Kitafe

by Michael Ray

  ‘You have had a fever, and now it has gone. You have been cleansed.’

  A woman entered the hut with some bread and a calabash. David took them from her and passed Graham the bread.

  He ate greedily, smokey, mealy, good, fresh. He licked the crumbs from his fingers and looked expectantly at David, like a dog who’s just been given a biscuit.

  ‘Good, you must eat, it will make you strong.’ He passed Graham the calabash.

  ‘And you must rest. Drink.’

  He took a long draught, felt the warm alcohol spread through his body, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  *****

  Amani. He’d felt her body against him, her breathing, her smell, her touch, but he was waking, she was fading. He fell back into the dream and tried to return to her, to touch her again, but she had gone, just a memory swamped in numbing forgetfulness. All he could see was darkness and all he could hear was the urgent rushing waves of blood through his veins. He knew he was alive, but nothing more.

  It was no longer daylight. Through half-closed eyelids Graham watched a flickering light. A few feet away a paraffin lamp burned unevenly, lighting a tent with a sputtering flame. He was on a bed of wood and woven string and it didn’t smell of piss and shit. He raised a hand to see if he could touch the canvas but it was too high, the tent too large. The shadow of his arm could; it crept up the cloth, trembling with the flame. He followed the shadow, let it climb and fall. He was wearing some sort of white robe and it fell down the raised arm. It felt cool, clean; he felt clean. He studied his arm, bruised and there didn’t seem to be as much flesh on it as he remembered. He touched the damage but felt no pain. He thought his back should be sore, it had been once, but there was nothing.

  He heard a noise from behind him, a shuffle, a small cough. He raised himself on an elbow and looked around. In the back of the tent a girl stood watching him, wearing a similar white robe. He smiled at her, she stared back at him, blankly. A child, maybe twelve or thirteen. He opened his mouth to say something to her, a greeting or a question, but nothing, he made no sound. Dehydration had left his mouth dry, nothing spare to waste on saliva. She came over and offered him a gourd. The last drink he’d had was strong, the taste of it lingered in his mouth but this wasn’t the same, no alcohol, just a few herbs in warm water. He drank deeply then fell back onto the bed again, held his hand up and watched the shadow waving at him. He smiled and waved back; deep within he felt elated, euphoric. He was still alive, the pain was just a memory. He held his other arm up and watched the two shadows interplay.

  A drum beat. He rocked his arms to the rhythm, the shadows dancing together. The girl came over and offered him the gourd again, and as he took it, a young breast brushed against his arm through cotton cloth.

  ‘Embrace the Prophet.’

  ‘Ngai is love,’ Graham responded automatically, downing the rest of the liquid.

  She nodded solemnly, took away the gourd and left the tent.

  Ten minutes passed. He wondered whether he should be trying to escape, but then why should he? He felt perfectly safe, perfectly happy. Was there any more water? Water was important, he must drink whenever he could. The tent flap opened. He hoped the girl had returned but there were two young boys, both carrying rifles. They were his guards, he knew them and sat up, smiling. They stood still on either side of the door, expressionless. A man entered the tent. He knew this man, David. David had given him a cigarette, David was his friend.

  ‘Hello Graham, I trust you are rested?’

  Graham smiled and mouthed David.

  David returned the smile; it brought Graham peace. What happened to the girl? ‘What happened to the girl?’ He blurted out.

  ‘You will see her again, but now you must meet the Prophet.’

  The Prophet, yes, he wanted to meet the Prophet. The Prophet would explain everything, tell the future, like in the Bible; Elijah, Nostradamus, Mother Shipton. They were good people, the Prophet was a good person; Ngai is love. No more bruises, beatings, blood, pain. He frowned, it was another time, only the shadow of a memory. He got up and sat on the edge of the bed, but the bed moved under him. He looked at it, puzzled, wondering if it were going to fly and take him to meet the Prophet. There were car tyre sandals by the bed. He managed to get one on, the rubber strap cutting into his fingers as he eased it over his foot. Tight, but it fitted. He put on the other one and stood up, lost his balance and started to fall. He’d get the gown dirty; dirt on the white cotton, dirt on his knees.

