The Great Agony & Pure Laughter of the Gods (7 page)

‘We can’t go very far with them,’ said Benny, while throwing stones at a goat that didn’t want to respond to his calling. ‘Sorrow and fear have invaded the village, and made it small. We can’t go far to cultivate, we can’t go far to pasture our cattle. Those militias are very bad people. In the Birava and Kidumbi villages, they would loot whatever they found in the pastures and in the fields. If a shepherd said one word, he would be brutally killed. If a woman was found in the fields, she was raped by a dozen men. Imagine! Now we are afraid to go far from home. We have to stay near the village. Here at least it is safe.’

That evening, Risto’s grandmother arrived home much later than usual. She had gone with her friends and their children to harvest the fields near the Birava and Kidumbi villages. The crops were not yet mature, but the villagers feared that if they were left any longer in the fields, they would be harvested by the militia.

‘Everyone has heard what the militias are doing. They don’t leave anything for you if they enter your fields,’ she said. Risto ran into the kitchen to help her. She wanted to chase him out.

‘The kitchen is not for men, it is a place for women,’ she said. If Risto’s grandfather were to find him in the kitchen, he would be cross with his wife for allowing the boy to stay. But Risto insisted. He saw the heavy basket she carried, he saw that she was very tired.

There was a pot on each of the four fireplaces. Fireplaces were traditionally set in a triangle made with three stones, with burning wood beneath. His grandmother’s fireplaces were different; they were in pairs, two by two. Each pair of fireplaces combined had an odd number of stones – five each, instead of six, each sharing one stone. So the pots stood close together, almost scraping against each other.

Risto’s grandmother set up the mortar and pestle, wanting to pound cassava leaves. Risto took the pestle. ‘This isn’t a man’s work,’ she said again. He insisted again. Eventually she gave him one pestle, keeping two for herself. The mortar was very large. She started a song as the pounding started.

Pounding work was like a dance. Whenever people pounded cassava, or its leaves, or maize, the pounding work had a rhythm. The song went with the rhythm of the pestles. The pestles were like sticks and the mortar was a drum. Risto’s grandmother sang her endless songs in her dialect, Mashi. Eyes closed, pestles in hand, she sang recital melodies. Her songs freed fugitives from a heartless universe. They were like fishing nets picking up lost ancestral relics. The mortar awoke the spirits while the grandmother sang her lulling hymns. Her body boiled and sweated. Her litany navigated the epics of kingdoms; the history of the great Kivu fishermen came to life again; the silhouette of a hero hunter murmured.

‘O, Grandmama, just pray, just sing, Grandmama,’ Risto whispered to the travelling soul of his grandmother. ‘You baptise my heart with sacred verses, priceless perfume.’ The ancestors travelled in his swelling veins. Then his grandmother’s girlhood songs echoed out: how shepherds danced on the mountaintop, how they had cooked banana and cassava over campfires, how the smoke had pierced her bones and flesh. The past was gone, but history lived on. His grandmother was the breath of history; its blood filled her veins. Her songs were living remnants of the ancestors resting in sacred shades.

She was lost in the world of her words. Then her voice changed, becoming sad and melancholic. She sang about her son who had died very young. He was bewitched by the jealous spirits of her neighbours. He was a pretty boy, whose smile was like sunshine. Then the bad spirits grew jealous of the treasured boy. His departure to an unknown world left his mother in pain and mourning. But he was at peace, the handsome boy. He rested in peace with his ancestors. Then she sang about the invaded villages. She asked why people with wild spirits wanted to invade them. She called for God and the ancestors to fight for them. Her songs rocked Risto in a bath of joy and sadness. She stopped singing only when the cassava leaves were ready to be put into the hot water boiling on the fireplace.

The deep voice of Risto’s grandfather rumbled outside; one could tell that he was still on his feet. Risto went outside to greet him. His grandfather took him into his hut and presented him with a kabehe with local banana juice inside it. He knew that Risto never drank beer. The old man took a swig from his own kabehe. He looked at Risto, then asked how his family was. Risto replied that the family was doing well.

