Forest of the Pygmies(55)
"The king must do business; it is his duty," announced The Royal Mouth. "You know what happens if you do not bring ivory."
Kate Cold could not bear the anguish any longer, and although she had promised Alexander that she wouldn't intervene, she ran to the middle of the square and stopped right in front of the royal platform, which was still on the shoulders of the bearers. Forgetting everything about protocol, which demanded that she prostrate herself, she started yelling insults at Kosongo, reminding him that they were international journalists and that they would tell the world about the crimes against humanity that were taking place in this village. She wasn't allowed to finish as two soldiers armed with rifles lifted her off her feet. She kept shouting, feet kicking in the air, as they carried her off toward the site of the crocodiles.
?
The plan that Nadia and Alexander had sketched out with such care collapsed in a matter of minutes. They had assigned a responsibility to each member of the group, but Kate's untimely intervention sowed chaos among the friends. Fortunately the guards, indeed all those present, were confused.
The Pygmy designated to shoot the king with the ampoule of tranquilizer had hidden among the huts, but now he couldn't wait for his best shot. Hurried by circumstances, he put the blowgun to his mouth and blew, but the dart intended for Kosongo hit the chest of one of the bearers carrying the platform. The man felt something like a bee sting but he didn't have a free hand to brush away what he thought was an insect. For a few instants, nothing happened, then suddenly his knees buckled and he fell to the ground unconscious. The other bearers were not prepared, and the weight of the platform was too great for them to hold; it tilted and the French armchair slid toward the ground. Kosongo gave a yell, trying to keep his balance, and for a fraction of a second he was suspended in air. Then he crashed, tangled in his mantle, hat askew and bawling with rage.
Angie Ninderera decided that the time had come to improvise, since the original plan had gone awry. With four long strides she reached the fallen king; she swept aside the guards trying to hold her back and, voicing one of her loud Comanche yells, she grabbed the king's hat and jerked it off the royal head.
Angie's action was so unexpected, and so daring, that everyone was stopped in place, as if posed for a photograph. The ground didn't tremble when the king's feet touched it. His cries of rage had not left anyone deaf; birds hadn't dropped from the skies, nor had the jungle convulsed in its final death rattles. Looking upon Kosongo's face for the first time, no one was blinded… only dumbfounded. When the hat and the curtain fell aside, what everyone could see was the unmistakable head of Commandant Maurice Mbembelé.
"Kate said that you two looked too much alike!" Angie exclaimed.
By then the soldiers had reacted and rushed to surround the commandant, but no one dared touch him. Even the men who were dragging Kate to her death released the writer and ran to their chief, but they, too, were afraid to help him. Finally Mbembelé succeeded in untangling himself from his mantle and with one motion leaped to his feet. He was the image of fury: streaming sweat, eyes bulging out of his head, foaming at the mouth, roaring like an enraged beast. He lifted one gigantic fist with the intention of pounding Angie into the ground, but she was already out of reach.
Beyé-Dokou chose that moment to step forward. It took enormous bravery to defy the commandant in normal times. To do so now when he was so indignant was suicidal. The tiny hunter looked insignificant facing the enormous Mbembelé, who rose like a tower before him. Looking up, way up, the Pygmy challenged the giant to compete in one-on-one combat.
A hum of amazement ran through the crowd. No one could believe what they were seeing. People crowded closer, pressing behind the Pygmies, and the guards, as surprised as the rest of the population, could not hold them back.
Mbembelé hesitated, caught off guard, as the slave's words penetrated his brain. When finally he comprehended the outlandish daring that such a challenge implied, he erupted in thunderous laughter that spread out like waves for several minutes. The soldiers of the Brotherhood imitated him; they felt it was expected of them, but their laughter was forced. Events had become too grotesque, and they didn't know what to do. The hostility of the villagers was tangible, and they could sense that the Bantu guards were confused and near rebellion.
"Clear the square!" ordered Mbembelé.
The concept of Ezenji, or a hand-to-hand duel, was not new to anyone in Ngoubé; that was how prisoners were punished and, in the process, a diversion was created that the commandant found entertaining. The only difference in this case was that Mbembelé would not be judge and spectator; he would himself be a participant. Obviously fighting a Pygmy did not give him a moment's worry; he would crush him like a worm, but first he would make him suffer.
Brother Fernando, who had kept a certain distance all this time, now came to the front, cloaked in a new authority. The news of his companions' deaths had reinforced his faith and his courage. He didn't fear Mbembelé, because he harbored the conviction that sooner or later evil beings pay for their sins, and the commandant had amply filled his quota of crimes. The time had come to render accounts.
"I will act as referee. You may not use firearms. What weapons do you choose, spear, knife, or machete?" he asked.
"None of them. We will fight without weapons, hand to hand," the commandant replied. His expression was truly ferocious.