The Great Agony & Pure Laughter of the Gods (21 page)

The man spoke Swahili with a Portuguese accent, and showed great pity when they explained to him why they were naked, and described their ordeal. Risto went on to add his speech about why they had left their country, what it was like living in a war-torn country, and why they needed to reach Mozambique. The man’s compassion was palpable. His name was Manuel, and despite the poverty in which he lived, he was able to help them with two pairs of shorts, old sandals and a shirt for each of them. In the hut, the old lady who had run away from them offered them water in green plastic cups that had gone blackish. The cups were dirtier than the yellowish water they drank. Merci refused to drink the ugly water.

Manuel volunteered to take them across the Ruvua. He had called another young man from the neighbouring hut for assistance. The two men got a wooden canoe ready for the crossing. When the old lady heard that they were heading to Mozambique, she warned them that the river was overflowing; they should wait for it to go down rather than risk a painful death in crocodile jaws. Risto couldn’t wait; after their experience with the thieves, he felt that each second brought death closer. Better to face it than wait for it.

They entered the river praying. Merci, who had refused to drink the water he was offered in the hut, cried with thirst while in the canoe. Manuel took a piece of coconut shell and scooped water from the yellowish river. Merci again refused to drink, but Risto drank two coconut shells of the stinking water. There was no other way to survive, better to die from disease than from thirst. Risto had survived harsher situations than these when he was a child soldier.

The river was overflowing, just as the old woman had said. The current pushed the wooden canoe in the wrong direction. It brought back memories of the boat on the Tanganyika, but Risto believed history wouldn’t repeat itself. The heavy currents were not as frightening as the strange thing that moved up and down in the murky water close to the Mozambican shore. The strange creature entered the anger of the boiling current and approached the frail canoe. Risto’s heart had left his quaking body. He had been close to death so many times and had escaped, but this terror was so real that he told everyone his home address and the name of his parents; whoever survived, he said, should send word of his death.

The crocodile was so frightening that Merci’s screams brought a small crowd of villagers to the edge of the river. They began shouting and casting stones into the river. More shouting, more stones; the crocodile finally retreated. The fight with the river currents carried on until suddenly they were in the shallows, and to his amazement, Risto found himself on Mozambican soil.

Risto wanted to pay Manuel for his help, but the man refused. They were refugees, and it was his duty to help them, he told them. So Risto told him that he needed to change dollars into meticais. They walked past small straw houses as people followed them through the village. They stopped at one larger hut and entered it as Manuel and his friend chased away the curious crowd. Risto and Merci were introduced to the owner of the house, Eduardo, and his two friends. Manuel winked at Risto, and the local men all left for another room. When they returned, Eduardo sent one of his friends to fetch a man they called the ‘businessman’, as he placed a pot on the fire. A few minutes later, the friend came back with a man wearing plastic sunglasses; this was the ‘businessman’. The money exchange began. A huge, bony tasteless fish, with brown cassava pap on a dirty grey plastic plate, was served to seal the business. Merci refused to drink the water; it was full of dirt. They brought him three cups of water, and he refused all of them. He refused the food as well, saying it looked strange. It was enough for Risto.

The money exchange didn’t go smoothly. The exchange rate was reversed three times in favour of the man with the plastic sunglasses. There were also a few coins that he refused to give them. Risto could not argue, and took the money.

They were told that a large and risky forest, which linked Moçimboa da Praia with Palma, lay ahead, full of dangerous wild animals. One of the men wore Congolese-style shoes. They had been found on the body of a Congolese refugee who had been killed and eaten by a wild animal in the same forest. It was a warning sign; death was close by, said one man. He added that he wished he could pick up another two pairs of shoes, but when he scrutinised Risto and Merci, he reversed his words, saying that he doubted if these two were Congolese. ‘Congolese wear brands, they have American dollars and always have gold and diamonds.’

