambassador took turns supplying Jim with the rest of what the boys had told them. They had said that the other men—one Tutsi and the olive-skinned man— hid out in the woods just behind the hut with rifles cocked. The Marines walked to the hut and saw both bodies draped in cloth. Had the Marines pressed the issue beyond taking pictures, the boys expected that they would have been shot dead.

  Approximately thirty minutes after the Marines left, the four men dragged the bodies outside the hut. Then, another vehicle pulled up and maneuvered its way to the hut’s front door. The boys’ description of the vehicle indicated that the men were driving a Troubadour, which was often used on safaris in South Africa.

  “It’s a remarkable vehicle and very expensive,” Schokett said. “It can literally wend its way through a forest. Narrow paths, dense tree cover, rock-filled roads—you name it. It’s equipped with a laser scanner that alerts the driver to impending problems. On occasion, you’ll see a Troubadour in Uganda or even Rwanda. But I’ve never heard of one in Burundi. It seems so strange that one would show up in the Kayanza region and be used to move two dead bodies. . . .”

  Schokett shook his head and continued. “Once the vehicle approached the hut, the two men in the Troubadour got out to help the other four load the two bodies onto the rear of the vehicle. The boys said it took all six men to load Leonard’s body.”

  Jim raised his hand as if to make a point.

  “The two men in the Troubadour. What did they look like?” he asked.

  “Good question,” said Schokett. “Unfortunately, the boys were so afraid that they didn’t get a good look at the faces of the two men. However, they were not so afraid as to lose their wits—or their courage.”

  Here, the ambassador picked up the story. Gesturing toward the two teens on Jim’s veranda, she continued. “Jim, once the bodies were loaded in the Troubadour, the boys overheard one of the Tutsi men say where the vehicle was headed— to les chutes d’eau grandes—the great waterfalls. Because they knew a shortcut to the waterfalls, the boys were able to stay close—albeit at a safe distance.”

  She then added a disclaimer so that Jim would further understand the weight of the situation. “Now remember, when I speak about courage, please understand that if these boys had been seen, they would have been killed, or subjected to perhaps a worse fate—one that is now practiced in Uganda and, recently, even in Rwanda against children.”

  “What’s that?” asked Jim.

  Schokett answered for the ambassador. “My guess is that they would probably have been rived, which means they would have had their lips cut off so as never to speak.”

  “My God!” Jim exclaimed, instantly reacting to the mental image by placing his fingers against his own lips.

  “But fortunately,” Schokett continued, “they were able to follow the jeep and have a distant view of the burial site. They watched the six men dump the two bodies into a pre-dug grave. The grave itself—and the dirt that had been dug— were covered with bushes. After the bodies were dumped, the men heaped dirt and bushes on Leonard and Consolaté, and then got back into the Troubadour and drove away. The boys hid out for at least another hour and then they marked several trees near the grave so that they could identify the site.”

  After a moment’s pause, the ambassador spoke up.

  “Jim, there is more. After the boys marked the trees their curiosity led them back to Consolaté and Leonard’s hut where they made an extraordinary discovery. Under Consolaté’s pillow, they found a letter written to me.”

  The ambassador handed the note to Jim, who silently read Consolate’s last wishes despite his shaking hand.

  To the American Queen,

  I do not know if you will ever read this letter. Several weeks before I met you, I began to feel my body changing. I went to see a local woman just after Leonard left. She has been inflicted with the virus. She told me what it was like in the beginning, cold chills and burning fever. She also told me that Charlé was a carrier. I knew right then that I had contracted the virus, and this was confirmed by the Red Cross.

  I did not know how to tell Leonard. But I once read that there are things that one can take to ease the pain and suffering, and I had to planned to seek your help.

  I do not believe that this help is now important. You see, American Queen, when Leonard arrived home, we were taken by force by three warriors. They were with another strange looking man, not white, but olive. At gunpoint, the four men forced us to drink what appeared to be water. Our deaths are near, but so is God, of this I am sure.

  Somehow, I feel the need to write this letter. Somehow, I am sure that you will read it and take action. I must stop now, as I hear the evil men returning.

  With utmost respect,

  Consolaté.

  When Jim put the letter down, he shook his head but did not speak. Cynthia Foster was struggling to stifle her emotions. After a moment of group silence, she said, “Tomorrow morning, Sergeant Rush will lead a military unit to Kayanza. If the unit feels things are safe, a travel party, including the two boys and me, will head there. You’re welcome to come, jim.”


  Jim didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be ready.”

  50

  Next morning before dawn, Sergeant Rush led a team of eight Marines to Kayanza. Five hours later, Rush radioed Ambassador Foster, who was waiting with her travel party at the Embassy.

  “Things appear to be safe,” Rush said.

  “In that case,” replied the ambassador, “we’ll leave immediately and meet you at the Tangishaka hut.”

  The ambassador’s travel party included four heavily armed Marines and four officers of the Burundi National Defense Force. The ambassador asked Art Schokett of the Red Cross to join old hands Jim Keating, Mathias Bizimana, Terrence Ndayisiba, Finbar Finnegan, and her husband, Bill. She insisted that both doctors, the Red Cross’s Joel Fish and the Burundian physician, Natare Nicombero, accompany the group, along with the two boys, Mutara and Habimana.

  Jim rode with the ambassador and Finnegan. In a light, bantering manner, the ambassador had insisted Jim take the front seat “because even though you’re outranked, you’re taller.”

  During the first couple hours, Finbar regaled them with stories of his youth in Ireland, but the mood became subdued as they drove closer to Kayanza. At 2:45 pm, five jeeps pulled within one hundred meters of the hut and were greeted by Rush and his fellow soldiers.

  “We’ve had a good look around the region,” said Rush. “There doesn’t appear to be any danger.”

  Turning to the two boys, Schokett said in Kurundi, “Okay, lead us to the graves.”

  Taking the same shortcut they had used weeks earlier, the boys shepherded the group on a twenty-minute walk through the forest. When they arrived at the site, Mutara, the bigger of the two boys, went straight to the marked trees, turned around, looked slightly to the west, and then pointed his finger.

  “Right there!” he said.

  Rush and his men shoveled the dirt, heeding a request by Dr. Fish: “Please take care not to put a shovel into either of the bodies. Depending on how much they have decomposed, any new harm could impact the autopsy.”