  David came forward to help him then gave orders to the boys. They supported him one to either side; too young, too short; he smiled then laughed, stumbling up to the tent flap, and they had to keep up with him. He’d show them who was fastest; he didn’t need their help. He stopped abruptly and turned back to David.

  ‘They’re only boys.’

  David smiled, ‘they are soldiers, soldiers of Christ.’

  ‘They should be in school.’

  ‘You think that learning to read is more important than doing the Lord’s work?’

  Graham thought about it for a minute, the Lord’s work? Shouldn’t they learn to read first? ‘The Lord’s work should wait until after they’ve learnt to read, he can’t be that impatient.’

  ‘No my friend, the Lord has need of them now and they have come to his call.’ He gave an order and the children took an arm each, marching him out of the hut, and into the sun.

  His legs weren’t keen to cooperate, but he stumbled along, one foot in front of the other … almost falling over … left, right, left, right. They led him through the camp then along the side of a river. Water flowing past, reflections of flames from torches that lined the path. He’d been so thirsty, he was still thirsty, and there was all this water. Why had they given him so little?

  They came to a large tent that had been erected in the shade of an umbrella tree. Outside two girls wearing fatigues were standing to attention, both armed. David gave an order and the children let go of Graham. He wobbled a bit, but stayed upright. ‘Enter, the Prophet will see you now.’

  Graham tottered up to the tent, up to the girls with their Kalashnikovs. Behind their uniforms, they looked sixteen or seventeen. He smiled at them, they stared straight ahead.

  ‘Go in Graham,’ David said.

  He looked back. David, smiling, reassuring.

  The tent was surprisingly comfortable. In a large, leather armchair sat a young African, beautifully clothed in tribal robes; colourful, flowing. Either side of him were two more girls wearing fatigues, both standing to attention, both armed, both staring straight ahead. David came up from behind and pushed Graham down onto the ground. He put up no resistance and found himself sprawled out on a soft, brightly-coloured carpet, staring up at Ngai.

  ‘So here is the man who thinks that I am an incompetent madman, a self-delusional megalomaniac.’

  Ngai was laughing, why was he laughing?

  ‘Tell me Graham Theakston, how is Brother Sebastian?’

  Brother Sebastian, he’d met Brother Sebastian, a good man. ‘He’s a good man.’

  A sudden blow between his shoulders and he found himself pinned to the ground.

  ‘You will address the Prophet correctly!’ David commanded.

  He didn’t understand; a minute ago David had smiled at him. He turned his head as far as he could with it squashed against the carpet, to see David standing above him. He was still smiling, a boot on Graham’s back.

  ‘It’s all right David,’ said Ngai, ‘let him sit.’

  The boot was removed and Graham struggled awkwardly to a sitting position.

  ‘Perhaps in future it would be best if you addressed me as Master, we don’t want to upset David again. Can I offer you some refreshment?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but gave one of his bodyguards an order. She left the tent and came back with a mug of tea. Indian tea, sweet, the leaves and sugar boiled in milk. He took a sip, not too hot, and drank down the rest in one gulp.

  ‘You see D
avid; our friend was just thirsty.’

  ‘Thank you … Master.’

  ‘Good, I’m glad we’re going to be friends. I brought you here for a special purpose, Graham. I want you to be my scribe, my chronicler.’

  ‘I would be honoured … Master’ He knew his reply should be full of cynicism, but it wasn’t. Calling Ngai Master felt natural, comfortable. He decided it was good to do what he asked, to please him if he could … Ngai is love.

  Ngai smiled. ‘You will write about my camp; you will tell the world about my Army. You will tell them how loyal my followers are and how invincible my soldiers will be. I don’t want to kill, I am not a killer. It pains me every time another life is lost, but people have to realise that I offer the one true way. When that happens they will come to me and there will be no more killing.’

  ‘You want me to write press releases for you Master?’

