A Dancer In the Dust (26 page)

“Visutu,” Dolvo said as he eyed the border crossing some fifty yards ahead. “You should have a gun.”

He’d offered to provide me with one shortly before we’d left Accra, but I’d known that it was just something he wanted to sell, and that the price would be ridiculously high.

“It would be risky, having a gun,” I said now by way of refusing his offer once again.

Dolvo nodded toward the border. “These ones in the north, they fly the new flag, but they are still Mafumi’s tribe,” he said.

And indeed this was true. Up ahead, at the little concrete border station, I could see Lubanda’s most recent flag as it waved limply in the sweltering air: against a green and gold background two hands clutching each other in the middle, the skin of the hand at the right growing steadily darker from the wrist, while the other took the opposite direction. As an immediately comprehensible design, it effectively captured Fareem’s much-stated hope of a fully integrated, fully cooperative Lubanda. As a policy, it was certainly less utopian than Village Harmony, but my fear was that it might be no less indicative of Fareem’s peril. If Mafumi’s old guard was still in charge of border stations such as this one, then it was surely possible that some were in Rupala as well, and that they were determined to replace Fareem with a kinsman whose brutality was more to their liking. For after all, though Visutu, Fareem had stood against Mafumi, his own fellow tribesman, and thus must surely be counted a traitor to those who still mourned the loss of their favored tyrant.

“The new president is trying reconciliation,” I told Dolvo, though at the moment I said it, I imagined Fareem the victim of a plot, soon to be assassinated, or worse. Anything was possible. I knew that after the Janetta Massacre, Mafumi’s men had sliced off the penises of the village’s men and boys and strung them in dangling groups on fishing lines, where they’d hung like the catch of the day. Reconciliation with such men? What policy could be more charged with peril? I had never been convinced that reconciliation, despite the new president’s devotion to it, was not, as he’d put it, “the way out of Hell.” For how are men ever made better by ignoring what they do?

“They are devils,” Dolvo said. “Even armed it is dangerous in this part of Lubanda.”

This was true, and for a moment I did honestly revisit my decision to return to this country, as well as my reason for doing so. But just at that instant, a gust of wind suddenly lifted Lubandan’s struggling flag and curled it toward me beckoningly, like a finger. Risk assessment pays no heed to paranormal signs, of course. It doesn’t follow the movements on a Ouija board or derive its information from the tea leaves at the bottom of a cup. And yet, the sudden movement of that flag abruptly stiffened my resolve to help Fareem if I could.

“Drive on,” I said.

The man in the oversized cap strolled over to the car as it drew to a halt before a makeshift blockade made of strips of rust-streaked, corrugated tin.

“Out of the car,” he said.

We did as we were told, and were escorted into the little concrete shed by the other guard, the one in the long pants. A man in civilian clothes sat behind an old TV tray that had the picture of a young woman drinking from a classic Coca-Cola bottle. Such relics of the fifties could still be found in American bric-a-brac shops, but I’d never seen one in actual use.

“Name,” the man said.

We gave our names, but there was no attempt to record them. Rather, the man behind the desk simply stared at us for a moment, then said, “No foreign currency is allowed in Lubanda.”

This was nonsense, of course. There was no such policy. But extortion at the border was nothing new, and so I understood that dollars would now be “exchanged” for an internationally worthless Lubandan currency according to whatever rate the man behind the Coca-Cola TV tray decided.

“You have to buy Lubandan money with the money you got,” the man explained. His eyes flitted over to Dolvo. “Him too.”

“I’m the only one crossing the border,” I told him, firmly, because I’d learned long ago that firmness was something—perhaps the only thing—that all bullies understand. “My driver is going back to Accra.”

The man smiled. “There is a charge for crossing the border without a driver.”

Never mind that only a few yards away I could see a steady stream of local people crossing the border on foot, making it clear that this charge applied only to whites. This double standard was also nothing new. At Kinshasa airport, I’d watched luggage handlers riffle through incoming baggage, then sell their contents back to their rightful owners with an unruffled sense of criminal entitlement that would have stunned Al Capone.

