Radiance of Tomorrow (7 page)

When the girls returned from the river, they helped to serve the food: country rice with chicken, fish stew with onions, and eggplant cooked in coconut oil with hot pepper and spices. While the food was being spread out on large plates, Bockarie boasted, “My wife’s cooking is so good that when you smell it, you start thinking of stealing the pot for yourself, running with it into the bushes, and eating until your stomach is as tight as a drum.” They all laughed, the smell of the stew now stronger; they could taste it. The first plate was placed in the circle of the men, and they called on the boys to join them. Mama Kadie left her friends to sit and eat with Kula and the girls, who had their own plate of food. The feasting began. The adult men fed Maada, taking turns shoving rice and pieces of meat in his mouth. The boy was content sitting on the ground against his father’s leg. Hawa ate using her right hand, as did everyone else, and was assisted only when she wanted water.

By the time they finished, the sun had successfully hidden itself from the eyes of the sky and put out its fire. They decided to move to the town’s square, the adults walking slowly while the children ran ahead, hiding behind houses and jumping out with noises to scare one another on the way.

*   *   *

The light from the fire painted the dark shadows of everyone on the walls of the houses behind them. The young people weren’t as plentiful, and some sat reluctantly by the fire. The eager ones were the generation of Oumu and Thomas, who had heard of moments such as this from their parents, and some exceptional ones like Hawa and Maada, who, despite what they had endured, had a joy within them that such a tradition sparked even more. The other few, who had arrived in town without parents and roamed about, helping here and there to get some food, sat by themselves. They listened to the story with one ear focused on the gathering and the other on guard. Colonel and his brothers and sister were among this group. He had gathered every young and parentless individual in town to fetch wood and prepare the fire. During that work he had also told them it was their duty to make sure that things went smoothly, to prevent any outside intrusion, and had assigned each a position and task for the night.

No matter who was present, and why, the entire town had come to hear a story from Mama Kadie and from whoever else would be moved to tell. This was the tradition—the elders, mostly women, would tell a story, and other elders would join in afterward. Some nights it would go on until even children were called upon to retell stories they had heard. Tonight, Mama Kadie stood up inside the circle and walked around the fire as she told the story, adjusting the wood every so often to make the fire brighter or duller depending on the mood of the tale. Some of the boys who had sat away gradually came closer.

“Story, story, what should I do with you?” she had shouted, the call for the teller to start, and the audience responded, “Please tell it to us, so we can pass it to others.” She went on a number of times until everyone was asking to be told the story.

“Once upon a time, when the world had a common voice for all things on the surface of the earth and beyond, the chief of the humans, a woman, was a dear friend of the god of the water spirits. She would go to the river very early in the morning to have a conversation with her friend, who emerged from the river in different forms and sat on the banks with her. Sometimes she came as a beautiful woman, as half fish, half human; other times she came as a muscular, handsome man. All these forms were what the human chief had committed to her mind and thought about before their meeting. They talked about their worlds and the need to maintain the purity of the river, which was the source of life for both their peoples.

“In those days, no one drowned in rivers, as the water spirits aided everyone who swam in them. The humans were required to stay away from the river only at midnight for a few hours so that the water spirits could perform their bathing ceremonies uninterrupted. The relationship went on for centuries until one night a callous young man, who had arrived very late on the other side of the river, decided he must cross into town immediately even though he’d been warned to wait just a few hours. As he rowed the canoe across, he frightened the water spirits; some of them hid and others transformed into strong currents because of the shock. He struggled to row against the currents, and one of the water spirits, in the form of a beautiful girl, decided to aid him. She made herself visible and guided his canoe to shore. The young human and water spirit fell in love and started meeting each other to swim when no one else was around.

“One night while they were playing together in the river, the young man, not listening to the girl, went to a deep, turbulent area of the river and drowned. This brought about distrust between the humans and the water spirits. Before the chiefs on either side could speak about what had happened, the man’s father, a hunter with too much temper, had already killed one of the water spirits with his arrow.”

