Displaced (7 page)

“Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” he replied.

“Would you like breakfast? Coffee? There is
some in the pot. I’ll make you some eggs.”

He didn’t object and yielded to her in the
small space that made up his kitchen. He sipped his coffee and
listened to her recount the movie she had seen the night before. On
Saturdays, Jonathan would sleep in, often nursing a hangover. He
liked to go to the Grand Hotel, where he could swim in the pool and
eat from the buffet. Other times, he would take a public minivan, a
matatu, to Entebbe and swim at the Lake Victoria Hotel. Today he
planned to go to the Lake Victoria and then stop by the airport,
and he would need to drive himself.

“At the beginning,” she was saying, “they
were all just young kids and they lived together in the same
neighborhood. And they grew up together and went to school
together. The one, the main character, had a girlfriend and he was
very nice.”

“It sounds nice,” he said. He drank his
coffee and watched her cook the eggs as she talked.

“He had two friends, one was a sports star
and the other was a gangster and they lived in Compton. Where is
Compton?”

“It’s in California.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“No.”

“Well at the end, his one friend was killed
and then his other friend killed the people who murdered him. Have
you ever been to the United States?”

“Yes”

“Where?”

“I’ve been to Washington, DC, which is the
capitol and New York and to Seattle and to Oregon.”

“But not to Compton.”

“No, I haven’t been to Compton. It’s not
exactly a tourist destination.”

“I’ve heard songs about Compton.”

“I don’t think it’s a very safe place.”

“I would like to visit Compton.”

“Okay, we’ll get you a flak jacket.”

“A flak jacket?”

“In case you get shot.”

She looked at him puzzled, then smiled and
flipped the eggs onto a plate. The apartment was located in the
Bugalobi flats, west of town past the Shoprite in an area not
usually favored by expatriates but by middle class Ugandans.
Jonathan was sensitive about the appearance of an expat with a
local girl. He couldn’t help feeling a bit cliché and when they
went out together, he avoided the usual expat hangouts. His Ugandan
neighbors didn’t seem to particularly care if Debra was a maid or
mistress. And if they did, he would never hear about it.

He gave Debra some money and a ride, dropping
her off at the market near the taxi park. Mid morning he drove out
the main road between Kampala and Entebbe alone. Traffic was light
and few people were on the road, either walking or driving, and he
made good time. Before going to the office, he stopped at the Lake
Victoria Hotel, for an early lunch and a swim. The day was not yet
hot and after swimming he decided to walk the short distance to the
shore of Lake Victoria. He had the idea that it might be nice to
walk along the beach there. So he left the hotel and walked down
the narrow paved road to the lake. On one side of the road open
field with knee high grass stretched to the tree line on the other
bougainvillea bushes, green with bright red flowers bordered the
road. The sky was blue and clear and overhead kingfishers perched
on a single utility line strung pole to pole. He passed a small
compound of low cinderblock structures, some with metal roofs, some
without. A goat tied to a bush picked at a trash pile and ignored
him as he walked by.

He came to the lake and walked a short
distance on the beach which was not at all pleasant. It was fishy
smelling and covered with snail shells washed up at one end of the
beach. Thinking the better of his idea, he decided to return and
make his way to his office. At the entrance to the beach three boda
boda moped drivers waited for a fare. For five hundred shillings
one of them drove him the short distance back up the hill to the
hotel. Normally, he avoided these rides as too dangerous, but
figured going up the hill the bike couldn’t gain much speed. The
small engine of the moped strained under the weight of the two
riders as it made its way to the hotel.

In his office, Jonathan reviewed a manifest
for a shipment of formula and mosquito nets. He organized the
certificate of origin and put together the customs form excepting
the shipment from duties. Flight 2499 from Frankfurt, Germany was
scheduled for arrival in the morning for transit to Goma. The
shipment did not require customs clearance but the Uganda Customs
Bureau could be unpredictable and it was better to be prepared for
all possibilities. The ease with which he could unload and divide
the shipment for forward transport was often dependent on what
customs officer was on duty rather than any governing rule or
regulation. He drafted a cover sheet and faxed it together with the
certificate of origin to the customs office. He checked his email
from his computer and opened a message from Major Singh.

To Jonathan

From Gurpatwant Singh

Dear Jonathan:

Hope you are well. I have been on the road
and have not seen you around the airport. I am in Goma now and have
been spending my time between Goma and Bunia. As you know the
situation here and particularly in Bunia is uncertain and
changeable.

I have a favor to ask for Tuesday, I need
transportation for fifty 100 pound bags of cement from Kampala to
Bunia. I know that it is asking a lot but these resources are
important for UN mission to meet obligations in the region. Your
earliest response would be greatly appreciated. Look forward to
hearing from you soon.

G. Singh

Jonathan read the second paragraph twice,
fifty 100 pound bags was a hell of a lot to ask. If this were
important to the UN mission, Singh would have made a proper request
through the UN, he thought. Today was Saturday, he was not required
to be in the office, and he would respond on Monday. He had no
intention of shipping cement, not without a good reason. He would
politely put him off, too heavy, not enough room, he would come up
with a reason, but he would do it on Monday. Singh would be
disappointed but Jonathan wasn’t obligated.

