Displaced (16 page)

“Maybe you’re right, nevertheless, you’ll
have your chance to make your arguments at trial,” Matanda
responded not wanting to indulge him.

“You know they tried to kill me three times,”
he said ignoring Matanda’s response. “They couldn’t kill me with a
gun, but this Court is more effective, they surround you with
lawyers and ensnare you in a maze from which there is no escape,”
he said playing the victim. He may have been one of the richest men
in the Congo, but here he was a victim of judicial conspiracy.
Matanda was wary of being drawn into his self pity and sidestepped
the issue.

“The Court is no match for you,” he said
encouragingly. “You survived assassination attempts, you can
weather this.”

He looked at Matanda and laughed. “Say that
once again with feeling friend, like you believe it.” Matanda
smiled back at him.

“I understand that Negusse is still gone
missing,” Bembe said. “That might make their case difficult.”

“See, things are looking up,” Matanda said,
“for someone in prison you are well informed.”

“I like to stay on top of things, I can’t
rely on my lawyers for everything,” he said. Matanda looked at him
with a pained expression. “I understand there is a daughter who
managed to flee. It seems she has left the country gone to Uganda
or elsewhere. She may still turn up.”

“Maybe it’s up to the gods,” Matanda
shrugged.

“Maybe the gods could use some help.”

“It’s not my job, not what I do.”

Bembe looked at him silently.

“You’re considering me,” Matanda said. “We’ve
been together for a long time,” he continued, “but you’re thinking
what good am I. You forget, you’ve got a legal case, good lawyers,
they’ve dropped two counts against you.”

“My friend the lawyer,” Bembe chuckled. “He
says to put your faith in the law. You have considerably more faith
in the law than I do.”

Matanda didn’t respond immediately and kept a
straight face.

“You don’t need to do anything, you have a
guardian angel,” Matanda said flatly. “He’ll see you through this
the same way he saw you through those other times.”

“Who is this guardian angel?”

“It doesn’t matter, your interests coincide.
I brought some Matoki,” he offered wanting to change the subject.
“They made me leave it at the front gate, but said they would bring
it to you later.”

“Terrific, finally some food I can digest,”
Bembe responded. “Maybe I can share it with my fairy
godmother.”

“Not your fairy godmother, it’s your guardian
angel,” Matanda said unable to stop himself from correcting the
man.

“I know what it is,” Bembe said laughing at
his own joke.

No longer able, Nicole had stopped sweating
as the late morning sun approached the highest point of midday.
Dizzy, she fell forward over her shovel, twisted and landed sitting
in the dirt. At this point Nicole cared little if she lived or
died, exhaustion was her only point of reference any end to it
would be a form of relief. She was meant to be killed that much was
clear, but first she had to dig her own grave. She watched Ochiolo
yell at her as if she was having an out of body experience, his
voice barely registered in her ears.

“Get up before I beat you,” she could make
out through the haze of her exhaustion. Ochiolo started towards her
baton in hand. She attempted to get up and fell over sideways
leaning against the lip of the hole she had excavated almost two
feet in depth.

“You over there,” she heard his voice
directed at her former cell mate, one of the soldiers. He was
crying now and swatted flies attracted to the wound on his thigh
made with a panga.

“No please boss,” he was crying near
incoherent with pain and fear.

“You get in there and dig for her.”

Whimpering, he managed to make it out of his
own trench and stumbled into her hole.

“Okay boss,” he gurgled, sweating with snot
running from his nose. An impressive display of hydration, Nicole
thought, after three hours of digging. After two days in the hotbox
of the cargo container, Nicole had begun defecating blood. So
diminished, the sun was like a desiccate that sucked the last bit
of moisture from her body. The soldier began digging haphazardly,
barely able to maintain his balance and lacking the strength to
fully heft the shovel allowing dirt to run back into the grave.
Less than half of each shovelful made it past the edge of the
hole.

Sensing futility, Ochiolo ordered a stop,
“that’s enough,” he barked. “Get out,” he ordered and the soldier
crying for help from God, stepped out of the hole and into his own
shallow grave in line with the other graves.

