How Beautiful We Were(34)

“We’re going to Bézam,” I say.

“Bézam,” he repeats. “And are you going to tell me why you’re going to Bézam?”

I look at Lusaka. I decide it’s better to let him do the rest of the talking, so I remain silent, looking toward Gardens; I hope we don’t miss the bus. Lusaka says nothing for a while, clearly searching for the proper response to Konga’s question.

“I’m waiting and waiting for a response and I’ve got nothing to do but more waiting so I’ll wait until I have nothing else to do but wait,” the madman says. He’s speaking in a singsong manner, smiling. Patches of dried saliva are in the corners of his mouth. A large crust of snot is visible in his nostrils. I dare not avert my gaze from his face lest he think me afraid of him. I’m not afraid of him. If I’m to succeed as the leader of this operation, I cannot be afraid of anyone, sane or insane.

“We received some advice last night,” Lusaka begins. “We were given the name of someone in Bézam who can help us, so we’re going to meet him.”

“And this person is…”

“This person is an important person. We were given very good advice.”

“Would you like my advice on if the advice you got is indeed very good advice?”

Lusaka looks at me, and I nod, and he proceeds to tell Konga all what Kumbum had suggested we do. Konga does not blink as Lusaka speaks. He stares at Lusaka as if Lusaka has traveled a great distance to deliver stale news. I grow even more concerned we’ll miss the bus—Lusaka is going into every detail of what Kumbum told us.

Konga continues staring at Lusaka after Lusaka is done talking. When he finally takes his eyes off Lusaka’s face, they land on mine.



“You won’t find what you’re looking for in Bézam,” he says to me.

“We might not,” Lusaka agrees, “but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”

“Why try when you know you’re going to fail?”

“Isn’t it better to try and fail than to do nothing?”

“What we need isn’t one more failure, Lusaka Lamaliwa. The world is crumbling under the weight of failures. Look around you. What do you see besides failures? Do we need more of them?”

“No, but we need people bigger than us to join our fight.”

Konga throws his head back and laughs. “Someone bigger, someone smaller, someone neither big nor small, which is better?” Lusaka looks at me—should we attempt a response to a madman’s riddle? “You call yourself small,” Konga goes on. “And you say it with no shame.”

“There’s no shame in admitting that we’re in need of help from those with the power to free us,” I say.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Konga says, as if he’s heard such rubbish too many times. “But let me tell you something, sweet child. Something you may never have heard before and might never hear again after today: we are the only ones who can free ourselves.”

Right, I say to myself—the children die on, the gas flares rage on, the pipelines spill on, we’re in danger of annihilation, and we’re fully capable of freeing ourselves.

“That is all true, Konga Wanjika,” Lusaka replies. “Our ancestors passed on to us great powers, and we can indeed do much for ourselves, but the thing is that we haven’t been successful at it with Pexton. If we can tell our story to the people in America—”

“They came from America and destroyed us, and now you want to go to them and beg them to come save us?”

“It’s not the same people,” I say, though what I really want to say is that we have to leave now. “The people who own Pexton and the people who’ll do whatever needs to be done to make Pexton stop hurting us are two different kinds of American people.”

“But they’re not different, beautiful young man,” Konga says, walking closer to me and looking into my eyes—for the first time in my life, I feel as if he’s seen me, not merely noticed me as one of dozens of young men in Kosawa. “You do understand that all people from overseas are the same, don’t you? The Americans, the Europeans, every single overseas person who has ever set foot on our soil, you know they all want the same thing, don’t you?”



How does he remember the Europeans when he has no memory?

“You’re young,” he says. “Someday, when you’re old, you’ll see that the ones who came to kill us and the ones who’ll run to save us are the same. No matter their pretenses, they all arrive here believing they have the power to take from us or give to us whatever will satisfy their endless wants.”

“Are you saying—?”

“I’m saying you should turn around and go back to your huts. Tomorrow we’ll continue fighting for ourselves.”

Tunis looks at me beseechingly. I can tell from his eyes that Konga has convinced him. He wants to return to his hut. He’s ready to abandon our mission because a madman thinks we can defeat His Excellency and an American corporation all by ourselves. I’m tempted to tell him to hurry back to his wife and children and forget about ever joining our fight. I want to assure him that if his children were to die the stain of their blood would be on his palms forever. The words almost leave my tongue, but I hold them back and breathe it out—a man’s anger is often no more than a safe haven for his cowardice.