City of Saints & Thieves(54)

? ? ?

Michael is full of questions for the skeleton men.

He asks them one after another, and the men answer in serious, teacherish voices. And in fact, Michael soon learns that the three actually were schoolteachers once upon a time in Congo, but now they work as porters in Sangui’s markets. The men are going to Congo to check on their farms and, on the way back to Sangui, see their wives and children who stay in a refugee camp in Rwanda. They are unwelcome in Congo, the skeleton men tell him, and when Michael learns this, he presses them for more information. Who doesn’t want them there? Why? And who is fighting whom?

I cringe at Michael’s earnest diction, but the skeleton men eat it up.

Skeleton Man One: “It is complicated, but the basic issue is that this country of ours is very big, and there are so many different people and languages and histories. You know, the king of Belgium once claimed the whole of Congo as his property. Imagine! Everything—the people, the trees, the minerals, the very air we breathe—this man thousands of miles away proclaimed it his own!”

Skeleton Man Two: “Our grandfathers laughed until the Belgians cut out their tongues.”

Skeleton Man One: “Gaining our independence was long and bloody, and we inherited this place that now had borders, that was now a country. It cut up our ancestors’ lands and cobbled together other communities into something that was supposed to be a nation. Creating one Congo like the government would like is nearly impossible, especially in the east, where we come from. The government is so far away. We know nothing of those people in the capital. Our forefathers, in fact, were kings in Rwanda long ago. That was before the borders, before the king of Belgium and the French and Americans.”

Skeleton Man Three smiles: “It is a long story. We would need a week to go through all the history properly. And you asked who is fighting.” He turns to his friends. “Who is it today?”

“Mayi-Mayi.”

“M23.”

“The army.”

“Fighting one another?” Michael asks.

“Eh, depends on the day! Where are you going?”

“Walikale Territory.”

The men shake their heads. “There are some bad ones there.”

“FDLR.”

“CNDP.”

“FARDC, M23 . . .”

“And three different Mayi-Mayi.”

Michael and I look at each other.

“Alphabet soup,” I say. Only two of them sound familiar—Mayi-Mayi and the M23. I try to keep track when Donatien’s talking about all the different groups and alliances, but it’s tough. There are so many of them.

Michael starts to ask another question, but Skeleton Man Three waves his hands to stop him. “Just stay away from men with guns. They are all the same! Even the army. Even the ones with whom I share a tribe. Gangs. Bands of thirty, fifty, led by one. Sometimes by tribe, sometimes not. One day they are rebels, then the next they are government soldiers when their boss makes a deal. Then the next they are rebels again. Then they change their rebel group name. My nephew is a fighter. He told me all about it.” Skeleton Man Three nods sagely.

“Your nephew? That small boy?” Skeleton Man One asks, looking distraught.

Skeleton Man Three hangs his head. “I know, I tried to talk sense to him, but these young men, they don’t listen. They don’t want to go to school or farm. They just want to shoot guns and drink and lie with women.”

“Where would they farm?” Skeleton Man Two protests. “Where would they go to school? You can get shot just standing in your field! They round up children at school and put guns in their hands. Or, like me, you break your back to grow food for your family and the soldiers come and take everything anyway!”

The men slip into their own language, talking loudly until one seems to remember we’re still listening and says, “The leaders say they are freedom fighters, but all we ever see is their lust for blood and gold. The boys who follow them are only children themselves, most of them. My poor nephew. He was such a good young man.”

The men close their eyes, one by one, remembering other nephews, sons, brothers. And for a while they are too sad to speak.





TWENTY-FIVE


Boyboy told me you saved his life once,” Michael says.

We’ve been traveling for about six hours. The skeleton men are all napping, wedged like commas around the goods in the truck. I’ve managed to tuck myself in between a box of individual chewing gum packets and a bag of sandals. It’s not so bad. The sun is still hot, but the wind rushing over us is cool, and I like the view of the patchwork farms on the hills that rise and fall on both sides. But I can’t get the skeleton men’s tired voices out of my head. They made it sound like war and fighting was just the way it was, that it would go on forever. Maybe when it’s been going on most of your life, that is what it feels like. Mama used to say that a body can get used to anything.

Michael is waiting for me to respond. He’s sprawled on a bag of sugar, looking annoyingly comfortable with his arms crossed behind his head.

I glance at Boyboy, who is swaddled in a kanga wrapper and is snoring with his mouth open. “Not really. I just whaled on some kids who were giving him a hard time.”

“He said they were about to throw him in the river.”

“He would have been fine if he could swim.”