The Great Agony & Pure Laughter of the Gods (8 page)

When he came closer to the tap, she ran away laughing. Risto ended up filling the containers for her.

‘It is boring in the village when you are not allowed to go to the fields. My grandparents want to spoil me; they don’t allow me to go to the fields with the others,’ she said as they made their way back.

‘Will they be friendly if I come into their compound?’ he asked, looking at the mountain-top.

‘They know you as a grandson of the village, they can’t complain.’ Néné was like a real village girl; she spoke the local language, Mashi, fluently and walked barefoot. She carried her shoes in her hand and walked with her calabash on her head; it was in perfect balance. Risto carried the drum until they reached her family’s compound.

Here, Néné offered him some mangoes and bananas. She put the fruit in a traditional creeper dish and covered them with a small cloth, a sign of respect. She also brought Risto a plastic cup of banana juice. They sat and ate together, sharing the banana drink, in a heavenly silence, sometimes nervous, with blinking eyelashes whenever their gazes met along the corridor of their shy looks. They both looked aside whenever this happened. Néné tried to hide her smile, but her dimples still showed. It was something that Risto longed for and loved to see, her smile, her dimples. Whenever she smiled, he felt a strong and mysterious current of water travel through his veins, and he always smiled back. They could have sat the whole day, looking at each other endlessly. Then came stories, like a tortoise leaving its cave in the midday sun, stories from school, from their streets back home, gossip about their friends and even their families; all these stories made them happy. They wanted to stay there, looking at each other and giggling, forever. Maybe this is destiny, each one thought in the secret chamber of their heart.

This was one of Risto’s happiest days. He had sat and gazed at someone worthy in his life, someone special to his heart. He had seen how she laughed and smiled when she looked at his face. He understood now how much she would have missed him if she had stayed in town.

The evening soon arrived. The moon shone brightly as Risto’s heart danced with happiness. He thought a lot about the next day, he meditated on the affectionate words he would whisper in Néné’s ears when they next met. He thought about love poems he had read, romantic books he had read, romantic words he had heard in movies. Impatient to see the night end, he ate quickly. In his excitement, he told Benny that he was preparing the sweetest words he would tell Néné the next day. Benny just laughed; he had the wisdom of the bush and forest, but he was illiterate about love; it had never been part of his world. Maybe one day he would see the heavenly, smiling face of a girl dying for him and understand.

That night, Risto didn’t have any trouble sleeping; the bed pampered him. The thoughts about his sweetheart were lullabies; they rocked him like a baby in a cradle. He slept in peace and happiness.

He was woken by a huge noise nearby. Then he heard a detonation.

‘Gunshots!’ said Benny in a fearful, low voice.

‘Yes, I hear,’ Risto answered, shivering.

‘Another one!’

‘Yes, I am listening,’ Risto’s ears were popping out.

He felt a hot breeze pass through his body. His heart pounded. He was in urgent need of the toilet. Both boys remained silent and still, listening. They couldn’t guess what was happening and where. They heard a noise outside; this time near their compounds; the mooing of cows and the bleating of goats amplified their fear; pigs grunted and chickens cackled; something was happening. From afar they heard whistles and drums being beaten, then screams followed; it was a code. Risto didn’t understand, but Benny, who had the village in his soul, did.

‘We have been invaded,’ he said, in a voice cold with hopelessness.

Risto’s heart beat like a drum, it was about to burst in his chest. He tried to contain his breath, but it came harder and faster than before.

‘Risto, Benny, wake up! Wake up! We have been invaded! Wake up!’ It was the voice of their grandmother at the tiny window of their hut.

‘You have to run … wake up! We are invaded! Hurry up!’ her voice repeated.

Risto put on his shirt quickly and opened the door. He was barefoot. Benny followed him.

‘Run into the fields, my children, run!’

The noise was coming closer to their compound. Now it was coming from their closest neighbour. A few shots followed. They ran in the direction of the fields.

