The Great Agony & Pure Laughter of the Gods (24 page)

‘Allo?’

‘Allo, Mama. It is Risto.’

He could hear her weeping with joy.

‘How are you and where are you?’

‘I am fine, Mama, I am calling from Mozambique.’

His mother couldn’t believe her ears. How had he reached Mozambique, by airplane, train, bus, ship? Who had hosted him? Her questions and worries were endless. She wanted to pray over the phone to thank God for this miracle. She had missed him so much she had become sick after he left, she confessed as she cried, and Risto cried as well.

Risto had phoned for two reasons: first to say that he was alive and well; second, to apologise for having left home without saying goodbye. He told his mother that he would have gone mad had he not left Bukavu. He was sick of the country, sick of the situation in town and in the villages; each corner and street, each house and path, each story and voice of Bukavu held phantoms that tortured him until he could stand it no longer. He promised to send letters that same month. He gave her the cell number and the postal address of the Cellphone Man, as they called the man with the phones. He could be reached after making an appointment for a call.

A month later, letters from Bukavu arrived. Although Risto phoned home regularly and spoke to the whole Mahuno family, their letters were more meaningful to him than the phone calls. Yes, their voices came with the moisture of their heart’s breath, but the letters brought them closer to him. He could feel them; he smelled them through their ink, through their writing. He could picture their faces through their handwriting; he felt their pain and touched it through the teardrops stamped on the paper. He could see how his mother sat on the chair, left hand on her chin, drafting her worries onto a piece of paper, asking what he had eaten the day before, and what he would eat the next. She sat wondering if there were other mothers who could look after her son, give him proper food, help him wash his clothes, speak to him softly when he got angry, tell him stories of her youth and so on … She sat wondering whether there was a mother there to hold her son in her arms and tell him that she loved him, that she would always be there for him. But she knew as she sat that there were none with her heart, none to give her son the love that he missed – her warm hands, her close heartbeat – and this feeling devastated her so that her tears dropped onto her letter. She couldn’t tell the story of her weakness to her son, but Risto knew …

These letters were the spirit of his family. He could see his father with his dictionary looking for the right word; he would check, then call Landu to verify if the word was the right one. They would discuss the word for a few minutes before his father wrote it down. He could see him listening to the world news on his small radio, paying more attention to Mozambican news than to Congo’s. He could see Nampula as a dot in the world atlas, but Marathan was invisible, so he would wonder if Marathan was an island in lost waters, or a land in forgotten forests. He wanted his son to have a bright future, a secure future with a degree at a recognised and respected university. While his son was in that faraway place, he was unable to provide him with that education. He thought he had failed; he couldn’t provide his son with what he had promised him, and this haunted him. He sometimes blamed himself for the situation of his son; but Risto told him never to think that way. Nobody was to blame; history and time had made things happen the way they had.

Landu’s letter focused on Risto’s ghosts. His wish to contribute to the rebuilding of Risto’s life was still in his mind, and he wanted to understand the reasons for Risto’s departure. So he had gone into his background, and had learned of Risto’s love for Néné. Landu had met a boy, Jeanvier, who had been part of Risto’s group in the forest; he had escaped from the militia in the Kahuzi-Biega National Park. Jeanvier had confirmed Risto’s account of Benny’s death; he also told him it appeared that Néné was pregnant, and the situation in the forest was still the same: abuse and killing. These stories turned Risto’s eyes into water fountains.

They say that meditation heals bruised hearts and deep wounds in the inner being. Maybe hard work in a forgotten and solitary land and in the blowing desolation of a place like Marathan glues and repairs torn-up souls. It was healing the wounds of two fragile hearts, Merci, with his rebellious scars, and Risto, with his invisible earthquakes and haunting past. Merci had never thought he would become a refugee, but his journey was triggered by his anger against his parents. His father, an ex-senior manager at the Sucrerie de Kiliba, one of the biggest sugar-producing companies of the former Zaire, became unemployed when the company went bankrupt. Merci had been used to luxury, a flashy lifestyle, expensive clothes and pocket money. Things went upside down; first his family was unable to buy him a bus ticket to school; then the school fees became a problem. This didn’t bother Merci as much as not being able to buy fashionable shoes, or snacks at lunch breaks.

