Displaced (2 page)

“Wa Mukadi, Wa Mukadi” Omar was running down
the unpaved track to the house, his flip flops clapping against his
heels. “The soldiers came and they took Mr. Negusse.”

****

When Mukadi entered the house, Nicole had
made it to the couch. She was curled up in the fetal position with
her back to the room. On the floor among the broken furniture and
smears of blood lay her mother, her face unrecognizable in concave
having been collapsed inside of itself by a rifle butt.

“I’m so sorry darling, I’m sorry for all of
this” he tried to console Nicole and she convulsed with sobs. “I’ll
take care of you now, we’ll get you away from here. I promise.” He
promised and not for the first time, for he had made similar
promises to others before. His wife hadn’t waited for fulfillment
but had taken matters into her own hands.

****

Jonathan LeClerc’s job normally shielded him
from the worst banality of overseas development work. As a freight
forwarder for the World Food Program, his role was straight
forward, he made sure shipments of aid transited the airport in
Entebbe, on their way to Goma and Eastern Congo. He hadn’t managed
to exclude himself from this particular seminar, however, and he
sat with other aid workers at a long conference table in the World
Bank offices in Kampala, Uganda, looking at his watch under the
table as a participant described a rights based approach to
development that used synergies between stakeholders and local
governments to promote the economic security of persons in rural
communities. He didn’t wince or roll his eyes when two volunteers
acted out the approach with one person petitioning his local
official for funds to build a well. By outside appearances, he
appeared alert and engaged despite the deep skepticism he harbored
for the usual development rhetoric. Attendance was mandatory, and
at such gatherings topical pieties are observed and he was
unwilling to play the apostate.

By his reckoning, corruption hadn’t abated
from any World Bank program. Most noticeable to him were the new
Mercedes outside the government ministries when the World Bank
checks came through. Corruption and poverty were healthy in east
Africa and no poverty eradication white paper would change that.
And yet, with his skepticism firmly in place, change was happening.
Incomes were rising as was the Kampala skyline whether he wanted to
acknowledge it or not.

Jonathan was glad to be outside and heading
across the rutted parking lot to his used Toyota pickup. The
previous owner, an officer with the Swedish Embassy, had let it go
for one million Ugandan shillings or about $1,800.00 US. The car
suited him, slightly worn, not remarkable but dependable. In his
early thirties with average looks, Jonathan’s most notable feature
was the mass of straight dark black hair affixed to his head.

“Hey Jonathan, let me guess back to Entebbe.”
The voice came over his shoulder and was immediately recognizable.
Kampala was a small town for expatriates and Karen worked for
DANIDA, the Danish aid agency. Thin with brown hair, she smiled at
him as he turned to face her.

“That’s right, back to the airport.”

“So how’s work,” she asked.

“The freight comes in and freight goes out”
he said in reply. “You know how it is.”

“Right, okay, well I’ll let you get back to
that.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it”

“We’ll see you this evening at
Ougadougou?”

“I wouldn’t miss it” he said as she smiled
and turned to go. He waived and turned and opened the door to the
Toyota which creaked with rust before placing his key in the
ignition and turning over the engine which whirred under the hood.
In first gear, the transmission gave a short high pitched squeal,
or was it the wheel joints, as the car became animate and moved off
across the parking lot, through the congestion of Kampala, and
finally the road out of town toward Entebbe.

When Jonathan arrived at the airport, Ronald
Kasozi was standing in the shade to one side of the freight office.
Chubby and expressive with a round face in constant motion, Ronald
was the counterpart to his partner’s reserve. His white teeth
flashed across the smooth brownness of his face when he talked,
which he did often.

“I do not know why they let them fly that
plane in here?” he said gesturing toward a small Antonov turboprop
plane with Butemba Airline markings that taxied toward the main
strip in the opposite direction.

“Maybe it’s a special flight, you know,
special clearance,” Jonathan replied obliquely.

“I know it’s a special flight, they’re all
special flights, that’s the problem,” Ronald protested.

