Kitafe

by Michael Ray

  His mother came into the kitchen, ‘Graham! Where are you?’ The floor was cold and hard. It felt safe, lying with his back against the wall, surrounded by the chairs. Just enough room for him, no space for adults. He watched her legs come into the room, turn and go upstairs to look for him in his bedroom ‘Graham!’

  … but he wasn’t in Manchester, he was in Africa.

  ‘Drink.’

  He looked up from the the floor. The girl was there, holding a tin mug. ’Hello love.’

  He slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. Breathing painfully, he gingerly touched his ribs, they didn’t seem broken. What did he know?

  ‘Drink.’ She pushed the mug in his direction.

  He felt his back, swollen areas of damp skin that stung, dirt mixed with dry blood.

  She urgently pushed the mug at him, ‘drink.’

  He nodded, took the mug, drank then lay down on his side and closed his eyes.

  He could hear her take the mug and leave; from outside, drums, drums and chanting. Latin, the Agnus Dei? Sounded strange, but definitely the Agnus Dei. He covered his ears but could still hear; drums, heart beat, chanting. His head bobbing in time, unwittingly joined in, “Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobi, Agnus Dei … Embrace the Prophet, Ngai is love, embrace the Prophet …” and he went into a fitful sleep, the rhythm of the chanting at the back of his dreams, the drug washing through his body, warm, comfortable. “Embrace the Prophet, Ngai is love.”

  *****

  Lined up, twelve of them, eleven African kids of about nine or ten and Graham Theakston, twenty-five, twice their weight and half their height again. He was feeling weak, for the last few days he’d had nothing to eat but millet bread, nothing to drink but a little river water that had given him diarrhoea. He hadn’t been allowed out of the hut at night; it smelled of shit from the scooped hole in the corner he’d been using. He’d had little sleep. His legs were decorated with mosquito bites, some of them infected and full of pus, as were the cuts and weals from the beatings. David had a hand on his shoulder, reminding him of his presence, of his control. Another child was brought out in front of them and forced to kneel. His whole body was shaking; he was terrified.

  A soldier shouted at the boy, and David whispered a translation in Graham’s ear. ‘The boy has been disobedient; he was ordered to collect water, but when he got to the river, he just sat and stared at it. He was asked, why does he do this thing? Why doesn’t he obey his orders? The boy said he wanted to be like the water, he wanted to flow away. There is no escape from here Graham.’

  The soldier shouted at a girl standing next to Graham. She looked nervously about her then stepped forward. The soldier passed her his AK, pointed at the disobedient boy and shouted instructions at her.

  ‘The girl has been told that if she truly loves the Prophet, she will rid the world of this cancer.’

  The girl looked around and stared at Graham. He didn’t know how to react, what he could do to react, apart from to hope he wouldn’t be next. He stared at the ground to avoid her gaze.

  The girl threw the gun onto the ground and ran. She didn’t get far and was dragged into a nearby tent by three men. Graham and the children stood in line, listening to the screams, ten minutes then silence. The soldier turned back to the row of children and gave orders to another. A boy marched smartly forward, took the rifle, and shot the reluctant water carrier through the head.

  ‘This boy truly loves the Prophet,’ David whispered in Graham’s ear. ‘He will make a good soldier.’

  Graham looked at him, dazed, ‘and the girl?’

  David smiled. ‘She will still have a part to play.’

  The ground seemed disconnected, the people around him nothing to do with him or his world. He could watch them, could see what they were doing but couldn’t touch them, they were in a different place, actors on a screen. He watched the soldier kick the dead boy to one side and he threw up.

  ‘Drink this,’ David said, ‘it will help.’

  He knew what to expect, and didn’t care. He wanted to escape.

  ‘Embrace the prophet, Graham.’

  He drank.

  *****

  At school, sitting behind his desk; dark brown wood showing twenty years of abuse by a generation of schoolchildren. They were laughing at him. He was always being laughed at but had learnt to cope by making them laugh even more. At the front of the classroom, the Master was calling him forward; French Master, Monsieur Clark, a sadist, though at fourteen, Graham didn’t know what a sadist was.

  ‘Hold out your hand Theakston.’