  ‘That’s right Graham, press releases. More than that though, I want you to write down my thoughts and my acts for future generations to read. I want you to take down my letters and messages for friends and for enemies, and to make copies of them for safekeeping.’

  ‘Yes Master, I will need a notebook and a pen.’

  ‘David, see to it.’

  David bowed and left the tent.

  ‘Come closer, Graham.’

  He did as he was told, keeping his eyes on the carpet.

  ‘You will sit at my feet like in olden times. If I say anything you don’t understand, I want you to speak out. Don’t be afraid.’

  ‘No Master, I won’t be afraid.’

  ‘And everything that I say, you must write it down … everything.’

  ‘Everything Master.’

  ‘I can’t call you Graham, that is the name of someone who was my enemy. You are no longer my enemy are you?’

  ‘No Master, I am your servant.’

  ‘Then I shall call you … I shall call you Kitafe, it is the small mongoose in your language.’

  ‘Kitafe … I am honoured Master.’

  *****

  David returned to the tent, bowed to Ngai and gave Graham a foolscap writing pad and a bundle of pencils. He settled down, opened the pad and prepared to take down dictation.

  ‘Brother Sebastian brought me up, educated me, showed me the path. He led me to the teachings of Saint Thomas Aquinas and Saint Augustine. Do you know of these great men and their teachings?’

  ‘Graham shook his head, ‘I’ve heard of them Master, but don’t know of their work.’

  ‘It distresses me that a wealthy country like yours can omit such things in the schooling. No matter, in the future things will be different. It was from their writings that I learnt of the true path that they followed. The true path that they showed to their Church, but there were many problems, many evil men. One thing they taught me is that there is such a thing as a just war, do you know what such a war is, Kitafe?’

  ‘No Master, didn’t the Ten Commandments say “Thou shalt not kill.”?’

  Graham heard a sharp intake of breath from David, standing near the tent entrance. He came over and seemed about to bring the butt of his AK down on Graham who brought up his hands for protection.

  ‘It’s all right David, we are having a theological discussion.’ Ngai said.

  David bowed his head and returned to the door.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse him, he is very protective. These saints told me that it is not a sin to kill, if there is a greater evil that needs to be destroyed. God has told me that there is a greater evil, and so I must destroy it.’

  Graham wrote on his pad then finished and looked up to Ngai. ‘Master, what is that evil?’

  ‘It is all around you, it is the cities and the towns, the rejection of the one true faith by the heretics and the Zionists, the Islamists and the Atheists. There are even followers of the Indian religion infiltrating our country, and you can see the result of that. Women and men selling their bodies, their minds, even their souls to the devil, losing the respect that God has given them, and losing their right to eternal peace. My Church will cleanse the cities and towns of this filth like a tide of freshwater cleansing the filth and stench of a shanty,’ He smiled, ‘you will be part of that, you are indeed blessed.’

  ‘Yes Master, I am blessed.’ Graham read through his transcription. The words were all there, all in the order Henry Ngai had spoken them. He felt happy, he had been blessed, Ngai was truly love.

  ‘Master, what will become of the sinners?’

  ‘Those that embrace my Church will be accepted and they will help us build a new Jerusalem; those that don’t will be purified by the flame, in the hope that they will be accepted into the Kingdom of Heaven. Kitafe, I am glad you are here; glad you have joined us. God told me one would come who would take our word out of the bush and into the cities; even over the oceans to other lands. You are the one who has been chosen for that task.’ He put his hand on Graham’s head and smiled. ‘You have been cleansed Kitafe, through your blood and pain, through your fever. You fought with the devil and he left you. You beat him and I am proud of you. Now, I have other matters to deal with; we will talk some more tomorrow. In the meantime, I want you to turn my words into something that the newspapers and radios will understand. When you are ready, give them to David and he will see they get to the right people.’

  Graham got up from the floor and then walked backwards towards the entrance, missing it and bumping into one of Ngai’s bodyguards. Ngai had already turned his mind to other matters, and was spreading out maps and stroking his chin thoughtfully.