He grew angrier, believing his parents hadn’t done enough to protect their good life. Soon he was rarely seen at home. He absented himself from his family’s meagre lunches and dinners. During the fragile so-called peace in Uvira, he spent his days hanging around the markets babbling with street kids and vendors. It was during this time that he narrowly escaped two kidnappings, one by the rebel movement and another by the Mai-Mai, who were forcing children to join their army. He soon realised his life was at risk.

This was when Merci stole money from his father and headed off on the journey that had led him to the refugee camp, searching for gold in the sands of Mozambique. He now cultivated tomatoes in the desert. The journey had given him wisdom, and Risto had helped him to reconcile with his parents and family. Sometimes he would break the sacred silence that reigned in their little field and ask, ‘Who taught you so much about life?’ Risto had no answer. He did not believe he knew a lot about life; he was eager instead to learn about life.

But Risto felt the unfairness; he had heard Merci’s story, but he had not shared with his friend the secrets of his own journey to Mozambique. Whenever he wanted to start telling him, his mouth went dumb and his heart sobbed.

‘My past has starving ghosts who wait for me to turn back so that they can swallow me,’ he told Merci.

‘But how can you go back in history?’ asked Merci, puzzled.

‘Not literally … but I have seen bad things, and talking about them will take me back to the horrors of that time. That is why I cannot speak about my past.’

‘Take it easy, brother … our friendship is strong, maybe it is not the right time. This will pass, believe me,’ Mercy would say, trying to comfort him.

Risto enjoyed the early Sunday church services in the camp. These took place under a giant fruitless tree of unknown name whose branches created a double ceiling for the people in the straw and mud church. The church was packed with songbird women with magical tones and velvet-voiced men with trombone tunes. There was no pain on the faces of these forgotten people buried in a land of hopeless dreams, in a forgotten pocket of time; their singing was pure happiness and joy. It carried him back home, as if he was rocking on the majestic and sleeping Lake Kivu among brave fishermen as they performed their morning chanting. He saw again the colourful waving loincloths of women as they danced and sang for beloved friends soon to be wed in Bugobe village. He saw all these images as he dreamed of Congo and experienced the reality of the Sunday service in the Marathan refugee camp.

The voices of these women and men were more coordinated than in an opera. Each one knew the power of his or her voice, its mysterious effects on the souls of those waiting for heavenly whispers. Each one knew his or her time, when and where to lead and when to hand over to the next person. Their feet were like drumsticks tapping over the wooden floor. They stepped strongly and rhythmically, clapping their hands as their heads moved in cadence. Their souls melted in spiritual enchantment, their bodies breathed in joyful vapours. A woman, travelling in time and spirit above the universe and heaven, with eyes closed, banged two metal rods together. A stinging and piercing sound arose, adding its noise to the mass choir.

The church, which had no sophisticated electronic instruments, used African handmade instruments to invite the holy fire to cleanse people’s souls. What happened next left Risto in wonder. Two women and one man came forward with tambourines made of goatskin hooked onto their hips. As the three tambourines were hit by six sweaty hands, a penetrating sound cut through the air, and the whole congregation sang hymns from a little book they had. Then the tambourines stopped and everyone burst into prayer. They prayed in unknown tongues that Risto had never heard before; some jumped up, others kneeled down as they clapped their hands; one would have thought that the holy fire had burned them.

When the prayers ended, the music became soft enough to change a rock into cream. It was a code indicating the need to remain quiet. Many people wiped away tears. Then the music stopped, and a man with a voice that was first velvet then harsh came forward with bible stories in different languages, Portuguese with French and Swahili translations. The crowd responded with hurrahs and hallelujahs. Risto thought that the Holy Spirit had descended to touch the heart of each person in the little church. The voice of the preacher whirled and the listeners followed like wind above a wave. But he was not preaching; he was giving a testimony, which left people in tears of joy this time; his entire life had been a miracle, he said.