  The sting of a steel ruler, he yelped, but exaggerated, getting more laughs from the class as he pleaded with the Monsieur not to hit him again, laughing hysterically as he did so. The ruler came down, harder. This time it really hurt, this time the cry wasn’t exaggerated but still they laughed at him, this time it was his laugh that was fake … but he wasn’t there; his hand didn’t throb anymore. His head did; a pain that pulsed with his heartbeat. One side of his face rested on the flattened earth floor. Africa, he could smell it; a musty, slightly sweet, human smell; mixed with hot dust, woodsmoke and sweat, piss and shit. Manchester never smelled like that, smothered in the outpourings of lorries and cars, smoking chimneys and factories; all washed away with coal tar soap.

  *****

  He opened his eyes, dazzling light from the doorway, pain; he closed them again and was hauled up from the ground, dragged out of the hut. He was taken, stumbling, to a clearing. Two small boys, huddled together, surrounded by other boys carrying yard long sticks.

  ‘Good morning, Graham.’

  David, it was David; he was smiling. ‘Here is your stick, Graham. These boys need to be beaten, they need to be cleansed, they are impure.’

  He looked at David, remembered being on the receiving end and dropped the stick on the ground.

  David smiled and picked it up. ‘The choice is yours, Graham, either you take the stick and beat those boys, or you will be beaten for disobeying my order.’

  Graham ignored him and was dragged into the middle of the circle.

  The attack began, and falling to the ground, Graham tried to protect his head. His fingers and hands were beaten. He brought his knees up to his chin, protecting his face with his hands. His side and back were beaten … then it stopped and David came over.

  ‘Do you feel better? Does your soul feel better?’

  He looked up at David from the dirt. ‘You don’t give a shit about my soul, you want to destroy my humanity.’

  ‘No Graham, we’re saving your humanity, we’re cleansing you. When you’re clean, when the layers of filth and dirt have been cleared, we can rebuild you into something purer. You will serve the prophet and through him, you will serve God.’

  Graham closed his eyes, trying to shut out the camp, trying to shut out David. Breathing heavily, just a few minutes rest.

  ‘Get up.’

  Graham ignored him and was dragged to his feet by a couple of soldiers.

  ‘Take the stick.’

  Graham didn’t move, David nodded at the boys and the beating started again.

  David bent over him and whispered in his ear. ‘One day you will take the stick; one day you will be prepared to kill for the Prophet. Now drink this.’

  ‘Get lost, you fucker.’ Graham knocked the mug to the ground. The beating continued.

  He lay on the ground, barely conscious. People were talking but he couldn’t understand the language, just an unintelligible babble and there was a raw pain, his back. his head, his arms, his fingers.

  A movement close to his head; he opened an eye, the lid was swollen, his vision a slot.

  ‘Drink this,’ said David handing him a fresh mug. ‘Embrace the Prophet,’

  He drank,

  ‘Ngai is love,’ David whispered, and Graham was free.

  *****

  He opened his eyes, still swollen, bright, pain. He kept them open; pain was good, pain was r
eality. The light was the doorway; he was back in the hut. A boy stood there, watching him, dressed in khaki, the outline of a barrel against the light. He lifted himself, propped up on one elbow and laughed, coughed, fell back down again, exhausted, closed eyes, dark rectangle on the back of the retina, after image. The doorway, the silhouette of the boy, the rifle, he could make out the barrel, short stub. Around it small patches of light … water rippling, thirst, no water all day. The ripples moved out from the light in time to the blood moving through his brain. Throbbing head, blood, water, thirst … Embrace the Prophet, Ngai is love. Tin mug next to him, water! Not water, oblivion. He drank deep and felt the alcohol going down his throat, felt a numbness wash behind his ribs, felt the drug settle into his brain and he slept.

  *****

  ‘Theakston!’ His exercise book, French grammar, verbs, j’ai, tu as, il sont, no that wasn’t it. ‘Je suis’

  ‘Tu suis what, you imbecile?’

  Bradley, was he the French teacher? It should be Monsieur Clark.

  ‘Theakston, come out to the front!’

  He looked around the classroom, they were all there looking at him, his mother, father, a few school friends, army friends. Brother Sebastian was at the front, so was Amani, standing beside him. Where had Bradley gone? He wanted to see Bradley not Amani, not Brother Sebastian, wanted to be back in school. ‘Do you Graham, accept this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?’