  Graham decided that being almost out of the tent was probably good enough, so he turned and left. Immediately his two guards positioned themselves either side of him and with David walking alongside, led him back to his tent.

  ‘David,’ Graham said, ‘in my fever I thought I saw a friend, another journalist, Paul.’

  ‘There is no one here of that name, you are mistaken.’

  ‘But I talked to him as clearly as I’m talking to you.’

  ‘It was your fever, forget this man, he is not here.’

  *****

  He woke the next morning, taking a few moments to realise he was in the tent, not a stinking hut, and lying on a bed not on mud. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes then realised he was being stared at. The girl was standing by his bed, waiting for him to wake up. She passed him some bread and a tin mug of sweet tea. ‘Embrace the Prophet.’

  ‘Ngai is love,’ Graham responded automatically. He was uncertain whether to be grateful for breakfast in bed or worried about how long she’d been standing there. ‘What’s your name, love?’

  She stared at him blankly then took the empty mug and left.

  He splashed his face in a bucket of water she’d left behind, put on his sandals and went around the back of the tent for a piss, accompanied by a guard, who steered him back again. He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Only half his brain seemed to work, memory and personality hidden by a numbness, a blockage that appeared when his thought drifted away from his new calling. It was easier not to think too much, easier to lie back, look at the weave of the canvas and be thankful.

  Half an hour later David entered the tent. ‘Good morning, Graham. Embrace the Prophet.’

  ’Ngai is love.’ David … David gave his life direction, ‘I have copy for the press, David.’

  David took the sheet of paper and gave it a cursory glance. ‘The Prophet wishes to take you on a tour of our camp. Unless he says otherwise, you will remain two paces behind him to his left. Is that understood?’

  Graham picked up his writing pad and obediently followed David out.

  ‘You are better today, your walking is steadier, you are becoming whole once more. Did you sleep well?’

  Graham thought about the night, he could remember no dreams, he’d slept well. ‘I slept well.’

  Ngai briskly came out from his tent and amicably greeted them. Instead of robes he wore a full battledress, decorated
with the star and sabre of a general and he was armed. A gold-plated Kalashnikov hung from one shoulder.

  ‘Kitafe, it pleases me to see you this morning. I wish to show you our camp, you must describe it for future generations. Walk by me, I need you to make notes. ‘

  He strode off, four girls from his personal guard falling in on either side.

  They headed away from the river and entered a woodland of acacias, whose broad, flat, leafy branches gave enough cover for workshops, schools, even a makeshift hospital. They passed groups of soldiers training, parked lorries and pickups, some being worked on, some just hiding from the sun and passing planes. From the air, the camp would have looked like a small riverside village, and everywhere they went, men, women and children stopped what they were doing bowed their head in obeisance.

  ‘There are two thousand men here. Altogether, we have twenty thousand men ready to serve the Lord.’

  Graham took notes, then hesitated, ‘Forgive me, Master, but does that twenty thousand include the women and children?’

  Ngai smiled to be asked a question, ‘it is double that number if you include the women and children.’

  They paused by a group of boys under supervision, dismantling then rebuilding rifles; breaking down Kalashnikovs as easily as a fourteen-year old in Manchester would change the wheel of a push bike.

  ‘You see how quickly they learn? These boys are too small to use a spear or even a panga, but they are big enough to hold a rifle. With a rifle, they are as deadly as a man twice their size and even more fearless. We have many children like this, Kitafe, mostly orphans from a war across the border. Their families have been killed by the Belgians and their slaves; their houses burned. Before God brought them to us, they had nothing and they had no hope. We have given them hope, we have fed and clothed them and now, like you, they are part of our family. In return, they are happy to help us in the struggle.’

  ‘They look so young, Master.’

  ‘You are never too young to serve the Lord, and by having them work here we release the men to fight. I served in the British Army with sixteen-year-olds, and many who were younger but said they were sixteen. It was not so different; they too were grateful to serve somebody, to be part of a family. David organises the training of these boys; David turns them into soldiers and men. I am fortunate, Kitafe, to have him at my right hand.’