How Beautiful We Were(105)

“We’ll take it back whether they like it or not.” Roars.

“We’ll no longer be slaughtered, poisoned, or trampled upon.” Roars.

“Let those who stand in the way of our peace and happiness be warned. Let them know that we’ll march through the streets of Lokunja and district capitals around the country. We’ll clench our fists until we get to Bézam. We’ll roar until they give us back our dignity. Our voices will be the fire that will burn down every system of injustice, and from the ashes we will build a new nation.”

“Fire,” someone shouted.

“Fire,” the crowd sang.

“Yes,” Thula cried, “we are the fire that will leave nothing immoral unburned. My brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, we have seen the light. There will be no return to darkness for us. We have awakened, and we will not stop raising our voices until every man, woman, and child in this country is free.”





Juba





WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO be free? How do humans behave when they start believing that their definition of freedom is at hand? I saw how, that day in Lokunja. I saw men standing tall, strutting as they headed home. I saw little girls waving and smiling at soldiers as if to say, Hello, look at my pretty dress. I saw women throw their heads all the way back when they laughed. I sensed the air around me vibrating from the burdens that had momentarily been cast off shoulders. Possibility was written on the faces of the multitude, an unguarded anticipation of the future. I saw it over and over as I followed my sister to the next rally, the next district; as we traveled the western part of the country. I heard it as people lifted their voices and demanded a democratic election, demanded that His Excellency give them the right to choose their own president so they could create their dream country. I saw freedom on my sister’s face, as she stood before crowd after crowd.



* * *



—

Her fists never unclenched. Her resolve never wavered. She never stopped believing that Kosawa would one day be whole. She took her people to Gardens, to Mr. Fish’s front yard. They demanded reparations. They demanded to be treated with respect. When guards lifted their guns, Mr. Fish asked that they lower them, chanting never hurt anyone. This land is our land, they sang. Some days they sat at the center of Gardens. Mothers with babies on laps. Grandparents on stools. Many who had fled returned to fight. They shared stories about Kosawa’s lost days of splendor. They sang: Sons of the leopard, daughters of the leopard, beware all who dare wrong us, never will our roar be silenced. The oil was their inheritance, they said—they had the right to occupy Gardens. One week they occupied it nonstop, taking shifts. They wouldn’t relent. Even if Pexton continued to ignore them, they said, an American court would one day grant them victory.



* * *





I WAS WITH MY SISTER the first time she spoke to Kosawa’s new lawyer. She had written to a former professor asking for advice after her talks with Mr. Fish stalled. The professor told her about a nephew of his, a man named Carlos, who was a partner at a prestigious New York law firm. Carlos’s firm represented the likes of Pexton, the professor had said, not the likes of Kosawa. But it would be of no harm for Thula to talk to him.

Half an hour before Carlos was to call her at her office, she was already settled behind her desk, going through her list of prepared questions and consulting notebooks in which she had jotted down thoughts and ideas over the years. The container of food I’d brought to her for lunch was unopened. It was possible she hadn’t eaten all day.

“Have a few bites, at least,” I said.

“I’m not hungry,” she replied without looking up.

“There are other lawyers in America,” I said. “If he says no, you’ll find—”

“I don’t want another lawyer. There’s no way we can put up a real fight against them unless we bring one of the big New York guys. Carlos is our best chance.”



The phone was in her hand even before it finished its first ring. For most of the conversation, she listened. When she hung up, the look on her face was of neither relief nor excitement. Carlos had merely given her more to worry about.

Kosawa’s case against Pexton was weak, the lawyer had told her; based on his preliminary research, Pexton’s agreement with our government was that Pexton would extract the crude and our government would be responsible for all negative externalities. What this meant, he explained, was that if the case ended up in a trial, Pexton wasn’t going to deny that its practices led to spills that famished Kosawa’s soil. Its lawyers wouldn’t try to dispute that the waste on the big river was from their oil field. They wouldn’t even need to argue that the children’s deaths had nothing to do with them. All they would need to show was evidence that our government had relieved them of any responsibility to the land and people in exchange for splitting the oil profits.

“Does that mean he won’t take the case?” I asked her.

“He needs time to think about it.”

“What about his fees?”

“That’s another thing. He doesn’t do contingency fees, and he knows we can’t afford him. He’s going to talk to his partners and see whether someone can do it pro bono. We’ll have to find a way to pay whatever expenses come up.”