“Did the hunter have guns or just arrows? He could do more with guns and grenades that he could just shoot or throw in the water and kill all the water spirits,” a young man interrupted, with eyes redder than the flames and memories of the recent past in his imagination. He called himself Miller. Colonel had not noticed this young man before and made a mental note to find him the next day. Mama Kadie walked over and sat next to him and told the rest of the story as if only for him.

She told of how in those days there were no guns or grenades, of how a small misunderstanding had changed the relationship between the humans and the water spirits, and how the act of one person whose heart had been quickly consumed by negative fire had caused the water spirits to hide from humans forever. So every now and then when a human laid eyes on any water spirit, it would try to protect itself by drowning that human, especially adults whose minds would conjure only the worst image of the water spirits. It was only children whom they did not attack, except in rare circumstances, for the water spirits still saw them as the only pure humans.

It was an important point that needed to be made about the nature of distrust and how it can spiral into violence. It was also a story to reassure some of the younger ones that their innocence was not to be feared any longer, as it had come to be during the time of the war. Sometimes a story does not make immediate sense—one has to listen and keep it in one’s heart, in one’s blood, until the day it will become useful.

The sighs of relief from the children filled the night when they heard that they were exempted from harm. The muscles of the night shook with a slight wind, rejoicing as they received these innocent sighs once again.

The last story, told by Pa Kainesi, brought about tremendous laughter in the crowd, something none had done in a while. He began:

“There was a man who always complained about his condition and was unhappy with every aspect of his life, especially about his only pair of trousers, which had holes in them everywhere. Parts of his flesh could be seen through the trousers, so it looked from afar as though he had on checkered pants. When he got closer, you could not help but laugh at the natural beautification of his trousers. Soon all the young people whose pants had holes in them were referring to it as a new style, ‘skin to cloth.’

“The tailor in town was of course unhappy about this and blamed the man with the holes in his trousers for ruining his business. No one came to get things mended anymore; natural beautification had taken over. The tailor followed the man everywhere, waiting for the perfect time to steal and destroy his trousers. Late one afternoon, after the man had returned from his farm, he decided to bathe in the river. He took off his trousers and carefully washed them. Then he laid them on the grasses to dry and went into the river. He submerged himself in the water to get a nice soak. The tailor, who had been hiding in the bushes, decided this was his chance, but as he was preparing to move toward the trousers, another man came out of the bushes, took the trousers, and disappeared. When the man came out of the river, he couldn’t believe his pants were missing. He called out, ‘If this is some kind of a joke from gods or any human, I am not laughing.’ He waited awhile, but no response. Then he saw the footprints of the thief and began laughing so hard he fell into the water and struggled to pull himself out, still laughing. He said, ‘There must be somebody worse off than I am, and if so, please enjoy whatever is left of my trousers. Thank you God and gods for not making me the poorest of men.’ He danced in the grasses while the tailor watched, still not happy because he knew the thief would use the trousers. He wanted them destroyed.

“When the man walked down the path toward town, the tailor rose from hiding. He thought he should clean and cool himself off. He took off his clothes and dove into the river. The naked man heard the sound of the water and ran back, thinking he could see who had stolen from him. He saw no one, only some fresh new clothes: long pants and a shirt. He looked around, but the tailor was deep under the water, enjoying its coolness—even the top of the river had calmed. The man danced as he wore the new clothes, thinking that this was a wonderful day.

“When the tailor came up for air, he noticed that he had nothing to wear. It was a strange thing to see a naked tailor running through town.”

The gathering was in a fit of laughter. Colonel, Ernest, and Miller were the only ones to whom laughter didn’t succeed in introducing herself. Ernest’s eyes searched for Sila and his children. Watching their happy mood brought a stroke of peace in his heart. Colonel looked around to see whether he could determine who the thief had been. Miller had witnessed too many hardships to think about stories, to feel the functions of them. He got up and walked away, as though the laughter was tormenting him.

The children of Oumu’s generation laughed purely and repeated the funniest lines to one another. The adults laughed even more because they knew the story was true. The tailor was among them and the checkered-trousers man was there, too. But who was the trouser thief? No one admitted it, as usually things are mended at such gatherings.