His grandfather took another swig, and then tried to smile. ‘I heard that you had run away from town?’ he said. He tried to joke: ‘A man can’t run and leave his sisters behind, but you left yours.’ Then he grew solemn. ‘The situation of the country is very bad. Especially for us in the great Kivu. I am coming from the villages near Birava and Kidumbi. There is a thick cloud covering our horizon.’

The old man explained a lot of things. The peace that they had been living in was slowly ebbing away. Bringing it back would require many years, many generations, maybe. ‘In the other villages where I was, there are different taxes that the local population has to pay. One militia group comes to the market to take what it can as tax, another passes through the villages in the afternoon for another tax, another one at night for another tax, then another one comes to loot at night, and so on. It is impossible to live. It is bad, but worse for women. They don’t sleep in their houses at night anymore; they pass the night in the fields so that when the militias come, they just loot the houses and cattle. Otherwise …’

His grandfather didn’t finish this sentence, but Risto knew what he meant. The old man went on, ‘There is no peace in town or in the villages. We don’t know who is fighting whom, and who is protecting whom. All of them say that they protect the people even as they are carrying out crimes against the same people. But they won’t come this side. We will just look after our cattle and see how the days pass.’

The night in the village was not as peaceful as usual; the constant footsteps of people passing by stole Risto’s sleep away. When he blinked, he saw little sparks of light in the hut; it was morning. Benny came in from letting out the cattle.

‘Did you hear how people were moving up and down the whole night?’ he asked Risto.

‘Yes, where were they coming from?’

‘They were people from the villages near Birava and Balaga. They ran away from the militias.’

‘Did the militias attack them?’

‘No, but they received news that the militias were going to attack them last night.’ He changed his tone and opened the door of the little hut. ‘And you know, it is not only people from the villages that are coming here to Bugobe. I have heard that there is a bus bringing people from the town on its way.’

‘Are you sure, Benny?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who told you?’

‘A lorry arrived from the town early this morning. The news was given by the people who came with the lorry.’

Risto thought maybe he would see other boys from his town. He and Benny walked towards the bus stop. As they reached the small bumpy track that led to the bus stop, they saw a group of five people coming from the opposite direction, carrying luggage.

‘The girl on the left walks like someone I know,’ Risto said.

‘These are people from the village; you don’t know them,’ Benny replied, laughing.

‘I’m sure it is someone I know from Bukavu town,’ Risto insisted.

‘No, these people are from this village; I know the one wearing the white top.’

They approached the group slowly. There was one young woman, one teenage girl and three boys. Suddenly Risto realised that the teenage girl was someone that he knew very well; it was Néné. His heart pounded with an excitement that he could not explain. He felt like running to give her a big hug, to hold her tight in his arms for a few minutes to let her feel his heartbeats. He wanted to tell all that he had always wished to tell her, how much he loved her. But again, he thought of what people would say, and this weakened his resolve.

Instead, as Néné approached, he wondered which was the right word to say, how to greet: should it be a kiss or a hug, a handshake or waving? He felt like the entire world was looking at him. Néné had a big bag on her head. She smiled as she saw him; he returned a shy smile.

‘What are you doing this side?’ Néné asked.

‘What are you coming to do this side?’ he replied.

As Risto finished introducing himself to the other people, he found himself before Néné, who had put her bag on the ground. Benny was talking to the others and answering their questions. Risto, in spite of his search for a moment to say all that he had in his heart for Néné, found himself once again speechless. His eyes had to speak the unsaid words of his heart. He would fix his eyes on Néné, then look aside as she bit her nails and smiled to herself.

‘Oh … let me help you!’ He jerked forward, realising that Néné needed his help.

She gave him her bag as they walked together.

‘Are you coming on holiday?’ Risto asked Néné.

‘You sound like someone who doesn’t know what is going on in town!’ she replied.

