The Great Agony & Pure Laughter of the Gods (20 page)

So the dispute carried on until the security guard came to handle it. The woman was told to pay only 15 000 shilingi, the price of a normal ticket. But strangely enough, at the following train station, the owner of the ticket and his two friends got off the train and didn’t return. They had probably gone to another coach to extort a new victim.

The journey continued. Each train station became the set of a dramatic movie. The tired and sleepy bodies of the passengers would become electrified at the magical sight of the open markets at the stations: craft vendors, people frying chicken, singing and dancing boys and girls with half-naked bodies wishing travellers a peaceful journey. Passengers had to beware: sweet talkative Tanzanian youths sneaked onto coaches empty-handed and got off at the next station with heavy bags. It was most unfortunate for anyone who was a foreigner, as some of the youths had police
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. Questions would be followed by a heavy fine if the traveller had no papers. To avoid being spotted, Risto pretended to be sleepy and sick, and swallowed without a word the pain caused by a fat lady who had imposed herself between his legs. He only breathed at the stations. When the train moved on, the crowd stood singing like friends saying farewell to a bride.

The sunrise didn’t bring joy to Risto; instead, it came with thorns in its rays. His eyes were about to explode in his head. He couldn’t see properly; all he wished was to soak his entire head in icy cold water. Many of his shilingi had gone into bottles of water that he had poured over his head, but in vain. The uneven movement of the old Tanzanian train worsened his torment. By 10am, he thought he needed to write a will for his remaining money; death was close by. He was unsure if it was him who was lost in a dizzy dance, or whether he was feeling the shaking movement of the train. He asked his neighbour to be his keeper; if the worst happened, she should take him to her place. If he died, he begged her to bury him and tell his family in Bukavu. The gracious woman handed him an aspirin. The pill called death closer; his head became a burning stove.

Morning gleams confused the public lights of Morogoro. Risto realised he had lost an entire day. Through the window, he watched a seemingly confused boy of almost his age drifting around; he looked like a child lost in the jungle. He had a Congolese face, a Congolese hairstyle, and his clothes said it all. With his blazing head, Risto got off the train and approached the boy, who moved away. A greeting in the Congolese Swahili slang couldn’t buy him; Risto continued in French.

‘I am your Congolese brother; I need help, I am sick. Don’t be afraid. Please help me. My name is Risto. I am from Bukavu.’

‘My name is Merci. I am coming from Uvira.’

‘Do you stay here in Tanzania? I mean, where are you going?’

Merci stared at Risto and kept quiet.

‘I am going to Dar-es-Salaam,’ Risto said.

‘Yes, I am going there too,’ replied Merci.

It wasn’t easy to win a stranger’s trust just because one spoke his language.

‘Merci, I think it is God who wanted us to meet. You know, you are my only brother here; no one else knows me. I am very sick. I have got nerve problems and my head is about to explode. I will take the bus with you, but please don’t leave me if things get worse. You are my only brother in this strange country,’ Risto’s words came softly.

Merci nodded, then looked Risto in the eyes: ‘Since when have you been sick?’

‘Yesterday early morning.’

‘Don’t worry,’ his new friend assured Risto.

The bus left a little later that morning, with both boys on it.

Risto and Merci arrived in Dar-es-Salaam at around 11am. Neither of them had spoken a word on the bus. Omar’s deep voice echoed in Risto’s boiling head. Trust was the word he had repeated several times: ‘Never seek help from a young boy; do not trust anyone, even drivers who seem to be very friendly and helpful. Some policemen are robbers in uniforms; do not trust them either.’ This was a very difficult and strange journey, one that needed a lot of prayers and wisdom. Dares-Salaam was like hell if one didn’t have valid documents. The eyes didn’t want to see shilingi.

In Dar-es-Salaam, known by its inhabitants as Dar, the buildings confirmed the supremacy of this city as opposed to other Tanzanian towns. The traffic was intense and the vigilance of the police was tight. Risto needed some rest with a dish of pills, or maybe a quick injection, and then to carry on the journey the following day. Merci had another idea; he wanted to head south and approach the Malawian border as fast as he could. He thought he could find refuge in Malawi. He took a bus to Kariako market in Dar, leaving Risto behind, still on the main road where the bus had dropped them that morning.