After the laughter died down, the adults and elders formed their own circle, leaving the children to themselves to talk about the stories. The adults and elders started a serious conversation about godliness. The imam and the pastor agreed that all human beings embody God within them.

“Then how do you explain what happened during the war?” someone asked. There was no answer for a while, and then Pa Moiwa spoke. “When we are suffering so much, I believe whatever godliness that is within us departs temporarily. During the war and all that it brought about, we as a people of this land chipped away at the embodiment of God within us and all the traces of goodness that were left after God departed. And now there are many who are empty vessels and therefore can easily be filled with anything. I think stories and the old ways will bring them in contact with life, with living, and with godliness again. Of course, these aren’t the only things. There are practical measures that must be taken.”

There was silence among them, but the children were playing games, laughing and clapping.

If God could be anywhere, this was where he or she was tonight.

No one could have anticipated that this was the last of such gatherings. The elders would have told other stories if they could have seen the strange changes that were in the wind of time. But at such beginnings, it was too early to hope for more; they had hoped only for incremental changes and reintroductions of old ways. They couldn’t think too far into the future.

Oumu didn’t go home with her family that night. Instead she went with Mama Kadie and the two of them stayed up late into the night sitting around a small fire, their hands stretched out to receive its warmth. Mama Kadie told Oumu many stories until her voice became a whisper as the silence of the night deepened. She went on until Oumu’s eyes said she needed no more. It was the beginning of such gatherings for them and it continued for many other nights. Mama Kadie would sometimes ask Oumu to retell stories she had told her. The little girl would do so in a voice that was not of her age. Mama Kadie would smile, knowing that each story had found a newer vessel and would live on.

4

WAITING CAST A SPELL OVER EVERYONE
in Imperi, and it ended when they found something to do. It wasn’t necessarily something life changing, but anything that brought about a routine that promised possibilities. Those who found nothing either left for other towns in search of employment or sat around, restless and irritable with everyone and everything.

Since the first day that Mama Kadie’s feet landed in Imperi, the town had begun shedding its image of war, starting with its physical appearance. Now, a year later, it was difficult to see that most of the houses had been bullet-ridden or burnt. Everyone had done their best to change the condition of their houses so they regained their vibrancy with yellow, white, gray, green, and black paint. Those who didn’t have paint plastered their homes with fresh brown and red mud.

The sounds, too, had changed, from hesitant winds and deep silences to the voices of children playing games, chasing one another, or playing in the river. The population had grown, but everyone still knew pretty much everyone else. Nearby towns and villages had also come to life, so the elders sometimes visited friends and vice versa. They would sit together eating cola nuts and discuss the old days when they were children and walking on the path was a pleasurable discovery. You would hear a man working on his farm, whistling tunes so beautifully that he put the birds to shame. Women and girls sang sweet melodies as they fished with nets in the river; farmers would lay out fresh cucumbers on the path for those going by to take a few and eat. Such things had returned during the latter part of the first year of Imperi’s revival.

There were only a few unexpected occurrences. Some bulldozers came humming into town, clearing the roads that had been dead for years. Men in suits that made their foreheads sweat too much came with an air of self-importance to discuss the reopening of the only secondary school in the area. They had a meeting by the roadside, standing and squatting around documents they laid on the earth and held down with stones. They couldn’t go into the school because it was still overgrown. But they decided that the campus would be cleaned and the school reopened even though it was far from town. A few weeks later, the school was functioning again, although no major repair had been done. The old bodies of the buildings were painted to make them look new. There was no ceremony for the reopening. A short, very dark jovial fellow with a round flattened head like a tadpole and red eyes and glasses stood at the junction on the road, handing out flyers. The incentive was printed in bold, while the words he feared would scare people off were faint and diminished in size. YOU WILL ONLY BE ASKED TO
PAY
YOUR CHILD’S
SCHOOL FEES
AT THE END OF THE FIRST SEMESTER. That same fellow had come to Bockarie’s house two days after the school was declared opened. There were no students yet.