  Yes … no … would make them laugh if he said yes? But he’d learnt to keep quiet, back of the class, head down, away from the pain. He turned to the class, they were staring at him, no one would laugh. Embrace the Prophet, Ngai is love. ‘I do.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  Classroom gone, dirt, piss, thirst.

  ‘Bloody hell … Graham?’ Someone was touching his shoulder and whispering into his ear.

  Paul?

  He saw the outline of a man above him, his face came close, he could smell the warm breath, wanted him to go away, couldn’t breathe, no oxygen, Paul was stealing his oxygen, but Paul was his friend.

  ‘What in God’s name have they done to you?’

  He tried to smile. His lips were sore, cracked, bloody, tore as he pulled them apart to speak. ‘Hello mate, got any water?’

  ‘But of course.’ He felt the edge of a metal flask against his lips, it tasted sweet; water shouldn’t taste like honey.

  ‘Bless you mate.’

  Paul put his hand on Graham’s forehead. ‘You have one hell of a fever old chap.’

  Graham nodded and closed his eyes. He heard a shout from outside, heard Paul protesting, a thud, a cry; Paul screaming, silence.

  His back stung, his ribs ached; his head felt as if someone was trying to drive a nail through it; long, sharp, deep, rhythmic, pulsing pain … pain … pain … pain. He drew his knees up to his chin and shivered uncontrollably.

  *****

  ‘Je suis, tu es, il est, elle est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils sont, elles sont. Je suis, tu es …’

  ‘Theakston!’

  He was standing in line, either side of him a row of men in uniform.

  ‘Theakston!

  ‘Yes’

  ‘Yes what?’

  ‘Yes sir!’

  Bradley came towards him, ‘twenty push ups Theakston, on the double.’

  ‘Yes sir!’

  He dropped to the ground.

  ‘Avoir, Theakston, imperfect tense. Now!’

  ‘J’avais, tu avais, il avait, elle avait, nous … nous …’

  ‘Nous avions you turd.’

  ‘Yes Sir! Nous avions, vous aviez, ils avait …’

  He felt a boot come down on the small of his back. ‘Ils avient, turd.’

  ‘Yes Sir! Ils avient … nous avions, vous aviez, ils … ils …’

 

  *****

  He was outside the tent, marching up and down, daylight, hot, sweating, shivering. Lined up with a dozen small boys, maybe ten years old. Another beating. He had his stick, two inches thick and heavy. Just the one boy, kneeling on the ground. He stank of piss and shit; he stank of fear. Embrace the Prophet, Ngai is love.

  He gave out a scream and with the others attacked, repeatedly bringing the stick down. The boy cowered, cried. Soon Graham’s arm, his body and face, were spattered with blood. Embrace the Prophet, Ngai is love.

  David came over to him, took an arm, pulled him away and smiling, gave him the mug. He drank greedily, was taken back to the hut and fell to the floor, unconscious. Embrace the Prophet, Ngai is love.

  *****

  ‘Get up you pathetic waste of time. Firing squad, on my command! He turned, they were there, his father, his mother, school friends and enemies, some from his regiment and some from the newspaper office. He counted ten but there were more, he started counting again, couldn’t get past ten, their faces kept moving, changing places, must be hundreds. Everyone he knew was there, everyone he’d ever known, all pointing rifles towards him. Amani, where was she? She’d speak up for him.

  ‘Amani doesn’t know any French, you moron; anyway, she’s dead. Firing squad, take aim!’

  Shaking uncontrollably, he curled up into a ball to make himself small, difficult to hit. Agnus Dei, … heard the guns going off, qui tollis peccata mundi … felt the bullets hit the back of his head, sharp pain, bursting through his skull. Felt the bone splinter, blood spreading, covering his face, warm, stifling. He fell. Miserere nobi.

  *****

  He opened his eyes, he wasn’t shivering anymore, the fever had abated. He was still alive, in the dark, in the shadows.