The boys were in a need of a guide. Eduardo went and fetched Edmundo, a well-known bicycle driver; he would guide Risto and Merci as far as the little town of Palma. The forest was majestic; life and death were in its dark leaves, Edmundo told them. He said that he had walked the same forest his entire life; he was twenty-five years old now. He had come across wild animals several times, but the power of his ancestors had fought for him. With his smile and the Swahili that fell from his lips in slow motion, his seemed to be the face of a good guy. He wore broken sandals and had a very old bike with ropes holding some parts of it together. He was paid the equivalent of 5 000 shilingi.

Along the way, his song was the same one: Congolese meant money and clothes, gold and diamonds. They were not the first people from Congo to come that way; many had passed through, and what the locals had heard and seen of them suggested that the stories were true: Congolese had nice clothes, they paid well and they had American dollars. Edmundo echoed all this, but he admitted that this pair looked poor. With their broken sandals and dirty, torn clothes, they portrayed misery. Maybe they didn’t want to wear expensive clothes this time, Edmundo said. Risto frowned, but he hid his anger.

Edmundo added that there were only two things he was still waiting for – gold and diamonds. He said Congolese didn’t want to give away their diamonds and gold, but everyone knew very well that they had them hidden somewhere. As he was helping them, Edmundo expected some gold or a diamond, even just a little gold dust; it didn’t matter which, he said. He just wanted enough money to marry his fiancée.

Merci looked at him like a ghost; his face showed his contempt for the man’s words.

‘We are very poor. If we had money, we would hire two bikes for our transport to Palma,’ said Risto with bitterness.

Edmundo laughed at Risto, his eyes astonished. ‘But you guys … you had money to travel. I know you even have gold and diamonds, but you don’t want to give them to me.’

Risto thought Edmundo had lost his mind; his twenty-five years were not reflected in his words.

It would take them ten hours to reach Palma if they walked fast. Merci was in tears of exhaustion and thirst, suffering from the burning sun, his swelling legs and huge fear as they passed by what Edmundo said were rhinos. Risto’s body had become a fountain of sweat, but showed no sign of fatigue or pain. Edmundo refused to allow them to rest, as this would delay the journey, and the forest was dangerous at night. To allow Merci to keep up, Edmundo decided to give him a ride on his bicycle that would take them ahead of Risto; then they would rest until he caught up with them. Risto didn’t mind, even though it was eerie to be alone in the forest. Soon it became like a game – ride, stop, sit and wait for Risto; ride again and repeat the whole sequence over and over again.

At last, Edmundo drove so far ahead that Risto’s eyes couldn’t reach him; he only knew that they had stopped somewhere ahead to wait for him. After half an hour of walking alone in the frightening forest, he finally found Merci, who sat alone on the ground. Edmundo had lied, saying he was going back to find Risto; but he had run away and left them, having grown weary of waiting for a little piece of gold or a diamond which he believed the two boys didn’t want to give him. He had his money already, and there was nothing more to get from Risto and Merci, so he decided to abandon them and go home.

The boys were alone in the forest. Soon the sun would disappear and darkness would fall; if they didn’t reach people soon, they would end up in the bellies of some wild animals. Getting lost was another option that would lead straight to death. Merci did not take this news well; he held his head in his hands and sobbed for a few minutes, but Risto knew that crying wasn’t a solution.

Merci had received a tip from Edmundo; the way to Palma was the larger path that looked like a muddy road. But every single movement of leaves made their bones shake to death; they knew that in each empty clearing lions and leopards were gazing, waiting for the right moment to strike. Their own footsteps frightened them; many times they hid behind shrubs until finally realising they were hiding from their own noise, their own shadows.

Everything happened as if in a dream. As darkness fell slowly, the two boys heard human voices. Merci thought it was monkey sounds; Risto thought they were mystical spirits. But when they saw the roofs of huts, they knew they had found a village. Help was close, they thought. Soon they met people, but help was far from being found. The people wanted money; they knew the same refrain about Congolese: American dollars, smart clothes, diamonds and gold. Of course, these Congolese boys looked poor, but surely they could pay a few dollars or some gold dust. The boys were told about crooked policemen on the main road leading to Palma; they targeted refugees, arresting them and seizing their money and belongings. If those policemen heard that the villagers had shown the way to the foreigners, they would be in real trouble.

