How Beautiful We Were(27)

Lusaka’s daughter sways onward, looking everywhere but my face. Her body is ripe for babies. Dead babies. I try not to think of dead babies. Do they realize it, the little girls of Kosawa, when they spend hours assembling babies of sticks and stalks with flowers for eyes, when they name and rock and sing to these things in an effort to preview their destiny as mothers—do they realize that their wish, if it were to come true, would be inevitable death? Shouldn’t we remind them always that birth happens only so death may prevail? Was an awareness of this the reason why I never saw Thula partake in those games when she was younger, why she only looked on, brows twisted, while her friends doted on their creations, oblivious to death lurking close by?

I remember when a friend of Thula’s brought her baby brother over. Thula sat with the friend and the baby and two other friends to the side of our hut. Not knowing I was watching, one of the girls lifted her dress and brought the baby to her empty chest, to experience the sensation of a baby breastfeeding on her. I could see the delight on the girl’s face as the baby sucked whatever was there. The other girls giggled. On Thula’s face was written: I’d rather die than be subjected to such an ordeal. That baby is still with us, having survived a long illness. But I really must think nothing of such things now. Better I think of the wife I’ll someday have—heavy-breasted and smooth-skinned, never lacking for joy as she keeps the hut perfect, keeps me happy—how delicious her thighs will be. I know I’ll have to aim for lesser thighs than Elali’s, those limbs that held me tight and guided me as I explored the deepest hinterlands of the lush Republic of Elali.



* * *



—

“Good evening, Yaya. Good evening, Bongo,” Lusaka’s daughter says, suddenly standing in front of me. Her younger sister is beside her, a far lesser beauty in the making. I feel for the girl already—she’ll soon find out that she is bound to someday be no more than a man’s third or fourth choice.



Yaya nods at the sisters, smiling weakly. She continues rocking Juba.

“How’s your father?” I ask them.

“Bongo, Papa wants you to come over immediately,” the beauty says. Her teeth are small, as white as clouds that carry no threat.

“Bongo, did you hear what Wanja is saying?” Yaya says.

“Yes, yes,” I say, realizing I’d been staring at her for too long. “Your father wants me to come?”

“Yes, please, he wants you to come right now. He says it’s very important.”

I nod and stand up but I find no need to hurry. I don’t imagine that what Lusaka wants to talk about is of great consequence. We’ve secured the captives; they’re going nowhere until we say so. We’ve deflected the soldiers. Woja Beki and his family are under surveillance. We have in place a plan for what we’ll do at every stage till it’s over.

I go to my bedroom and pull a shirt from the top of the pile of clothes on my bed—Sahel washed and ironed them today. My brother did well for us all by marrying a dutiful woman like Sahel, a woman who never complains but does as a good wife must do for her family. Maybe Lusaka’s daughter will soon take over the washing and ironing of my clothes. I smile at myself, enjoying this new direction of my thoughts.

I walk behind Lusaka’s daughter on our way to their hut. I marvel at her buttocks, gently sloped and dense, but my eyes must leave them more often than I’d like: I must acknowledge friends and relatives as I pass them sitting on their verandas. I tell everyone who calls me over that I can’t stop to chat, nothing’s the matter, all will be well.



* * *



—

I never wished to be a part of such an operation. I had hoped that the instigators of our misery would learn that it’s possible to cater to their own happiness while leaving us the space for contentment, but in a world where many believe their happiness is tied to the unhappiness of others, what choice did we have?



When Konga showed up that night at the village meeting brandishing the Pexton men’s key, I was at first aghast at his tactic and manners. I was thinking what my friends were thinking: Is this the right way to get what we want? Wouldn’t it be best for us to wait for a better time to do this, perhaps a day in the future after we’d mapped out a step-by-step strategy rather than initiating a spontaneous rebellion based on a mysterious whim? I still can’t say how I persuaded myself to obey the orders of someone who wields no power over the words coming out of his mouth, but the words were the ones we needed to hear that evening. I needed to hear them. My brother had said them to me, and I’d refused to listen to him. I’d let him travel to Bézam without my support on a journey where he could have benefited from my faith and counsel. I couldn’t let him down again.

After my friends and I had dragged away and dumped the Pexton men and Woja Beki in a corner of Lusaka’s parlor, Woja Beki cried out, upon hearing Konga tell us to bind their hands and feet and throw them in the back room, “Konga Wanjika, son of Bantu Wanjika, what did I ever do to you to deserve such treatment…?”

I say similar words whenever I look at a mother collapsed in grief beside a dead child: Enemies of Kosawa, what did we ever do to you to deserve such treatment?

Many nights I lie in bed and imagine myself turning into a fan, blowing away the air over Kosawa, driving it past the hills behind Gardens, dumping it where strong winds will take it afar and bring back to us good air. I picture myself a wall that stretches from the sky to the inner core of the earth, allowing no pipelines to pass through, no poison to flow into our water. I want to give the children simple things. Clean water. Clean air. Clean food. Let them soil it if they like it dirty—how dare anyone refuse them this right?