Jonathan looked off over the taxiway and
didn’t question the legitimacy of the Antonov 26 that labored for
takeoff overloaded and bound for Goma. A Butemba airlines flight
not recorded with the Civil Aviation Authority of Uganda, and
registered with the aircraft registry of the Democratic Republic of
the Congo with a duplicate registration number assigned to multiple
aircraft. The Antonov, with a crew wet leased out of Khartoum and
invalid certificate of air worthiness, gained speed and then took
off into the bright blue sky. Jonathan watched and then turned and
looked at Ronald with a shrug of his shoulders.

“That’s all you have to say” Ronald said in
response. “Most enlightening, as always a great source of
information – I can’t tell you how comforted I am.”

Jonathan grinned at Ronald’s theatrics.

It was near impossible to be involved in air
transport to Eastern Congo and not be touched by smuggling and
bribery in some form. Jonathan considered it part of the territory.
It was a cost of doing business and he was willing to make
allowances. He looked the other way when the Pakistani logistician
for the UN peacekeeping mission asked to include a pallet of
material for Mongbwale or Goma. They were, after all, on the same
side and the food aid he was responsible for still got through. He
never questioned the occasional favor or gift that found its way to
him. Ronald knew that Jonathan did business under the table but
tolerated his indiscretions provided they weren’t overt and he was
left out of it.

Jonathan mostly traded in the currency of
favors. When he needed flight or loading priority, he usually got
it. Space in the customs warehouse or no problems with customs
clearance, he could get that as well. This was the grease that made
the operation run and he prided himself on his ability to get
things done. Over time, however, he had become more enmeshed and
breaking the rules had become routine. Others had become dependent
on his willingness to cut corners and he had received payments in
return for his flexibility. Not directly, but sometimes in the form
of visas that he could sell to a Ugandan national in Kampala who
ran a foreign exchange. Sometimes in the form of small stones that
were presented to him like souvenirs, tokens for his consideration.
He didn’t really need the money but it became a way of doing
business. A way of doing business that made him increasingly
uncomfortable. Now that he was in it, he didn’t know how to get
out, but knew that he had to.

Jonathan walked from the office at the end of
the terminal across the back of the terminal and onto the tarmac.
The day was cloudless and warm and the black top was heating up in
the afternoon sun. He waved at a short Pakistani man dressed in a
khaki uniform.

“Mr. Singh how are you today?’

“Good Jonathan good, it is good to see
you.”

“Likewise, good to see you.”

“I’m glad I ran into you. I need to talk to
you.”

“What can I do for you?” He asked Gurpatwant
Singh, a Major in the Pakistani Army, who could have appeared in a
Rudyard Kipling novel with a moustache and red beret that he kept
folded and tucked under his left epaulet.

When they first met, Major Singh had also
asked Jonathan for a favor. “It is a small thing,” he’d explained
originally. “You are still doing your job” and “we are on the same
side.” So Jonathan acquiesced when Singh had asked to put some
additional supplies on a flight to Goma because the UN peacekeeping
mission needed additional foodstuffs. Over time the relationship
deepened and the Major offered to pay him for the trouble. “Go
ahead Jonathan, its paper money, money saved out of the budget for
transport,” as if this somehow distinguished it from other money.
Always a rationale, always the façade of legitimacy and Major
Singh’s soothing calm, reassuring that it was proper, part of the
mandate.

And what of the bullet proof vests by way of
Kigali and then Arusha? The ones with the misspelled designation
“Rwandan Defence Force.” They weren’t UN issue. “Not to worry we
work for the UN, we take what we can get. But for your trouble, I
know this is not part of your regular job.” His regular job was
delivering food to the displaced people outside of Goma and in
North Kivu, not delivering supplies to combatants. But not
combatants, UN peacekeepers, and don’t mind the additional crates
with the mishandled bills of lading and Chinese markings.

And again today, the Major asked for
transport. “Jonathan, I’m wondering if you have any room on your
flight this evening, the one to Mongbwalu.”

“I think we might have a bit of space, let me
check my manifest and get back to you.”

“Thank you Jonathan – just a little space –
just some supplies – a big help.”

“Not a problem, I’ll get back to you.”