I looked the head of this border station directly in the eye. “Look,” I said flatly, “I know this border station has nothing to do with the government in Rupala. It has nothing to do with border security or immigration, or the control of contraband or anything else. This is a place to rob foreigners, and you are thief, but I don’t care because I need to get into Lubanda. So just stop the bullshit and come up with a fee for you and your friends that will leave me enough money to continue my journey.”

The man did not seem in the least offended by this outburst. He was a thief, and knew it, and now he knew that I knew it, too, so the matter was pretty much settled.

“I sell you fifty dollars’ worth of Lubandan currency,” he said. “You can use it when you cross. Another fifty for crossing without a driver.”

He looked at my single piece of baggage, and so I acted quickly. “And another fifty for keeping my luggage?”

A smile crawled onto his face. “You are not new to this country,” he said as he put out his hand.

I took out my wallet, plucked the agreed-upon amount of cash from it, and gave it to him.

By then the two other guards had joined us, both of them eyeing the cash as I handed it over.

“You can go,” the man behind the TV tray said to Dolvo, and with no word of farewell, my driver turned and left the room. Seconds later, still standing in place, I heard the engine of his car fire, then the sound of wheels on gravel as it pulled away.

“You are alone now,” the man behind the TV tray said. His smile returned. “But you are safe.” He laughed. “Lubanda, it is one big family now.” He leaned back slightly and folded his arms over his chest. “There are not many villages out this way. Where do you plan to stop tonight?”

“Janetta,” I said.

Perhaps he saw something in my eyes at that moment, the shadow of some old, remembered crime that needed no words to convey it. People had perhaps seen that same shadow in them before, though none could have suspected the nature of that inward injury, nor that there might be acts of love so fraught with error as to make the deepest hatreds blink.

“Good luck,” he said. Something drew the lingering smile from his lips and curled them downward. “I think you’re going to need it.”

I turned and left, glancing back only once to where the man sat intently thumbing the bills.

I was on my way to Rupala, of course, hoping to warn Fareem before it was too late. And yet, as I moved deeper into Lubanda, I found that I hardly thought of him. All my thoughts were of Martine, and the night she’d asked me to help her save her farm, the long ride to Rupala, which I’d not reached until early morning. It was a memory that worked upon my soul like a barbed whip upon the body, vicious, unrelenting, every recollection drawing blood.

Bill had been quite obviously surprised to see me standing outside his office door that morning.

“You look road-weary,” he said.

“I drove all night.”

He turned and unlocked the door to his office. “I’ve actually been surprised by how rarely you’ve come to Rupala,” he said cheerfully. “But then, I’m sure Tumasi has its charms.”

The lascivious nature of his smile told me everything. He thought that Martine and I were lovers, a supposition based upon the simple fact that in isolated Tumasi we were the only man and woman of the same tribe.

“Come in,” Bill said as he ushered me into his office.

It was very plain and decidedly functional, with nothing but a metal desk and a few filing cabinets. Its only adornment was an enlargement of the photograph of President Dasai I’d taken with Fareem’s broken camera, its starburst crack neatly cropped out so that the president stood quite magisterially before a Lubandan sunset, fists at his waist, the man of the hour.

“That was a good day,” I said almost to myself, my memory of those events now entirely romanticized, for it had been early in my time in Lubanda, my love for Martine only beginning. We had shared a moment of grave risk, and had later made light of it upon returning to Tumasi. What could have been more thrilling?

Bill laughed. “A good day? You were shot at. You could have been killed.” He nodded toward one of the room’s metal chairs. “Have a seat.”

I sat down, and waited for Bill to do the same.

“So, what’s on your mind, Ray?” he said.

“I’ve come about Martine,” I told him.

Bill made a nest of his fingers and placed it firmly on his desk. “What about her?”

“Gessee is trying to take her farm,” I said. “He’s been doing it for quite a while. That tax on teff, for example was just a way of doing that, but since then it’s gotten worse.”

Bill made no argument against this.

“Now he’s saying she’s not ‘culturally’ Lubandan,” I continued. “And for that reason, her land can be confiscated by the state.”

“That’s the new law, yes,” Bill said.