  Flames outside, fires outside, woodsmoke, woodsmoke drifting into the hut, covering the acrid stink from the pit at the back. He heard a man speak, American, what was an American doing here? There was no one at the entrance, he crawled towards it. The guards were there, a few yards away, looking towards army trucks. He saw the Americans, the Americans from the hotel. Standing by a truck, men unloading boxes. They opened one and lifted out an assault rifle; there were other, bigger chests of arms. He backed into the shadow of the hut. They were American, they would help him, but those weren’t American rifles, they were AKs; long, curved magazines. Couldn’t be government, must be gunrunners. Gunrunners wouldn’t help him, but gunrunners didn’t wear black suits, no one wore black suits in the bush, the Americans wore black suits. Maybe they’d help him; they were helping his captors. He crawled to the back, felt safe, curled up, felt his arm up against something metal, a water flask. He put it to his mouth. Water, didn’t remember a water flask. Something about Paul, Paul had brought the water. Americans, why were they here? … Why was he here? Wanted to be in the Stardust; glass of beer, Amani, his friends. He shivered, started to sweat. Fever back, must sleep, sleep would mend him, cure him … Embrace the Prophet, Ngai is love … Embrace the Prophet, Ngai is love. He repeated the mantra to himself, and mumbling it fell asleep. He was standing above a small boy, repeatedly hitting him with a stick. He wanted to stop but couldn’t … Embrace the Prophet, Ngai is love …

  Nine

  A cry, the melancholic call of a bird.

  He opened his eyes.

  Dawn; he crawled to the entrance, a sandalled foot came out to bar his way. He looked up, a small boy waving the muzzle of a rifle at him. It was cool, he wasn’t sweating, the pain in his head had gone, the fever had broken. He tried to stand but felt dizzy so sat down and stared at his gaolers. Two small boys with over-sized fatigues and rubber sandals made from old car tyres. They stared back. He couldn’t distinguish between them, they looked different but were the same. He tried to stand again, and spreading his legs achieved stability. He smiled and stared at one of the boys.

  ‘Hello mate, how’s it going?’

  He had a coughing fit then looked back up and resumed his smile. Behind the eyes, nothing to latch onto. He could have been trying to talk to any of them and got the same response, nothing. Should be in school, playing with a football, teasing girls. He fell to his knees in front of one
of them, eyes level, a few inches between them. The guard, the small boy, returned the stare and didn’t move. Graham grinned inanely until the boy brought up the barrel of his gun between their faces.

  ‘So there is someone at home.’ He returned to the middle of the hut and sat down again, pleased with the revelation. He felt his back. It no longer stung but itched, crusts of scabs, lines of them.

  A commotion at the entrance made him look up. The guard stood to attention as a man entered. He came to within a couple of feet and sat down on the small wooden stool he’d brought with him. Graham frowned, a shadow of recognition, unsure.

  ‘Cigarette?’

  He looked at it greedily, wanted it but maybe it was a trick, so he shook his head. The man lit it, took a drag and passed it over. ‘Go on, take it.’

  Graham drew in the smoke, it felt good, familiar. He had a coughing fit, felt nauseous, but determinedly took another drag. This time his lungs coped.

  ‘Do you recognise me?’

  Graham studied him intently. Tall, well-dressed, out of place in the hut, too well kept for this circle of hell. He shook his head.

  ‘My name is David.’

  David … David … he had a mate at school called David, David Braithwaite, ginger hair, pretty sister, but this wasn’t him, another David. ’You were there, you were in my dream, the mug and the stick.’

  ‘Yes, I was in your dream.’

  Graham nodded his head slowly, absorbing the information then took another drag of the cigarette.

  ‘The bad spirit has left you,’ David continued. ‘You are ready.’

  ‘I’m ready,’ repeated Graham, still nodding his head.

  ‘Shortly you will meet the Prophet; he has special work for you.’

  ‘Embrace the Prophet.’

  ‘That is correct, Graham, Ngai is love. Are you hungry?’

  He was hungry, very hungry. ‘I’m hungry.’

  David turned and shouted something at one of the boys guarding the hut.

  ‘When … when will I meet the Prophet?’

  ‘Soon Graham, you are blessed. You have been here for six weeks, you are almost ready.’

  ‘Six weeks, I’ve been here for six weeks.’ Graham filed the information, but didn’t react to it.