“Lie down,” Ochiolo commanded, “face
down.”

“Oh Jesus God,” the soldier cried, “please
no,” but did what he was told and lay trembling in the dirt at the
bottom of the hole.

Ochiolo stood over him and produced a pistol
which he placed at the base of the man’s neck and pulled the
trigger. The gun clicked and then misfired. The soldier was near
hysterical crying out and twisting in the moist dirt. Ochiolo again
pointed the gun at the base of the man’s neck and pulled the
trigger. Again the gun misfired. Nicole and the other two prisoners
in their own holes on the other side of the soldier watched
immobile in dazed horror.

Ochiolo examined the barrel of the gun and
pulled back the hammer which then sprung forward on its own
momentum firing the pistol with a loud crack. Ochiolo was dazed and
nearly knocked over, throwing the gun to the ground. The soldier
screamed out in pain holding his right wrist, he had been shot
through the hand.

“Goddammit,” Ochiolo cursed. “Son of a
bitch.” Holding his ear, “watch them,” he yelled at the other two
men nearby and walked off in the direction of the compound leaving
the digging party to sit in the sun. Among them, the soldier with
the gunshot wound showed the most signs of life writhing in agony
and calling out for help. The others sat in near stupor. After more
than three hours, the wounded soldier contented himself with
holding his hand close to his body and rocking back and forth.
Nicole wished for the early onset of night, anything to provide
relief from the unrelenting daylight.

In the late afternoon, three men approached
the edge of the field where the four prisoners sat covered in
grime. Nicole saw them coming from a distance but did not react. As
they got closer, the wounded soldier saw them over the lip of his
trench and began rocking faster and mumbling to himself. The three
men walked abreast, Ochiolo, Orias and another man in a Ugandan
military uniform.

“No, no,” she heard him say as they drew
near. “You cannot be doing this. This will only cause us
trouble.”

Orias shook his head. “Hey what,” he
stumbled. “Why not?”

“We’ll just catch hell and then there will be
enquiries in Kampala and then more hassles. You just do business
and leave the prisoners to me.”

“But they are my prisoners.”

“They are soldiers, they are my prisoners, I
will take care of them,” the officer said. “What about this one?”
he asked pointing to Nicole.

“That’s a private matter, a business matter,”
Orias responded.

“She’s a civilian,” the officer observed. “No
sorry, I’m under strict orders, no civilians, casualties are to be
avoided.”

“But it’s a business matter,” Orias insisted,
“a private dispute.”

“Does she owe you money?”

“Her father does.”

“She’s a child,” the officer stated. “No
sorry, my orders are clear. Kampala doesn’t want unnecessary
casualties, you can’t just go about doing as you please.”

“I’m trying to conduct business.”

“And you can keep on conducting business,
just try not to muck things up too much.”

****

Nicole found herself being taken by the tide.
The same fate that delivered her into the hands of her father’s
enemies found her in the back of a Ugandan Army rover heading west
on the roadway toward the Ugandan border. Beside her in the back
seat, were two of the captured soldiers, one on each side. They
lolled their heads against her, touching shoulders and occasionally
jostling themselves awake as the Rover shivered over the bumpy
roadway. In the back lay the wounded soldier, drained and asleep,
his hand wrapped in an old t-shirt. A Ugandan soldier grasping an
AK-47 rode on the bench opposite him. The Major, the name by which
the other Ugandan soldiers referred to the officer, road in the
front passenger seat and gave instructions to his driver in an
accented Lugandan that Nicole had difficulty understanding.

