Truth, by Omission

by Daniel Beamish

  On the fifth day after the funeral, after spending the previous few days alone, I get in my car and drive over to the neighborhood sporting goods store. I pick up a couple of brand-new basketballs, a football, and five Broncos jerseys. Making the half-hour drive downtown into Denver, I park out front of Pina Nunez’s apartment. I’ve thought on and off over the last months about Pina and Ricky’s battle with cancer, how they must be struggling. I have no idea how the treatments are going, and I am anxious to follow up with him, even though he is no longer my patient. With the box of goods I have just purchased I walk in through the open front door of the building and up to their apartment. Standing before the door, I hear the sounds of a family inside. One of the boys is shouting at another, someone’s wrestling or rolling on the floor, the TV is going, and pots are clanging in the kitchen.

  In response to my knock Pina shouts from inside the apartment, “Yeah? Who’s there? Marcus, answer the door, would ya.”

  When Marcus doesn’t answer, I give another knock and Pina opens it instantly. “Dr. Olyontombo?” She’s surprised to see me. “What’s all that shit been going on with you? I don’t think you should be around here.”

  And she shuts the door, clicking the lock from the other side.

  Pina Nunez’s rejection sears. It’s the final punctuation of what is left of my life. Within five short months I have lost my daughter, my practice, my family, my friends, and Anna—the love and rock of my life. All of it because of Idi Mbuyamba. That monster stole my childhood, caused me decades of guilt, and now has taken everything else that ever mattered to me. The vision of him smirking from the video screen, gloating, plays over and over in my mind as I sit alone in my den, dusk darkening the silent house. I let the doorbell ring until I think that whoever it is has finally left, and then it rings one more time. Weary from life I plod to the front door.

  “My god, Alfred, I’m so sorry.” Looking several years older than when I last saw him just six weeks ago, Vincent sets his bags at his feet and steps in to hug me. The sorrow I read on his face is a message straight from his heart. We stand together in the open doorway embracing tightly, sobbing on each other’s shoulders.

  The next two days we spend with each other, much of it in silence, just being together, before Vincent finally broaches things. “Alfred, what will you do now?”

  I shake my head while staring at the floor. “I don’t know. I have no idea, Vincent. He’s stolen everything I had. Everything that means anything.”

  “He’s not the only Idi, you know? And you’re not the only Alfred.”

  “What are you trying to tell me, Vincent?”

  “Africa is full of Idi Mbuyambas. And they keep on ruining the lives of thousands. Hundreds of thousands … of Alfreds.”

  I nod my head in understanding.

  “Come home with me, Alfred. Come back to Africa. Come help me stop it.”

  The Beginning of the End

  My body feels good—limber, loose, and agile, like I haven’t felt since my youth. I have no more time for the silliness of gyms and spin bikes. Miles of walking, climbing rough terrain, carrying, lifting, bending, moving continually has adapted my muscles. They’ve returned to the long sinewy form of my younger years. They’re no longer swollen and twisted with knots, always stressing joints filled with inflammation. I can rise in the mornings with ease, ready for the movement of another full day of work.

  I am taking in far fewer calories, but I maximize them all, sucking every last vitamin and mineral into my bloodstream and delivering them efficiently to my bones, muscles, organs, brain. I can retain and process information and retrieve memories quickly again. My brain no longer tricks me by spinning in loops of regret and negativity.

  The continual fresh air provides my body with a clean source of oxygen that pulses through my veins cleansing every cell, fueling positivity. It’s a catalyst during the day and a sedative at night. I sleep the sound, restful sleeps that Anna once did, and I’d like to think that perhaps there is a smile on my face, like she always had when she slept.