Jonathan continued across the edge of the
tarmac toward a pair of two ton trucks and the staging area at one
end of the hangar. Later that same afternoon, he found some space
in the Illuyshin bound for Ituri. He watched as the loadmaster
loaded two crates, with bills of lading checked for various office
supplies with port of origin in the United Arab Emirates but not
entered through Ugandan customs, into the belly of the plane among
the boxes of formula.

In the early evening, Jonathan drove alone on
the road back to Kampala. He drove fast, the way everyone in Uganda
did. Weaving around minivans filled with passengers as they picked
up and dropped off commuters at the end of the day. The roadside
contained stalls, beauty salons and small markets, many with names
in broken English appropriated from western franchises. The road
was mostly smooth with occasional patches of potholes filled with
red clay and it was open for most of the journey. It jammed as he
approached the roundabout at the southern end of Kampala. A mass of
humans headed to the taxi park, private cars, white Toyotas, with
mopeds for hire weaving in and out. He forced his way through,
relying on his horn, to the drive bordered by the golf course that
bounded downtown Kampala to the west and the suburbs on the east.
He turned right and drove up Acacia drive through Kilolo, an
upscale neighborhood, home to the better restaurants, diplomatic
residences, and many expatriates. He drove up the hill and arrived
at a strip mall in the shape of an L with a rectangular parking lot
in its angle known as Kismenti.

He parked and walked across the street to a
high posted wooden structure. The main entrance was only partially
enclosed and provided the option of an art gallery on the first
floor and stairs leading up. Jonathan took the stairs that opened
up to the second floor, a large room with a sloped thatched roof
that also served as a ceiling. On the opposite side from the
stairway was the bar which lined one of the three walls that made
Ougadougou, the fourth opened to the outside and incorporated a
large deck. The bar was an expatriate hangout in Kisementi with a
mixed crowd. Jonathan recognized many of the faces and he sat down
at a table next to Anne, a brown young woman who greeted him with a
sarcastic smile.

“Hello Mr. Jonathan”

“Ms. Anne, so nice to see you.”

“You know Jonathan…,” she started.

“No” he interrupted shaking his head, “I
don’t know, I’m hoping you’re going to tell me”

“You know” she started again with a wider
smile “I think you can afford to get your laundry done”

“Hmm, I get it, you’re suggesting there is
something wrong with the way I’m dressed.”

“Uh well, your shirt is wrinkled, and what’s
this?” she asked pointing to a black grease stain on his pants.

Gaddy an Ethiopian American, and one of the
three Americans in the group the others being a Jewish American and
a Wisconsin American, interrupted. “You’d think he’d have more
class,” he offered to Anne. “Really man, you got a good job, you
can hire someone to do your laundry.”

“Well first of all thank you for addressing
me as a ‘man’ okay ‘man’” Jonathan responded affecting a superior
air, clothing be damned. “And secondly, my laundry is fine.”

Chris, the Wisconsin American, bought a
bottle of Waragi for the table, which he mixed in glasses with
bottles of Krest ordered from the bar.

“I saw some UN guys in town yesterday,” he
said, “they had some nice shirts and jackets with the UN insignia.
You should get yourself some UN apparel.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s for official use
only” Jonathan responded. “I love these Americans” he said to Anne
“they treat everything like it’s a gift shop.”

“Speaking of Americans where’s Mike?”

“I don’t know, he almost didn’t make it home
last weekend” explained Gaddy.

“We went to Kigali and he didn’t have a
return visa for getting back into Uganda.”

“Well, then how did he get back in.”

“They let him back in.”

“I figured that much.”

“They made him get off the bus and the guy
there at the border, the border patrol officer or whatever he was
just gave him a talking to and then they let him back on the bus.
But seriously man, you can’t go out to the clubs in that outfit,
look at your boots, you look like you’ve been walking through a tar
pit”

Jonathan looked at his boots which had
suffered from recent asphalt work at the airport. “Again I want to
thank you for addressing me as man” he said “and no I’m not going
out to clubs tonight, I need some sleep. Hey Addie” he said wanting
to change the subject and tiring of talking about his clothes,
“I’ve got a question for you.”