Risto waited for the angel’s call; his head was on the verge of exploding – in fact, he was certain he could feel it disintegrating. Merci was his only chance of rescue, and he had gone. His only fellow countryman had left him half-dead in a foreign country. The first eye that would see him would be the early bird to take the food, the few shilingi he had on him. He crawled to a corner where an abandoned house stood, went inside the broken-down walls and lay in a corner. He took out the three remaining pills the lady in the train had given him, and gathered spit in his mouth to swallow the bitter pills. His eyes closed. His head had no room for thoughts; it shut down, waiting for death to come.

Death didn’t knock on his door that day. In his dreams, though, he saw a policeman holding out his hand, demanding a visa. Risto jumped; it was still daylight, he realised. He was back in the real world. Cars passed along the road. His head hadn’t blown away; it hurt, but to his surprise, it was slightly better. Standing over him was a silhouette against the late afternoon sunshine; it revealed the figure of a young man. It was none other than Merci. He had become confused; he lost his map of Tanzania, and he didn’t dare ask anyone in the Kariako market for directions in case he suddenly became a policeman. Any resistance would mean a visit to a police station. Policemen in uniforms were patrolling the market like the keepers of beehives.

The night in the abandoned structure seemed short, and their eyes soon found the daylight in the belly of dawn. They had learned there was a bus leaving town at 5am for Mutuara, a Tanzanian town close to the border with Mozambique. The journey took all day, and they reached Mutuara late that night.

While other travellers enjoyed the majestic beauty of the Tanzanian savannah, Risto and his friend observed silence throughout the journey, pretending to be either sick or asleep. Their great worry was how to rent a hotel room without documents. The driver, Mahamar, helped them to enter the small town and arranged a hotel room for them. They did not trust him, but they had no choice. Along the way, he had stopped for no reason and two fake policemen had entered the bus. They had checked only Risto and Merci’s documents. Ten thousand shilingi ended the mysterious police crackdown. It was Mahamar’s plan, they knew it.

The hotel receptionist wanted their passports. They put their student cards on her desk. She could not speak French, and the Mutuara accent of mixed Arabic and pure Swahili meant that any exchange could get the two boys in trouble. So they needed Mahamar’s help to exchange money and make transport arrangements to get out of Mutuara. They sent him to get some supper, and after eating, it was time for Risto’s soul-piercing sermon, his effort to move Mahamar. His heart wasn’t made of stone; Risto’s words touched him.

At dawn the next day, they were headed for the border in a pick-up truck arranged by Mahamar, after his share of ten per cent had been confirmed. They passed some men in a confusing uniform – no one could tell if they were police or soldiers, but they had firearms and scrutinised each movement in the little Muslim town. Mahamar had tipped the truck driver, so that when they reached the Ruvua River that separated Tanzania and Mozambique, he would help them cross in secret. He organised two bicycle drivers to help the boys cross the river with its majestic crocodiles, which were feared by even the bravest fishermen from the nearby villages.

Hussein was Risto’s driver, while Bengera agreed to take Merci. Hussein called his customers ‘Uncle’. ‘Uncles, you are in the right hands,’ he said.

They walked between little huts, avoiding the dirt road that led to the border post. A giant man, his skin covered with hundreds of marks, tried to start a conversation with Hussein; a few minutes later he cycled past them, heading towards the bush. The journey began once 5 000 shilingi got into the pockets of each bicycle driver. Within seconds, the jungle became a highway, as the bike drivers raced at top speed. The route led to some farms where a few women were working; the drivers stopped, and greetings followed. Then came a ten-minute walk.

At a stand of dense bush, a group of five young men loitered, as if waiting for them. The tattooed giant that had spoken to Hussein stood among them. He could have eaten a whole goat alone. An argument broke out between the youths and the bicycle drivers; the words, in mixed Swahili and Portuguese, seemed vicious. Eventually, with a regretful voice, Hussein handed Risto and Merci over to the group of five.

‘These guys will help you.’ Those were his last words before he and Bengera returned the way they had come.

Something swung on the hip of the giant, a sharp edge that scared Risto. He coughed to clear his throat: ‘Thanks for your kindness, but we have to return to Mutuara; we have forgotten something there.’