  I miss her immensely and think of her constantly, fondly remembering the life we shared, the child we shared, the closeness, the bond that I’ll never have with anyone else again. I have come to understand there can never be absolution for me for whatever part I played in her death. I will never be able to make reparations for all the other deaths I have caused. And if my karma was in any way responsible for shortening the life of little Stephanie I will never make satisfactory amends. I accept these things that I can never change, and I’m prepared to assent to my dues. I heard the whispers when I left Denver, that I was running away, hiding. And perhaps there is some truth in that. But I don’t believe that’s what’s motivating me. I’m moving forward, determined to do what I can to make the lives of others better, not in the hope of achieving some measure of eternal salvation, but simply because it is the right thing to do. I, Azikiwe, concede nothing to the evil in this world.

  The equipment that I was able to purchase with the sale of my share of the practice in Denver has been invaluable. We’ve set up a mobile surgical unit and are able to treat patients who would certainly have died otherwise. Two of us working together can accomplish several times what each person can do alone. We feed off each other, sustain one another, and complement the skills of the other.

  I have taken to learning Arabic, since it’s the most widely spoken of languages here, and I’m enjoying the challenge. After working at it for a little more than a year now, I can converse pretty well in it; well enough that Vincent has asked me to deal with the television reporter who has just arrived from Cairo. She’s doing a story for Al Jazeera on the carnage caused by the militant Islamic rebels. She and her cameraman have been observing me work all day, repairing the damage to the bodies of blameless victims and treating the ailments common to the undernourished living in the unsanitary conditions of much of this part of rural Africa.

  A boy of eleven or twelve is carried in amidst a commotion of bickering. His right arm has been blown apart by a malfunction of his automatic gun. His escorts are arguing whether he should be brought for treatment or left untended. He’s still wearing the bandoliers of the militia rebels, identifying him as the enemy. I quickly dispatch those who brought him in and set to work doing what I can to save his life, and some of the arm, first securing a tourniquet to staunch the blood. The boy is in shock and crying, asking for his mother. I take him in my arms and hold him tight to my chest, gently patting the back of his head, softly kissing his forehead and whispering to him that he’ll be all right. After doing what I can for the youngster, the Al Jazeera reporter asks if we could now do the interview.

  She begins by speaking in Arabic directly into the camera. “I am with Azikiwe Olyontombo, a physician from the United States of America, who has been working in this remote area of Chad for the past sixteen months. Dr. Olyontombo, we’ve just watched you work on saving the life of an enemy combatant. Why?”

  I’m a little offended at the question, but know it needs answering. “A twelve-year-old boy can never be the enemy. I am a doctor. My only enemy is suffering.”

  “Of course.” She shrinks, as if sorry for having asked, before continuing. “Doctor, what makes a successful practitioner leave the security and comforts of Europe or America to come to work in a situation like this?”

  Another question that, at first, I consider to be frivolous. I catch myself as I’m just about to roll my eyes, realizing that what is so obvious to me isn’t to many others. “Just look around us. Look at the poverty, the suffering. We can make a difference. Shouldn’t we all do our little part?”

  “Yes, Doctor. But there must be more to it than that. What is it that really draws you here, so far from your home, your family?”

  For a fleeting moment I wonder if this woman knows something personal about me. I take time to consider her question and then answer, “This is my home.”
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  She is surprised and a bit confused. “You’re an American, though?”

  “I am American. But I was African first.”

  “You mean … you are an African American?”

  “I was born in Africa.”

  “Really? And have you actually experienced this?” She sweeps her arm at the generality of those around us. “From the other side, so to speak?”

  “I have. Yes, I have.” I stare off absently, but quickly reel myself back in before she can ask another question. “I know firsthand what these people are going through.”

  “How unusual.” It’s clear she is intrigued. “Can you tell us about your personal experiences here in Africa, before becoming a doctor … before going to America?”

  “Not so unusual … unfortunately.”

  “But it is unusual to come back to it. Why do you?”

  I think about some of my deepest reasons: escape, the need to be needed, my attempt to reconcile—to even—the eternal ledger of fate. But I can see no use in beginning that discussion, so I answer with honesty, “Every little kindness helps.”

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  This book began as a solitary process—a hermit finding pleasure in creation. It culminated as the product of the collaboration of a cast of professionals. And in between the beginning and the end was the invaluable support of family and friends.