‘I thought only boys were targeted, not girls …’

‘Things were tense after you left. Students and pupils marched in town for the release of the spokesperson of the student organisation. The mayor and the governor refused to listen to them, and then they declared the march illegal. The students and pupils didn’t want to disperse. The soldiers shot at them, they replied with stones. The windscreen of the governor’s car was smashed. The soldiers chased the students and people everywhere. There was a rumour that a raid was planned for tonight. And you know if someone is jailed, he is automatically taken to be a soldier; you know how badly they need them. So, young boys and even girls have started to leave the town.’

They said goodbye to Néné and her friends as she entered the compound of her relatives. Risto promised to visit her in the afternoon.

‘How do you know that girl?’ Benny asked, smiling as he looked at Risto’s face.

‘She is a friend from home.’

They both smiled.

‘She is beautiful … eh?’

Risto responded with laughter.

‘A friend? Are you planning to marry her?’

‘At fifteen? Come on, Benny! We are still too young to think about marriage. We are just friends. Maybe one day, if God wants, we can get married.’

‘I wish I could see that day,’ Benny laughed.

The sun was very strong that day. Risto waited for its fierce rays to soften before visiting the person his heart was yearning for. Néné was staying only five compounds away from Risto’s grandfather’s home. As Risto approached, he saw her with one small drum in her hand and a big pot on her head; she was going to the well for water. He ran towards her quietly, slowing to a stealthy walk as he approached her from behind. Then he put his hands on her face, covering her eyes. As she fumbled, she lost control of the pot and it fell onto Risto’s foot.

‘Oh my goodness!’ she screamed.

‘Sorry! Sorry! Oh, my foot!’ he cried out.

She turned around to see him. ‘I didn’t know, I am so sorry, Risto.’

Risto was holding his left foot, which had been struck by the pot. Néné knelt down to look at it.

‘I’m sorry, sorry … I didn’t know. I know it hurts. Please … sorry …’ Her eyes were on Risto’s face, her soft voice showed her great care.

‘No, it was my fault, my stupid games!’ Their eyes met, then a sweet silence seized the moment as they both looked at the ground. He could feel the moisture of her breath as she had knelt close to him. For a few seconds he inspected her beautiful eyelashes, her light brown skin and her reddish lips. His heart pounded, the usual sign whenever he felt the urge to declare his love to Néné. Then she looked up at him again.

‘I’m fine, it was my stupid game, my fault. I’m fine,’ Risto said.

They both stood up, laughing.

‘You will have something to tell my grandmother today. You know how she respects this calabash!’ Néné’s grandmother never allowed anyone to take her calabash, except for her beloved granddaughter. It was the oldest pot she had; she had received it from her own grandmother.

‘If you break this one, it is like breaking the whole house,’ Néné added.

‘Why did you take it then, if you could break it?’ he asked her, smiling.

‘No, I have to take good care of it.’

Her grandmother wanted water straight from its source among the rocks, to be kept in that calabash as it cooled down; this gave the water a very natural smell of rock.

They walked for a while in silence. Risto held the small drum and Néné carried the calabash steady on her head like the women from the village, walking without touching it.

‘Where are you going?’ Néné broke the silence.

‘You don’t like that I am walking with you. Should I go back?’

‘No! People will laugh at you when they see you with the drum.’

‘Even if they laugh at me because of you, is there a problem?’

She looked around as he spoke and replied, ‘I don’t understand the people of the village; they classify some jobs for women and others for men. I don’t think they see that the world of today is changing; there is no job that is only for men or women anymore!’

‘How did you feel the day I left town?’ Risto asked, changing the subject.

‘I felt lonely. I thought maybe I wouldn’t see you until school opens in September.’

‘Did you choose to come to Bugobe?’

‘My parents told me to choose between my mother’s village and my father’s … I chose this side.’

She looked into Risto’s eyes as she said these words.

They reached the village tap, where there were only a few children playing with the water. There were two taps, one for water from the dam that was situated in the mountain of Bugobe, and another one for the water straight from the rocks nearby. Néné was slowly filling the containers as Risto stood distracted by the games the children were playing. Néné put the palm of her hand against the tap to give the water more pressure. As the pressure built, she splashed water at Risto.

‘Néné, stop it! No, stop it!’ he screamed with laughter. Néné was laughing too.