The giant gave him an intimidating look. He scratched his head and ground his teeth. Risto was not going to wait for death on his knees, but before he could utter his words, the huge man had lifted him over his shoulder and held him fast.

‘Please, let me walk alone,’ screamed Risto.

‘You are tired; I am helping you,’ said the man, beginning to run.

After thirty minutes of being carried, the boys were thrown to the ground. The river winked only metres away; a little hill separated them from it. The gang of men were looking for money, Risto knew. He could read his fate in the anger of the overflowing Ruvua; it was craving his blood. The men would take their money, butcher them, and throw their bodies in the Ruvua. Crocodiles would celebrate and thank God for giving them a free and tasty meal. They would never know it was the meat of two innocent boys running away from war in their country, looking for a place where their minds and bodies could find peace, a place where their dreams could be born and breathe once again.

This was the end of their story. No one would ever know that two innocent boys had been killed on the Tanzanian boarder of Mozambique by thugs and robbers. Risto’s mother would suffer eternal pain; she would no longer sleep nor eat, thinking that her beloved son had gone wild, left home and vanished in a soulless world. His Christian mother would fast and pray for months, arguing with God for what he had done to her. She would ask God, if her son had died, to show her his body or tomb; and if he was still alive, to tell her where he would be. But by then Risto would be part of the crocodile, and his spirit would be dwelling forever on the Ruvua River.

The mammoth took out his knife. He ground his teeth again; the other four men surrounded the boys. Risto and Merci were trapped.

‘Hand over whatever you have on you,’ hammered the giant.

‘But … we thought you were helping! The two other guys took away everything we had; I am telling you, we don’t have any more money,’ said Merci, his tears dropping.

‘I won’t repeat it again. Give the money you are hiding. Take off your clothes, boys.’

Risto’s and Merci’s bodies vibrated.

The giant cut a small branch and started shaping the edge of it with his knife. It looked half a metre long; the edges of the blade could lighten the night. He stared at Merci, who quickly stripped off his trousers. This was not enough; he was told to take off his shorts and even his underpants. Merci did this, sobbing. Then it was Risto’s turn. He took off his shoes, his trousers, then his shorts and underpants. The thieves took each piece of clothing and searched every part, carefully checking any suspicious areas.

‘Congolese have gold, diamonds and American dollars,’ the thugs murmured in Swahili. They took each cent they found; Merci was hiding some extra American dollars in pockets especially sewn in his trousers. Their underpants looked light, so the men did not waste their time in searching these. The giant man with the scars and tattoos gave two of his friends 10 000 shilingi each, threw the clothes to the two others, and walked away. Only their underpants remained on the ground. Risto hurried to put his back on, but Merci burst into tears.

‘Please, chief, please, show us a little pity. How can you leave us naked? Please, we are refugees running away from the war in Congo. Please give us our clothes and even a small amount of money for food,’ cried Merci as he followed the giant.

‘Congolese people have got diamonds, gold, dollars … you will get more, don’t worry,’ the mammoth responded.

Risto was gazing at the overflowing Ruvua River while Merci walked behind the giant man, pleading with him. He simply brandished his long, blazing knife, then yelled at him to go back, or crocodiles would breakfast on his body.

Risto’s underpants carried his last hope, a hundred dollars, hidden as if he had predicted this tragedy. He had sewed the money into the thick front spot of his underpants. As soon as they were alone in the forest, Risto inspected his underpants; his money was safe and intact. Merci’s eyes widened, wondering how that money could have escaped the scrutiny of those thugs. He took a deep breath and dried his tears.

Almost naked, the two boys walked nervously down the valley, crossing dried-out sandy streams. There were three small huts between a sandbar and the Ruvua. Risto wondered if the people who lived there were Mozambicans or Tanzanians, or whether that was their own tiny piece of country. The first person to see them was an old lady; she quickly stood up from her reed mat and went straight into her hut, ignoring their calls for help. A man who seemed to be in his late thirties came out. The boys did not understand that the old lady was avoiding them as a sign of respect. As a woman, she was not the one to deal with naked men; another man should be the one to speak to them.