How Beautiful We Were(7)

The soldiers might very well be on their way to Kosawa that moment, he said repeatedly. We ought to consider his words a final warning to get his key from that madman this very minute, or prepare ourselves for a bloody encounter.

The sound of our anguished murmurs rose. We could see clearly what lay ahead for us. We saw our village gone, poisoned and slaughtered. We saw in Konga our ruin.

We wanted no part of his madness.

The Leader pointed to our young men in the back and asked for volunteers to come up front, four strong young men to help him get the key from Konga.

No one stepped forward—we wanted to avoid a slaughter, but who among us dared touch a madman? Woja Beki moved close to the Leader and whispered in his ear.

“Is this some sort of a joke?” the Leader said, his expression a convergence of shock, pity, and disgust. Woja Beki shook his head. The Leader gazed at us as if we’d just been revealed to be from another realm, a realm in which the laws bore no likeness to the ones ordinary humans lived by. “How could you believe such a thing?” he cried, arms raised and flapping in exasperation. “No one dies from touching a madman. No one has ever died from touching a madman. Does anyone here understand that?”



How could he appreciate laws that had not been imprinted on his heart?

“Get me my key right now,” he said firmly, “or tomorrow you’ll all regret it.”

Woja Beki took a deep breath. Speaking as if he was using a borrowed voice he needed to treat with care lest he return it in a subpar condition, he looked at our young men in the back and told them that the future of Kosawa now rested with them.

“Your fathers cannot fight,” he said. “Your mothers are old, your wives are women, your children are weak. If you don’t do what is right, who will? I promise you, if you continue standing there and allow Konga to bring us harm, the wind will sing songs about a village that was laid to waste because its young men were cowards.”

One of the young men stepped forward. Speaking in a voice no more steady than Woja Beki’s, he said he would do it. His wife cried out, imploring him not to. His mother, her voice brittle, pleaded with him too. His father turned his face away.

Woja Beki nodded and half-smiled at him, a token of gratitude.

Three more young men came forward. We’ll do it, they said.

Don’t do it, voices cried from across the square. Do it, others shouted. Do you want to see them and their descendants cursed forever? the dissenters yelled, many rising to their feet. Do you want us all to be killed tomorrow morning? the encouragers responded, no less incensed. There has to be another way. There is no other way.

The quarrels began. Loud and fierce and clamorous.

We defy them tonight and we stand a chance of being free again, some said. We don’t need freedom, we need to stay alive, others argued. Let us show them that we’re people too. The soldiers are going to shoot us dead. The Spirit has sent Konga to tell us that we can and should fight. Fight with what? Fight with what we’ve got. What have we got but spears? We’ve got machetes and stones and pots of boiling water. How can you be so stupid as to think we have any chance? Konga has shown us we stand every chance. Konga is a madman. Perhaps madness is what we all need. How can you say such a thing? We were once a brave people, the blood of the leopard flows within us—when did we lose sight of that? We’ll be dead tomorrow—is that what you want?



Everyone was standing, shouting; no one was listening. Konga and the Leader shook their fists at each other. The four young men stood between them, unsure of which side they were on. Most of us children began crying, our sad sounds lost in the chaos that had become our lives. Some of us cried for fear that death would arrive the next day, others for the illness that might lead to death the next month.

We all knew the truth: death was at hand.



* * *



—

When it had begun to appear the meeting would never end, Lusaka, the father of our departed age-mate and classmate Wambi, stood up and walked to the front of the gathering. He clapped to get everyone’s attention. He continued clapping as the murmurs ebbed, until everyone was seated again and quiet.

He was one of the most peaceful men in Kosawa and rarely spoke, so whenever he stood before us everyone listened. The loss of his sons had diminished his frame, made him smaller than he used to be, but he seemed to have grown in wisdom.

“We won’t come to an agreement tonight,” he said, eliciting hums of agreement from all but a few of our mothers and fathers and grandmothers and grandfathers. “I’d like to propose a solution so we can at least put an end to this squabbling for now. Let me take these men home with me, and let Konga do what he wants to do with their driver and their key. I’ll give them beds, and tomorrow morning my wife will give them breakfast. After they’ve eaten, I’ll take them to see the graves of my sons who died from their poison. I’ll show them the grave of every child we’ve buried, and they’ll count the graves so that they’ll know the number and never forget it. Then we’ll keep them prisoner and I’ll guard them until their employer stops killing us.”



“Prisoner?” the Leader said. “Who do you think you are to—”

“What makes you think Pexton is going to leave us alone because we take its men prisoner?” one of our fathers shouted at Lusaka.