“It means that Martine, because she isn’t black, will lose her farm,” I said. “It’s pure racism.”

Bill laughed, “And the fact that blacks can be racists surprises you, Ray?”

“No, but an outright racist policy does,” I fired back. “Especially when it’s aimed at a woman like Martine… a woman who is—”

“Good God,” Bill interrupted. “You’ve fallen in love with her.”

I nodded. “Yes,” I admitted.

“And so now you’re playing her knight-errant,” Bill said, neither with approval nor disapproval, but merely as a clear statement of the case.

“I want to help her, yes,” I conceded. “You’ve read my reports. You know what’s been going on in Tumasi. Those men at the edge of her property. Those horrible drawings.”

“Which have evidently had no effect on Martine,” Bill said gravely.

For a moment, he remained silent, his expression unreadable, making me feel like a man working with an instrument whose interworkings he didn’t understand.

Finally, he said, “Ray, if you’ve come because you think I can somehow change what the government intends to do, you’ve wasted your time, because there’s nothing you can do and there’s nothing I can do to help Martine keep her farm.” He opened his hands as if to show how empty of power they were. “I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.” He suddenly looked as if he now had to get on with things he could do something about, the matter of Martine keeping her land decidedly not among them. “So,” he said wearily. “Anything else?”

I knew that I was being dismissed, but I had failed so dismally to help Martine that the prospect of returning to her and admitting that failure was more than either my love for her or my pride in myself could bear.

“So, what do Gessee and the others think Martine will do once they’ve taken her farm?” I asked.

Bill leaned back, and for the first time he seemed uncomfortable with his helplessness. “I don’t know,” he answered. “Her farm will be taken by the state and they’ll grow coffee on it. What Martine does after that is of no concern to anyone in Rupala.” He glanced toward the window, where a new building was going up. “I suppose she can come here. She speaks English and French. She should be able to find some kind of work.” He looked at me, and a sad little smiled crawled onto his lips. “Can she type?”

“There has to be another way for her,” I answered sharply.

Bill suddenly looked as if he’d been drawn into a conspiracy whose direction and possible consequences he didn’t like. “Do you have a suggestion?”

It was precisely at that moment that the idea came to me, in a movement I could only describe as a dry rustling in my mind. I said nothing as the plot took shape, a pause sufficiently brief to suggest the risk ahead, but not long enough to deter me from taking it.

“More pressure,” I said at last. “The government could put more pressure on Martine.”

“Pressure to do what?”

“Leave Lubanda.”

“They’ve already taken her farm, Ray,” Bill reminded me. “What else can they take?”

“Her citizenship,” I answered.

The idea had come to me because I’d done as Bill had asked—read Lubanda’s Constitution very carefully—though it had never occurred to me that I might use that knowledge against Martine.

“Her Lubandan citizenship could be taken from her,” I repeated, this time more emphatically.

Bill looked as if he were turning a kaleidoscope, trying to bring its disparate elements into crystal clarity. “What are you talking about? Martine was born in Lubanda.”

“That’s true,” I told him, “but she can still be stripped of her Lubandan citizenship.”

Bill watched me darkly. “How?”

“Remember when I first came here, you gave me a copy of the Lubandan Constitution,” I said. “Well, I read it, just like you said I should. And there is a section in it that says that citizenship can be denied to any person
or their descendant
s, who entered the country illegally or gave false information, or who—and this is the part that applies to Martine—‘who committed acts against Negritude.’”

“Acts against Negritude,” Bill repeated. “What does that have to do with Martine?”

“Martine’s grandfather was a member of the
Force Publique,”
I said. “She told me this herself. She also gave me a book about it. Her grandfather’s in it.” I leaned forward. “His name was Emile Aubert and he slaughtered God knows how many Congolese. Tortured people, burned villages. If he doesn’t qualify as a man who has committed acts against Negritude, then no one does.” I eased back in my chair. “Just by using the Constitution, Gessee could denationalize Martine. She’d be a stateless person. They could even refuse to give her a work permit. They could do anything really. She would have no rights whatsoever. She would be completely helpless.”