The Great Agony & Pure Laughter of the Gods (17 page)

But even worse, they would understand that he had killed people in the forest, and that their blood was now following him. They would believe that the spirits of his victims were now hunting him. His own family would no longer consider him a human being, but a devil, one that had killed and raped innocent people. Society would reject him; he would die of loneliness and depression. No, he couldn’t risk telling those stories to anyone, not even Landu. Better to suffer alone, and if one day these tormenting spirits decided to take him with them, then he would go, but he would plead his innocence to their chiefs. He had never intended to kill or hurt anyone. He had done what he needed to in order to survive.

He heard someone knock at the door of the house. The voice was familiar; it was the mother of Néné, Mama Néné, as they called her. He didn’t want to see her. Every time she visited, she asked about her daughter, and Risto knew she had come for that again. She awakened the dead for him, making him weep, and leaving him in dreadful fear of the night. He pitied her, but what could he do? He didn’t have any news from the forest. He hated it when she looked at him as if she was waiting for him to do something, to somehow free her daughter. She continued asking questions about the health of her daughter, and her life in the Kahuzi-Biega National Park, like someone who didn’t know what the militias did to women and girls. And after she finally left, he would remember life in the forest, the tortures, the killings, the looting and the fighting, and would go almost mad. She had come again to make him cry, so he pretended to be asleep when he was called.

Later, Risto came out of his room at the time for evening prayer, also a time for family counselling. Zaina told him that Mama Néné had come to see him, and he pretended to be sorry to have missed her.

His father looked at him across the table that separated them.

‘So, Risto, what do you want to do with your life now that you are home safe?’

Risto had been waiting for this question; he was still unsure of his answer.

‘I am still thinking about it …’

His father’s eyes narrowed.

‘I am thinking of going back to school … becoming a mechanic.’

His father smiled. Studies meant everything to Risto’s father. He would be happy to starve as long as he could pay school fees for his children.

‘Studies should be the first plan of a man of this century. A man who didn’t go to school is worth nothing these days,’ Mahuno told his son.

He was not angry about Risto’s choice, but it surprised him nevertheless. Mechanics didn’t make a lot of money. Nobody in their family had ever practiced that profession. Why not just go back to a normal school? his father wondered.

‘I just want to acquire some professional skills.’

‘Then you should start as soon as possible.’

His father didn’t ask much more, but he wanted to take swift action. He knew this was the only way to redeem his son, to give him a fresh image and take away the bad reputation that people had painted on him.

Mahuno now revealed a truth that Risto had not known. He had paid a large sum of money to the commander of the army controlling the town of Bukavu so that the rebel movement would allow his son to live in peace. He had taken the money from his savings, and Papa François had also contributed. Without this ransom, Risto would have been targeted. The rebel movement wanted new soldiers, but no one in town wanted to join. So whoever was suspected of having worked with the militias or the national army, or was thought to be a deserter, was forced to join the rebel army or beaten to death. Risto’s father had paid for his son’s peace and freedom with almost all his savings.

But this did not mean Risto was free forever; he could easily be taken again if the current commander was replaced, so he had to make a move that would disguise him from the rebel movement, and so far, studies were the best way. Mahuno further advised his son to choose his friends carefully. If he was seen with someone who had a bad reputation, his history would come out, and he would be taken as someone who was a danger to society. In any armed robbery, he would be considered a suspect, as he was the only boy in their street who was known to have been a soldier. Studies were the only thing that could redeem Risto’s position in society, said his father.

Risto kept his eyes turned down. His father promised to go with him to register at the school the next day.

The school was named
CFP
, which stood for Centre de Formation Professionnelle. It was an old building with many coats of faded paint. If people had competed to guess the name of the colour of the building, none of them would have won. It was located among dozens of state buildings that had been rented to private businesses. The local authority was almost non-existent; everyone who had a little power did what he wanted in order to get a bit of money, and many took over the state buildings.

CFP
was run by a well-known mechanic, Donas Bafwa. He rented the building and taught at the school as well. He owned a couple of car repair shops in Bukavu. His reputation was growing, even in the neighbouring countries of Rwanda and Burundi. Donas was a rich man who drove an old car whose carcass was almost at the end of its life. He hadn’t bought that car. Someone had come to him with two old and broken cars. These cars had toured all the repair shops in Bukavu, and no one had been able to get them back on the road. Then they reached the hands of Donas Bafwa. He made a deal: if he could get one of the cars working again, then he would take the other one to settle the bill. He worked without rest for a week, and got both cars running again. He never bought another car; he loved his old renovated car. He was also known for renovating a big boat with his own hands and the help of his students. He had taken the engine of a car and put it into the battered old boat, which could be seen down at Lake Kivu.

Bukavu was a place where stories moved faster than the wind. In less than a week, the whole centre sang the chorus about the militia boy who had enrolled at
CFP
to become a mechanic. Curious people came into Risto’s class; they would stare at him for a couple of minutes before leaving. In every corner they spoke about the boy who had been a soldier, the one who had been with the foreign militia in the Kahuzi-Biega National Park for eight months. They told stories that Risto didn’t understand or recognise. Someone even testified that he had ended up in hospital after a battle. He was headline news.

The same story was being told on the streets. As Risto passed by, people peeped through their windows, then spoke behind his back. Little children looked at him, then whispered in each other’s ears; sometimes they even ran away. He was an alien in his own society.