‘Eh! Do not move! Stay where you are, or I’ll shoot you!’ A fierce, deep voice came from the fields facing them. They stood still, shivering. A man appeared in front of them. Then another one, then another, then another. It was a group of very strong men, gigantic with untidy beards, scraggly uncombed hair and ragged clothes. They held guns and machetes in their hands.

‘Go back!’ one of them ordered.

Risto’s feet couldn’t reach the ground; he was floating. He couldn’t feel his body, his heart was about to burst. They turned and walked back. On the other side of their compound, the door swung as it was kicked off and knocked to the ground. A group of people entered abruptly, while outside of the compound, the lowing of cows intensified.

‘Get out! Get out!’ ordered the strange men as they entered the huts.

‘This is our whole family, Papa; there is no one still inside,’ the grandmother pleaded.

‘Shut up!’ they told her.

The soldiers went behind the main hut and came back with ten cows and six goats. A loud boom frightened everyone.

‘Oh, my God!’ It was Benny; he had received a hard knock. He was already on the ground. One of the soldiers had hit him with the back of a gun.

‘Do you know me? How dare you stare at me like that! Are you a Mai-Mai?’ the soldier asked Benny.

‘Papa, he is not. He is still a child. Forgive him, Papa,’ the grandmother begged, almost dropping tears.

‘Carry this!’ They threw a bundle of clothes wrapped in a pagne at Risto. They belonged to his grandparents; he was being ordered to carry clothing and possessions that had been looted from his beloved grandparents. The soldiers added a dozen new pots from his grandmother’s house to his bundle. They gave Benny a ten-kilo bag of sugar, cooking oil and many other things they had taken.

‘Let’s go!’ one of the men ordered.

Risto’s grandfather begged them to leave the children. He told them to take all his cattle, everything they wanted, but to leave the boys. The soldiers refused. Grandmama ran into her house and came back with money. They took the money; then a giant shirtless man held a knife against the old man’s neck, threatening to kill him. ‘All the money,’ he demanded. The old woman ran back into the house, two soldiers following her. When they came back, having taken all the elderly couple’s savings, it was time to go.

‘Your children will come back,’ they said, as they left the compound. Risto’s grandparents followed, insisting, weeping, negotiating for the release of the boys. The shirtless soldier got irritated and threatened to shoot the old couple if they kept on following them. Risto and Benny left them standing still, tears on their grandmother’s face, her hands pointing out the bastards to God who was absent from the scene.

Risto had faith; he believed he would be back in a short while, so he did not cry. He knew that they might go very far, but he believed in Benny, who knew the forests like the back of his hand. As soon as they were released, Benny would lead the way home.

Outside the compound was yet another desperate scene. The crowd was very large. There was a long queue of young boys loaded with baggage, cattle and soldiers all around them. They followed one another like a community of ants. Risto walked behind Benny without talking; he could hardly breathe and was still floating. He heard a female voice crying out, and saw that there were young girls in the crowd that had been rounded up. He suddenly remembered what was said about the militias, that they took young girls into the forests and turned them into their wives. He felt sorry for these girls, but there was nothing to do, they had to walk.

They walked fast, without rest. A cold breeze froze their melting bodies, which were sweating from the heavy baggage and giant steps. The journey seemed to be endless, with only the moon lighting their path. They were ordered to walk silently and without talking when passing other villages. But Risto soon realised that most of the villages they were crossing were deserted. There was no smell of life in any of these villages; a daunting eeriness yawned from each house they passed. They went on walking, walking, in a long queue, the cattle following. There were no more villages to pass; no path was clear ahead of them. Their bodies were tired and torn and wept in an endless sweat of pain. Their bodies created a path through the choking creepers and thorns of the forest. They hurt Risto’s feet and bruised his back and face, but he was too afraid to cry. The soldiers’ reactions were unpredictable; he buried his tears in his heart.

They walked through the forest until near dawn. There was no rooster song, there was no human trace; it was creepy in the dark forest as they kept walking deeper into it. Risto was getting very tired. Some of the soldiers were behind with the cows, sheep and goats, others were with their captives. The soldiers had told each of the young boys to look after two animals and at the same time carry the looted luggage. The fatigue was unbearable. Eventually one boy asked for rest. They stopped. The shirtless soldier looked at the boy with contempt and spat on the ground.

