The Great Agony & Pure Laughter of the Gods (27 page)

Néné was finally left in the hands of a senior nurse at Birava clinic. This woman could not stop the bleeding either, and feared the girl was dying, so she sent Néné to the hospital in Bukavu town. And so the girl finally came home, carrying shame in her womb.

Here people did not seem to see the pain she had endured, or the suffering her mother had experienced. They gossiped about them with hypocritical and scornful mouths, until she and her mother could stand it no longer; they decided to move out of their street into Bagira zone.

The second person Néné wished to leave a message for was Risto, although she did not know if it would reach him. She had heard that Risto was somewhere in Mozambique. She hoped that her letter would reach him someday. She didn’t think about the pain it would cause Risto; she was too afraid of the incurable pain the child would bring Risto if she lived and allowed it to be born.

As the sun set, she opened her window and she gazed at it as if for the first time. The skies were smiling at her, she knew they were waiting for her. She was convinced that it was time to go. She was not sad, but rather felt at peace with herself and with the universe. She sang her last lullabies, then closed her window and double-checked that her bedroom door was locked. Then she lay down on her bed and drank the burning acid.

First there were soft knocks on the door. The knocks increased, and a voice whispered some names. The door did not open. The voice went high and the knocking intensified. The door stayed closed.

‘Néné, it’s your mother. Open, my darling.’

‘Néné, Risto would like to talk to you.’

The door didn’t open and no movement could be heard in the room.

‘Néné, it’s me, Risto. I need to talk to you. Please open.’

‘She never does this. She is obedient,’ her mother said with anxiety.

‘What if we force the door open?’ Landu asked.

‘Can you?’ asked Néné’s mother with worried eyes.

It took a blow from a hammer for the door to swing open.

The body lay still on the bed, a container stood on the floor.

‘Néné, Néné!’ screamed her mother as she shook her daughter’s body.

‘Acid! … Acid! She took acid!’ Landu screamed as he grabbed the container and rushed to the mother.

That evening Néné lay in the intensive care unit of the hospital, surrounded by nervous doctors. Her mother was in the hands of other mothers, who had come from as far as Risto’s street upon hearing the news. They came to give her sympathy, waiting to give her their condolences and weep with her when the bad news was confirmed. They were assuming that the girl would die, but a huge nurse kept coming to calm the weeping women.

‘She is still breathing,’ she would say. ‘We are trying our best.’

But people were used to such words; these were the words that nurses and doctors used when they were still formulating a good way to tell a bad story. People knew that soon a senior doctor would come to announce the news of Néné’s death. But the night went on and no senior doctor came; instead the big female nurse kept coming with her story.

‘She will be fine,’ she kept saying. ‘We are trying our best,’ she repeated.

At dawn, a senior doctor arrived, and everyone’s ears turned to him.

‘The girl is in a stable condition,’ he said, as he cleared his throat and looked at his watch. ‘She is lucky. The acid had not yet circulated through her system, and it was a very weak mix. In an hour she will be transferred to a room where you will have a chance to see her.’

Risto was among Néné’s first visitors; she was surrounded by drips, and still too weak to speak, but after a few days of patience, they finally had a decent conversation. They had few words, though; they mostly spoke through silences and shy smiles. Then Néné’s mood changed.

‘I wanted to die in peace, Risto … Why did you bring me here?’ she cried. Risto held her hands in his.

‘Peace is what we are all looking for, and your death would never bring it,’ he answered, his voice breaking.

‘Can’t you see, Risto? My womb carries the poison of the evil Amani; I can’t let it infect you and affect everybody around me …’ she wept.

Risto looked at the shining moon, which could be seen through the window.

‘I just came here for one thing. I came to declare my love for you. If you die or live, I want you to know this truth,’ he said, as he tried to stop his tears. ‘I am sorry for having betrayed you. I left you in the hands of Amani, and I disappeared. I never wished to … but it was beyond my control.’ He sobbed, she sobbed too.

‘And Néné, if you choose death, if you leave me alone in this heartless world, I want to give you back this bracelet.’

She held him tight as they both cried like babies. Then she dried her tears with Risto’s shirt.

‘I love you, Risto,’ she said, and they held each other in silence.

Risto’s return brought a burning and holy silence to his street. The eyes of people spoke a stronger language than their mouths. Later, those mouths voiced amazing stories. Risto became a hero after Néné’s letter was found in her room. It spoke of the love for Risto that she had kept inside her. She spoke of him as the only boy she had loved in her entire life, and the pain her departure might cause to him:

People spoke about what they knew and could guess, but the extent of the love of a sixteen-year-old girl enchanted and bewildered them all. To those whose love was shrinking because of the thickness of their problems, this was a new story of love that came to bring them hope. It testified to the fact that love never dies, that love is mysterious, that love is the only magic that has always eluded the brave minds of scientists and philosophers. If after so much unbearable trauma and abuse, life could still shine in Néné’s face, then love had magical healing power.