  First among these is my wife, Rosanne. She is my granite and my mist, the one that dabs my tears of sadness and spawns my tears of joy. She is the one that tolerated the hermit at whatever hour inspiration struck. Thank you, Rosanne.

  My brother-in-law, John Lindsay, was my first reader and the only reason anyone else ever got to see the story. It was his encouragement and enthusiasm that gave light to the project. Judith Sellick, among the earliest of readers, has been a friend whose wisdom and opinion always matters. My sisters, Marilyn and Margo, have forever cheered me on, and as early readers their praise was motivation to persist. My four children and their spouses, endless wells of ardor, are my incentive to always try to leave things a little better than I found them. Thank you, all.

  There would be no book were it not for my agent, Laney Katz Becker, at Massie and McQuilkin. She is the one that rescued me from the slush pile, took a chance when no one else did, and placed the book in the capable hands of Blackstone Publishing. She went well beyond the call of duty, also becoming my first editor and my mentor. Thank you, Laney.

  The entire team at Blackstone Publishing has been phenomenal: acquisitions, editors, designers, publicists, and all the others that work behind the scenes. To all of you, thank you.

  Even before any of this, there was a germ of inspiration provided by my dear friend Dr. Dieudonné Detchou, LLD. Dieudonné embodies the dream of fairness and justice in Africa, and he has made it his mission to work toward that end in his homeland. I would be honored if I was able to say that this story contributed to raising awareness of the troubles that he works to solve. I am indebted to Dieudonné for the seed he planted and the example he is. Thank you, Junior.

  Author’s Notes

  Truth, by Omission is a creation of my imagination; however, it does contain numerous historical events revolving around the Rwandan genocide of 1994. I would like to identify here those facts so that history may be credited where it should.

  The insurgencies and guerrilla groups which are mentioned in the book, including the Rwandan Patriotic Front and the National Resistance Army, were rebel organizations that played key roles in the lead-up to the genocide. The deaths of the Rwandan president and prime minister on April 6 and 7 in 1994 actually happened as described in this story and are seen as the ignition sparks of the genocide. Sadly, the capture and mutilation of ten Belgian paratroopers, as told here, was also a factual event. And, as described in this story, it set off a fury in Belgium which resulted in the recall of all of Belgium’s peacekeeping troops from Rwanda. Only one person was ever convicted of these crimes and it has remained a national sore spot in Belgium ever since.

  All names used in this story are fabrications with the exception of Bernard Ntuyahaga, the former Rwandan army major, who really was extradited to Belgium in 2004 and convicted in a Belgian court in 2007 of the peacekeeping murders. This fact is used in the story as justification for Alfred being extradited from the United States for the murders of Belgian citizens.

  Coltan (columbite–tantalite) is a real “blood” mineral that was mined, including with the use of slave labor, and sold through the Rwandan army as described in this story. It continues to be a valuable commodity in the manufacture of electronics but has since been discovered in several other places outside of the Congo and Rwanda, which were its main sources for many years.

  The “Four Sisters of Peace” are a total fabrication for the purposes of this story. However, the horrors of the public display of severed heads, the stuffing of genitals in the mouths of victims, and the slicing of Achilles tendons are violent practices still employed in parts of Africa.

  The UN refugee camp at Nkwenda, which is an important part of the story, is also a fabrication. Nkwenda is a real village in Tanzania and the UN did establish several refugee camps for fleeing Rwandans, but not at Nkwenda. However, the Rwandan war crimes tribunals which are referred to in the book actually did take place in Tanzania and in the time periods that are stated.

  Unfortunately, child and forced slavery remain as serious problems in contemporary Africa, as does the use of children as soldiers. It is estimated that there are 120,000 child soldiers on the continent and further 100,000 children are brought into slavery each year. These children are all too real. As are the millions upon millions of displaced refugees and millions more that live in poverty.

  This novel is an imaginative creation meant to entertain. If it does that, I am happy. If it should raise any awareness of other important issues facing Africans, I am doubly pleased.