How Beautiful We Were(33)

“But the Pexton people in America, they’ll read this story too, won’t they?” my uncle Manga asks. “What if they read it and tell their friends who also read it that our story is a lie and that your nephew is perpetuating falsehoods? The people in America have never seen our suffering with their very own eyes. No one from there has been to Kosawa, so Pexton can claim that they don’t even know us.”

Kumbum thinks for a few moments. “Yes,” he says. “That could happen.”

The Leader, who hasn’t said anything for a while, chuckles. “You all amuse me. You really do—do you know that?” We pay him no attention.

“Leave for Bézam first thing tomorrow morning,” Kumbum says. “Meeting with my nephew is the best chance you have. I’ll write a letter to him, introducing you. I’ll tell you how to find him. But first, please…you must let us go home. I’m begging you.”

Lusaka gestures for me to step outside. Manga and Pondo follow us. The four of us confer for several minutes and agree on what we must do. I must leave for Bézam the next morning to find the newspaperman. Lusaka and one other man will come with me; we’ll decide who later. For now, we have to get Kumbum healthy. We must move him to somewhere more comfortable: Woja Beki’s house. Pondo, as the husband of Woja Beki’s sister, is best positioned to go to Woja Beki and ask him to take in Kumbum. Pondo will remind Woja Beki that if a Pexton man who’s been declared missing were to die in Kosawa and his remains be found here, it wouldn’t portend well for Woja Beki’s relationship with the government and Pexton; he must do everything to keep the man alive.



The other two Pexton men and the driver will remain in Lusaka’s back room. My uncle Manga suggests that my cousin Sonni be responsible for making sure that the captives are well taken care of in Lusaka’s absence. I’ve never thought my cousin to possess much wisdom—he walks sluggishly and talks far too slowly—but this isn’t the time to declare that. I nod and pray Sonni doesn’t fail us. We carry on with the planning. A meeting of the men needs to be held immediately, so that everyone knows what’s going on. But first the Pexton men have to be told that they’ll soon be free. We must keep their hopes alive, lest the other three suddenly fall sick like chickens that have pecked on poisoned corn. We want them to walk with their own feet out of the back room. As soon as our delegation returns from Bézam, after having connected with Kumbum’s nephew and received a guarantee from him that our story will be told to people in America, and that such a telling will indeed make a difference, the men will be captives no more.

We re-enter the back room and tell the men our decision. They’re not happy about it, but they have no recourse.



* * *



—

In the hours that follow, everything we discussed outside the back room happens as we’d hoped. Woja Beki is shaken when he hears that Kumbum might die on us. He asks Pondo many questions about the sick man—are his symptoms contagious? is there a chance the stranger could get well and do something sinister to one of his wives or daughters? he needs to keep his family safe—and Pondo replies that he has no answers, he can give no assurances, we’re all forging ahead with questions that cannot attach themselves to responses, at which point Woja Beki stops asking. He’s learning, just as we’re unlearning, that sometimes the best way forward is to do as commanded and offer no resistance.



Before I head to bed for a rest, I pack my raffia bag. Yaya does not cry when I kneel before her and ask for her blessings. She blesses me and wishes me a safe journey. She promises she’ll take care of my brother’s family in my absence. Sahel wraps up food for me and fills my water bottle. Juba gives me a long hug. Thula sits alone on the veranda and ignores my attempt to assure her that I’ll return in a few days.



* * *



—

We meet in the square before dawn—Lusaka, myself, and Tunis. The decision to make Tunis the third man was an easy one: Tunis’s sense of direction is the best in Kosawa, and we’ll need it to help us find the newspaperman’s office, much as we had relied on it to help us navigate the city when we went to search for Malabo.

We are about to head for the bus stop in Gardens when we hear a rustling. I think it to be no more than the sound of an early-morning breeze bothering tree leaves, perhaps warning of a coming rain, but it is not stirring air. It is Konga. He’s back in his spot, under the mango tree. Our thoughts solely on Bézam, we hadn’t seen him sleeping under a brown sheet. I move a finger to my lips, and the other men nod, a signal that they too have seen him. Together, we lift our feet off the ground slowly and return them with deliberation—we do not want to awaken the madman and be forced to reckon with whatever is bound to come out of his mouth when he opens his eyes and sees us.

Too late.

“My guess is that you’re heading somewhere important,” he says from behind us.

We stop. Should we turn around or keep walking? The voice is his, but which Konga is speaking? Our newfound sage, or longtime menace? Should we listen to what he has to say? Lusaka decides we should; he turns around to face Konga.



“Good morning, Konga,” he says, moving toward the madman. Konga flips off his sheet from over his body and stands up.

“May I ask where you’re all heading to?” he says. His politeness is uncalled for; from it I discern little about his current state.