While the man was still giving his testimony, a leader with a stinging but soft voice started a song and the whole congregation took over; the soulful dances went on. People were lost in soothing hymns, and sometimes it would be an old man with a thick deep voice who would start the singing. Everybody else would follow until the preacher would finally stand up in his beautiful suit to lead people through the stories from the bible.

Risto found the same scenes every Sunday. The pain and hardship that these people faced each new day were conquered by the celebration of faith, courage and love. Pain and suffering were ever-present in their lives. Many lived in tiny shacks, trading in any objects they could pick up, or working little fields for only a handful of vegetables. But these precious Sundays allowed them to conquer their hunger, their anger and grief at their lost inheritance, and to strengthen the dreams they carried within themselves.

Risto arrived for his second interview. The curious were already lurking. In a camp where interviews took place in absolute privacy, it was a riddle to interviewers how the following day, women in the flea market would debate the outcomes. Many believed the nightly gossip spirits of the camp told everything to Bi Maimuna, Mama
RFI
. Rumours in the camp revealed what went on behind closed curtains; night-watchers reported that two of the men who sat at the interview table had each been spotted leaving her house early in the mornings.

Bi Maimuna was already in the office when Risto showed up; she greeted him in a rush as she passed. She said she had come to ask if any letters from the United States, a country that had agreed to take her for resettlement, had arrived. There were none. She left the office; Risto stayed in the little waiting-room scanning through magazines. Ten minutes hadn’t gone by before she appeared again; this time she wanted to know if Risto’s host family were at home. Yes, everyone was there. She left. A few minutes later, there she was again, itching to hear the mystery of the boy’s history, but she had no questions left to ask.

She seemed puzzled by the four chairs and the small table that stood in the interview room, as if there should have been an extra chair for her. She smelled of an expensive floral perfume; her lips were honeyed; her loincloth was wrapped above tight trousers. She was in her seductive clothes, some people had whispered as she crossed the flea market.

‘So, you know this is your last chance, eh Risto?’ she said as she leaned closer to his ear.

Risto looked at her for a few seconds, and then went back to his magazine.

‘Are you talking today? You should trust me; I can help you with this. What don’t you want to say, what is it that your heart doesn’t wish to share? I can help, if you will tell me.’

Risto ignored Mama
RFI
.

‘We will know all, boy; don’t think there is a secret in Marathan, this is our own small country,’ she exclaimed, as she left, furious.

The interviewers started with their soft smiles, with easy questions, the news of the camp, and so on. Then they went on to ask about name, family, town and country of origin.

‘The whole camp is talking about your last harvest of tomatoes,’ said Mr Thomaso Dwanga, the only Mozambican at the interview table; he spoke a nice Swahili.

‘You know this camp talks about anything, even a rain that the heavens have not yet thought about.’

The two refugees present, Mr Rashid and Mama Lemwalu, who represented the board on camp management, were astounded by the wisdom of the young boy; they had heard about it, but now they saw it for themselves.

‘You know this is your second and last interview,’ Mr Thomaso reminded Risto.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘I believe you are ready to talk today,’ added Mr Thomaso.

‘Let me remind you, any lies will lead to rejection of your application for refugee status, and then deportation. We are here to help you formulate a good report for the United Nations. Ask questions when you don’t understand well.’ These were the wise words of Mama Lemwalu.

‘This interview will determine whether you qualify for refugee status or not; so tell us now, your reasons for leaving your country, Congo.’ It was Mr Thomaso speaking again, eyes flashing at Risto.

‘Yes … um …’

Risto felt nervous; he didn’t like it. He had come to tell all and get it done with.

‘Could I have a glass of water, please?’ he asked.

His throat was drying, talking was becoming difficult, he felt warmer. A glass rested in his hand, he coughed as he put it to his mouth, his shaking teeth were in danger of breaking the glass.