Risto’s story seemed to have reached everyone: first his recovery from deadly injuries in the hospital, the sympathy he received from everyone, and then the suspicion and the fear when the rumour grew that he had been a child soldier. No child had escaped before from the evil of the militia. And few child soldiers who returned home managed to escape the seductive money that street gangsters offered those who could steal and kill with a gun. Risto was the first one. And now he came with this powerful story of love and healing. Many more unbelievable things would follow, people thought.

This story became a mirror for the street. People realised how unforgiving they had become, how they had forged their mouths into tools of gossip, how judgmental their eyes and hearts had become. They realised how the noise and smoke of war had turned their souls to steel. It was time for their souls to be healed. It was time to claim what war had stolen from them. Everyone renewed their vow that ‘a child is a child of all’.

The child of Néné came to earth to heal the ancient wounds and bury the scars of the past. He came with a smile of heaven and the pure laughter of the gods. ‘He will heal the world,’ Risto’s cheering heart whispered to the young mother’s ears. They decided that the child should be called Risto Junior, because he did not have the spirit of his biological father, but that of his adoptive father. He would be a reminder of a persevering spirit; he would be a heroic soul sent by heaven to heal the memories of time and history. He would remind his mother of the happy days and future dreams yet to come. This news puzzled people, but it cleared the vapour of war that they breathed. It gave them another story to tell their grandchildren.

Risto officially became the father of the child, whom he privately called Benny, in honour of his best friend and cousin, lost in Kahuzi-Biega National Park. He went back to further his mechanical training at the Centre de Formation Professionnelle under the supervision of the famous mechanic, Donas Bafwa. He did this all for the future of his son and the rest of the family he dreamed of having one day with Néné. Néné went back to school determined to become a teacher. Behind them, in their shadows and their dark and bright journeys, they could easily hear the great agony and pure laughter of the gods. And the child grew stronger day by day.

I owe many of my colleagues, friends and family members for their assistance, support and guidance. To my storyteller parents, who taught me how to pitch a story. To Elizabeth Mary Lanzi Mazzocchini for reading the first draft of this story and believing in it when I thought it was not worth telling, Prudence Papy N-Mubil for your invaluable help, Lauren Beukes for your guidance, Jenny Hobbs for your encouragement, Corinne Abel for your support and for giving me room to grow. Special thanks to Carol van der Rheede.

Thanks to Chris and Carol Cunningham-Moorat, Geraldine Do, and the wise Dorian Haarhoff.

Thanks to Les Amis BK (Friends of Bukavu Cape and Worldwide), Turudi Congo Youth Movement and its initiator Eric Casinga, members of Tagore’s Grounding sessions (D’bi Young, Desiree Bailey, Erin Bosenberg) – you have been inspirational.

Patrick Zézéc Irenge, Paurtia Maumela, Kibareng Tsiana, Bill Morris, Maurice Mbikayi, Josué Bahati Chishugi, Freddy Muganza Munyololo, Alice Wamundiya, Lena Opfermann, Ricky Novis, Michael Tladi, Valerie Barossi Bacbar, Toni Giselle Stuart – true friends never part; your friendship has kept me going.

Lucie Pagé and family, Prof. John and Charlotte van Zyl, Carol Cunningham-Moorat – you have always been there for me.

Millan Padilla, Allison Horner, Pshasha Seakamela – I don’t know how to thank my great friends.

Thanks to Karen Jennings for shaping my voice, to my editor and wonderful guide Helen Moffett for making me believe in my own voice – your patience amazes me. Thanks to Umuzi; to my publisher Frederik de Jager – thank you for believing so much in this project Fourie Botha, your dedication to this project kept me going; Carla Potgieter – thanks for believing in my voice.

I would never have finished this project without the support of Pamela Ikosa Musenga, Lezerine Mashaba, Viviane Ingha, Bongani Kheswa, Michael Mwila Mambwe and Francis Ziggy Konde.

My greatest gratitude to Pamela Musenga Ikosa for being there at the most difficult time of this book. I remain grateful for your invaluable support and great love. Many thanks to Matemba Seke Mathy and to the whole Lupasa Kisanga family.

The true heroes of this project are the Safari brothers and sisters and their extended families for being such a pillar to me: Dia Safari (our family owes you so much), Jacques Safari, Martinez Safari (there are too many Safaris … next time I’ll complete the list), Majirano Muderhwa, my brother-in-law Espoir Kalibanya and his wife Maombi, Papy Bashombana and his family.

‘Therefore, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God.’

1 Corinthians 10:31.