They rode for long stretches of time without
anyone saying anything, the interior of the car filled with the
rattle and squeak of the doors and window panes as they moved with
speed over the rough road. She knew that they were heading toward
the border and that after they reached the border instructions had
been given for the custody of the soldiers. They traveled for hours
through a countryside of tall elephant grass and forested areas
that encroached on the roadway and seemed to narrow the passage.
Mostly the landscape was open and the fields of green and yellow
were scarred in places by tracks of dull orange where a path had
been cut or the rain had eroded the topsoil. The road widened and
low slung cement buildings appeared on both sides and they were in
a town with stores and shops. Men stood about in doorways and on
stoops and watched them pass as the vehicle slowed. Storefronts
decorated in oversized pictures of United States currency
advertised “maison de change.” The signs for gold and money
exchange were interspersed with signs for boutiques and phone
service.

They traveled through to the other end of the
town where they fell in line with other vehicles heading east. A
matatu was unloading passengers and men in uniforms were inspecting
the cargo of a stopped truck. The driver drove around to the head
of the line where they were fronted by a barricade manned by two
soldiers wearing uniforms of undesignated origin. One of the men
approached, a sullen youth, he recognized the Major and the two
exchanged waives. In turn, he waived to his mate, who set the
barricade to one side and allowed the vehicle to pass.

To Nicole it appeared they hade entered a
sort of no man’s land posted with signs forbidding the use of
cameras. Passengers from less privileged vehicles were made to walk
the three hundred yard distance to the other border post for
inspection. She watched them reboard busses idling near the
crossing point on the other side. This crossing was more orderly,
apportioned with a working gate manned by members of the Ugandan
Defense Force in uniforms with insignia identifying them.

“Welcome back Major,” one of the soldiers
addressed him and leaned into the window as the car came to a stop.
“You picked up some passengers,” the soldier said gesturing to the
back seat.

“I had to take custody of these individuals.
I’m taking them to the base, I’ll let command sort it out from
there. But they’re in my custody for now,” the Major said in a
short tone.

“Okay sir, I’ll waive you through.”

The fence opened and the car was allowed to
pass. Across the border, they passed a line of trucks heading west.
The road was narrow and even and the border town receded behind
them as the Rover picked up speed. Nicole’s fellow passengers were
all awake and knew they were in Uganda but didn’t ask where they
were being taken. Grateful for being removed from her previous
circumstance, the uncertainty of what would happen next
nevertheless kept Nicole unsettled. She watched out the window, the
early evening sun hung low in the sky and the road was well shaded.
It would be dark soon.

“Sir,” Nicole managed, “where are you taking
us?”

The Major turned in his seat and looked at
Nicole considering her face. He looked younger than she had
originally thought, and had smooth skin with a single crease of a
scar over his right cheek that served only to highlight his
otherwise unbroken complexion.

“These ones,” he pointed to the soldiers, “we
are taking to the army base for sorting,” he said ambiguously. “But
you, you are a civilian. I can’t take you to the army base. There
is a displaced persons camp not far from here. That is where we are
taking you. The Red Cross is there, they will take care of you,
don’t worry,” he said with finality.

Her question answered, Nicole had to be
satisfied that all would be “sorted.” She sat back with only a
little clearer idea of her future. She needed to speak with her
family. Where was Philomene? Could she talk with Uncle Mukadi, what
would he advise her?

****

That morning Major Singh had meant to
apologize to Jonathan when he encountered him at the customs office
in the main terminal. He said he was sorry for raising his voice at
Jonathan. While the conversation was cordial, Major Singh made it
clear that all was not forgotten. It was business, not personal
Jonathan thought.

“Don’t be stubborn,” Major Singh told him.
“It’s for your own good,” he said professing to have Jonathan’s
best interests at heart. “This is the way we’ve always conducted
business around here, you know that, no need to rock the boat,” he
said genially. “So next time I need space on one of the flights,
I’ll let you know – no problem.”

“Don’t count on it,” Jonathan replied.

“Oh now, Mr. Jonathan, that’s not necessary.
I’d hate for your bosses at the UN to think there was any problem
with your work,” he said.

“Rumor and innuendo.”

“Rumors can stick, they’re hard to shake
especially with the problems surrounding this airport.”

“You don’t think you’re a bit exposed to be
making threats,” Jonathan said. “There’s plenty of material for
rumor about yourself.”