Darkness was close to engulfing the gleaming lights of the sky. Risto and Merci could see that they were approaching the end of the little village; dense bush lay ahead of them. Should they seek a place to sleep, or carry on with their journey? For the first time, they argued. Merci wanted to ask for shelter, Risto wanted to carry on. Their argument intensified.

A man in his thirties, who stood behind a nearby kiosk, called to them. He led them to his small derelict hut, its walls full of holes, a little away from the main path. There was no sign of a wife or a child. His name was Mendes. He asked them questions about their country of origin, why they were running away. When Risto realised that the man apparently lived alone in an empty hut with only reed mats and two clay pots, his heart pounded. He regretted not having followed his instinct; he should have carried on with his journey. The man said he would help them get to Palma, but what was the reason for his kindness? Risto’s heart wanted to trust him. The heart doesn’t follow logic, said his mind; this was risky. But he could not leave Merci behind; they had become more than friends. He needed to stick with Merci, whatever the cost. And for that reason, he had to stick to the strange man too.

Risto again began his long soul-touching litany about how and why he was a refugee; he needed to win the guy’s compassion. His voice carried honest tears; the word ‘refugee’ carried deep pain. Now their pain came because of the irony of people’s beliefs; people who expected to find gold, diamonds and money in the empty pockets of refugees, in the begging hands of lost boys searching for peace.

Mendes listened with tears in eyes. He told Risto and Merci that they were not the first refugees he had helped. He had recognised them, and his heart had told him to help them. He went on to show his unannounced visitors a pair of shoes that he had gotten from a Congolese refugee as a gift after helping him. He gave the boys a coconut, and told them that this was not a good time for them to travel. The police down the main road would most probably have already received the news about the two foreigners on the way, and they would be waiting. It would be better to wait, and go late at night.

Mendes said that his parents wanted to see him that evening; he apologised, but it was important and urgent. His parents lived a few metres away, where smoke could be seen above the huts.

Merci was panicking; he felt they should run away, as he was afraid that Mendes had gone to gather a mob that would come to kill them. The story of the Congolese shoes made Risto think like Merci; maybe this was the way Mendes treated refugees. Maybe he kept them in his empty house, then came back at night with friends to finish them off, and take every cent from them. But his heart resisted this idea. They did not look rich in their torn clothes and old sandals. However, his mind pushed him to run away. He feared for the small amount of money that remained; with no money, their journey would end. He dug underneath the mat close to his head and hid the money inside the soil. Merci, by his side, took a stick and kept it close to him, just in case … they wouldn’t die like cowards.

Two hours slipped by quickly in the wind of ugly thoughts. Suddenly Mendes was back, alone. It was time to go; it was around 9pm. Darkness would keep them safe from curious eyes and lurking police crooks. Mendes smoked his cannabis for protection; neither of the boys wanted to smoke. After an hour of walking, they reached the forest that separated the village from the main road going to Palma. The forest was very dangerous, Mendes confirmed. He cut branches from some wild tree and gave one to each of them to hold in their left hand. This was to chase away any fierce wild animals, just as the cannabis smoke was supposed to chase away the evil spirits.

Risto was still scared. The reason for the man’s kindness was not convincing enough. Mendes must have guessed at the mistrust their hearts were carrying, because he revealed his heart to the two strangers. He lived the simple life of an honest and trustworthy man. He believed that life exists in reciprocity. It was a simple principle he had learned from his father.

‘What we sow is what we reap. The more we give, the more we receive; curse and blessing go beyond bloodline and generations,’ he quoted his father. His father was a good man; his good deeds favoured even homeless birds and stray dogs; his community praised him. During the fight for Mozambican independence, his father was shot twice, once in his chest and once in the left leg. He waited for scavengers to finish him off, but some unknown foreign people risked their lives to take him to a missionary clinic. It was the harvest of his good deeds. Since then, he taught all his children the same principles.