He lived in daily fear of an eyewitness from Birava village coming to town and recognising him. Surely he would tell everyone what tortures Risto had carried out there. How would Risto be considered then? Without a doubt, his neighbours would wait for him in the street with sticks and stones. They would forget the honour and respect they gave to his parents and family; they would come to his home at night and drag him out; they would tell him to confess all the criminal acts he had committed. He would plead innocent, but they would burn tyres, chant songs, and in the end, they would beat him or stone him to death.

He had already spent two months in Bukavu, and those two months had turned his face into that of an alien zombie in a human society. After two weeks at
CFP
, it was worse than ever. He hated to see people gazing at him, knowing that as he passed, they were talking about him. If he had escaped death in the jungle, why wouldn’t they give him peace in their streets? He had hoped that people would grow bored with gossiping about it, but each day the news spread further; new people would hurry to see the militia boy with their own eyes.

During the day, he was unwelcome among his own people, and during the dark of the night, he was hunted by the spirits of those he had hurt. Smiles were scarce on his face, and when he did smile, it was just to please his family, while inside his heart ached. He wished there was a hole where he could hide.

He found one place of peace. A place restricted to only a few people, a place that took people who had a rough history, a place that the society hated. This was the Ambassade house near the Major Vangu monument, in Essence Street. It was well known for noise, fighting and overcrowding. It was a brick house with small rooms where people smoked cannabis. The house was supposed to be a shop; a few basic things were sold from one big window facing the street. The rooms inside were for the smokers and no one else. The people here called cannabis ‘aspirin’. A newcomer had to be accompanied by someone known to the house and had to use the word ‘aspirin’.

After a long day of smoking, Risto used to leave the Ambassade for the Ruzizi River, where he would sit on the banks, his legs floating in the water. Sometimes he went to the lake and stayed there till late. He would come home with a packet of weed, which he smoked to help him fall asleep, to chase away all the evil spirits that hunted him. This was the advice of others at the Ambassade. They said that spirits were afraid of the smell of cannabis, so whoever smoked it had some protection.

Risto hated the Ambassade; he hated the men who hung around in its dark rooms, swearing as they smoked and praised the drug. Many of them were people with bad reputations: troublemakers, street kids, even gang members and criminals. Many of them had dropped out of school, and rejected their families. He smoked with them, but he was not one of them. They knew this and were afraid of him, the militia boy who had fought in the jungle.

Risto belonged nowhere. He could not even go back to Bugobe; the peace of the village had been destroyed for him. How could he face his grandparents and other members of Benny’s family? How could he answer their questions, see their tears? He was sure that people in the village knew of his presence in the town. What must they think of him, he, the beloved grandchild and cousin, who could not even come to report on his cousin? How ungrateful they must think him. He felt guilty of cowardice and betrayal, and this tormented him. Worse, what if one day they came to see him, to ask him about Benny, to request a detailed account of their journey in the jungle? This idea terrified him.

The world map lay on his bed, along with a few magazines and newspapers. He unfolded the map of Africa, looking at the neighbouring countries. Rwanda was the nearest to where he lived; he could even get there on foot. It wasn’t safe, though, because of the political turmoil, and there were no refugee camps in Rwanda. Burundi was the next closest, but it was yet another country in turmoil. Every day people were killed there by militias and armed groups. Uganda was a bit far; to reach it, he would have to pass through the North Kivu province and its main town Goma and then take a dangerous road where militias looted, raped and killed almost at will. Sudan was very far and had been at war so many times. Central Africa, Congo-Brazzaville and Angola were also very far away. He could go to Zambia, but the journey would need a lot of money. It was a long way to the Kasumbalesa border post, and they spoke English there, a language he didn’t know.

He chose Tanzania instead. Tanzania, yes; it was peaceful and it had refugee camps. They spoke Swahili there, even though it was a bit different from his. The way to Tanzania seemed easier. He could take a bus from Essence bus stop, near the monument, to Uvira in the south. From Uvira he would have to take a boat or a ferry to Tanzania, and from there he could get to a refugee camp. There were other Congolese refugees in Tanzania; he would find a place to stay. Risto had made up his mind. He asked his father for the full school fees for the term, saying that they were obliged to pay before the end of the week. Then he waited. Risto woke at 4am after a long and almost sleepless night. As usual, his lights were on. He sat on the small chair in his room and leaned on the table with a pen in his hands. He scratched on a piece of paper.

He cried like a child as he wrote. He covered his mouth with his hands whenever his voice mounted. The pages before him were wet with tears. He was sad, and his sadness intensified as the day broke. He was leaving that same day; he was leaving behind his home, his family, love and heart. He was going naked; without father or mother, brother or sister, he was going into the unknown.

Risto had 200 American dollars hidden in his underwear. He bought a bus ticket to Uvira, in South Kivu, which lay next to the borders with Tanzania and Burundi. He decided to travel the road that passed through Rwanda, and then come back to the Congo through Kamaniola. The roads in the Kivu were not safe, especially the direct one from Bukavu to Uvira. People lost their lives there on a daily basis in hijackings, lootings, robberies or in crossfire between different militia gangs. He had bought a loaf of bread in a plastic bag, his only luggage. He didn’t want to look like someone who was travelling. He carried only his student card from the
CFP
. He didn’t want to talk, and decided to act like someone who was sleepy. The bus began to move.