‘Eh, boy! You pick up those things and keep walking!’ he said, his eyes lit like a lion’s. The boy kept crawling along. But his load was very heavy and he was very, very tired. He started groaning. He looked younger than Risto, maybe thirteen or fourteen.

‘Come … you need some rest; I will give you rest,’ the soldier said, taking the bags from the boy’s head and passing them to three other boys. Then he chased the two goats the boy had been looking after into the flock. The soldiers ordered the rest of the group to keep moving. They walked while Risto left his eyes behind. He saw the boy standing in front of the soldier. The sound of shooting hit his eardrums. As Risto looked back, he saw the boy falling down like an uprooted tree. He lay still on the ground.

Risto felt an electrical current passing through his entire body, then settling in his spine; his heart pounded faster and harder than before. In slow motion, he saw the image of his two late friends, Ombeni and Frank. Death was certain and brutal, it was coming, it was happening right in front of him, he could smell it. Maybe he would never see his grandparents or the rest of his family again. He was afraid that death was calling; he could force himself to walk for a day, but not for two. And when his strength was gone, he would be shot in the same way; his body would feed scavengers for a few days, and then he would be gone, leaving a hole in the heart of his family.

His fatigue disappeared and he walked faster. The soldier who had shot the boy caught up with them. He seemed normal. He wasn’t anxious. He didn’t talk to anyone. He went on looking after the flock without any bother. Nothing had happened, it seemed.

Bruises were burning their bodies; the members of the militia were also feeling the pain. Two of them took up their machetes to clear the way, cutting down shrubs, creepers and thorn trees. It was hard to get through the forest with baggage on their heads, each looking after two animals, barefoot in the thorns.

Risto had been scrubbed by many wild plants and carried thorns in his bare feet, but he swallowed his tears. His whole body was scratched, his legs, his hands, his face … wherever he was scratched, that body part swelled and itched painfully. He wanted a rest, but feared how it would come, and where it would leave him. He decided to walk until death found him walking and staggered on like someone with unequal legs.

They arrived at an open space in the middle of the forest. The sun showed that it was around midday; Risto could step over the head of his shadow. The place hosted a few mud huts with straw roofs and a few tents with international
NGO
names on them. There were little children and very young girls with the drawn faces of old women. They wore dirty, untidy and cheap clothes. A few soldiers were hanging around, relaxing in slippers. Risto’s whole body was sore. The captives were told to sit on the ground; they waited impatiently for their promised release, but not a word was said.

Some soldiers disappeared into small huts visible in the surroundings; they did not go with the looted luggage, but with the little girls they had brought. Suddenly a noise erupted, male voices arguing in a language that Risto couldn’t understand; it was not one of the local languages. They shouted like two dogs fiercely fighting for a bone. From nearby a giant man, dark with an untidy long beard and uncombed hair like the rest, appeared with three armed soldiers. He seemed to be a chief, as the two quarrelling men fell silent as soon as he spoke.

‘What is your problem?’ he asked with authority.

‘I came with my wife, now he says she is his. It is my sweat that gave her to me,’ the tall one explained to the chief.

‘No! Last time I gave him the wife that I got in the Gabale village. I had three. We agreed that the next time he got a wife, she would be mine for one week. Now he refuses to give me the girl he got today,’ said the shorter one.

‘Where is the girl?’ asked the chief.

‘In my hut,’ said the taller soldier.

‘Bring her here.’

Two of the chief’s men went to fetch the girl.

‘Do you have a wife?’ the chief asked the taller man.

‘Yes, I do. But last time, when I came with three, I gave him one.’

‘No! The one he gave me didn’t come back when she went to fetch water.’

‘Okay, what you have to do is this: as your friend doesn’t have a wife, you give him this one. He has to pay you. Next time, he has to do his best to find you one.’

The tall soldier left muttering to himself. The two soldiers who had gone to fetch the girl came back with her.

It was Néné. She was to be exchanged like a cheap piece of goods.