****

From time to time as they walked, one or the
other would hear something or think that they heard something and
Philomene would grab Nicole by the wrist and both of them would run
and hide in the bush. Philomene constantly scanned the road ahead,
looking for and anticipating places where they could hide. At some
places the road would open into small savannahs or pass through
areas where the trees had been burnt or stripped, offering little
cover and Philomene would nervously pick up the pace. Once in the
distance they heard a truck engine and they exited the road across
a shallow gully and hid in a thicket of jungle. The truck, a large
self contained cargo truck, roared past going fast over the
decrepit road, seemingly as afraid of being caught in the open as
they were.

Later they hid again upon hearing voices in
the distance. They watched from their hiding place in a bramble of
fallen trees and vines as a group of young men walked in the
opposite direction. Six of them, three with machetes, two with
spears, and one with a rifle slung over his shoulder. They were
unidentifiable to either Philomene or Nicole by appearance,
dialect, or clothing. Just one more group of armed men in an area
overpopulated with armed men.

They were afraid to talk too much or make too
much noise, but Philomene was keen on engaging Nicole in
conversation. They spoke in low tones and Philomene told her they
would cross into Uganda, that her Uncle Mukadi had made
arrangements for them there, it was simply a matter of days. She
questioned Nicole and Nicole talked about France and school and her
cousin in Paris. For long stretches, however, they walked in
silence. The only sounds being the sounds of the forest. In spots
where the trees had been cut and burned for charcoal, there was
little sound at all. They were startled by a family of baboons that
emerged from the bush behind them without warning. Indifferent to
the possibility of danger, they languidly crossed the road paying
scant attention to the travelers ahead of them. One paused in the
road and watched Nicole and Philomene walk away. Seeing the animals
reminded Nicole of picnics and her father, who would throw stones
at the baboons trying to steal food.

At night they found a secluded hidden spot
some distance from the road. The area was sufficiently dry and
Philomene cut branches and leaves to make a mat of sorts. They
unfolded the plastic sheeting they had brought from home and sat
down. Nicole removed her shoes and tended as best as possible to
the large puffy blister under the bottom of her small toe.
Philomene gave her a piece of cloth to wrap around the toe and
prevent it from rubbing against her shoe. They each ate a boiled
egg and some bread from Philomene’s bag and then lay down for the
evening. Through the canopy of trees, Nicole looked out at the
night sky and the Milky Way before dozing off. She dreamt of her
father. They were sitting together at home in the side room her
father used as a study. He was explaining to her the state of
things, why it would be better for her to leave, to maybe try and
return to France. Then she saw him walking in the small garden he
kept in the yard behind the house. He was carrying a small garden
shear and watering can and he was tending to his flowers. And now
he was explaining to her again.

“I’m sorry daughter, I tried my best, I let
you down.”

“It’s okay father.”

“I was making plans, plans for all of us to
get out together. We should have left sooner. I should have sent
you away.”

“It’s okay father, I understand.”

She walked with her father and ran in the
backyard where she played carelessly as a girl. She kicked her legs
underneath her as if playing now and woke herself up and she lay
listening to the sounds of the forest through the tarpaulin before
falling asleep again.

The birds and the sun woke them both at about
the same time in the morning and they sat on the plastic rubbing
the sleep from their faces. They ate the biscuits they had brought
with them before packing together their things and resuming their
journey. The road under their feet, an unbroken ribbon of red clay,
continued where they left off from the day before. They walked most
of the morning and the bush was sparser, broken up by grassy
openings and areas of clear cut. The sun was approaching noon and
the day was growing warm. Philomene considered the wisdom of
walking in the open during daylight. She would suggest conserving
their energy, hiding during the day and then walking at night.

At the same moment, they both heard voices.
Nicole and Philomene stopped for a second and then moved quickly
across the road and into the forest. They buried themselves in the
bush. Through the leaves, Philomene could just make out three
figures in the distance across the bend in the road. Three colors,
white, scarlet and turquoise were slowly making their way towards
them. She felt Nicole shudder beside her.

“Shh Nicole, its okay, I think they’re
refugees,” she said. Nicole shifted in her place and moved trying
to find a drier space. The figures slowly made their way closer and
Philomene wondered how they could have caught up to them from
behind. She must not have been paying attention to allow herself to
be overtaken, she thought. She could distinctly make out three
figures not moving quickly, occasionally talking but their words
were indiscernible. She watched as two women, and a man who carried
a sack over his shoulder came into view. When they got close and
she could make out that they appeared to be refugees and weren’t
carrying guns, she called out to them without revealing
herself.

“Hello!”

They stopped talking and froze as if their
stillness would make them invisible in the middle of the road.
Startled they searched for the source of their fright. “Who is it?”
finally said the man looking toward the forest in the direction of
the sound of the noise.

“Who are you?” Philomene called back.

“We are coming from Nyakunde, who are
you?”

“Just two of us, we are walking toward
Djugu.”

“Okay, where are you?”

Nicole at first resisted Philomene’s attempt
to reveal themselves, but when Philomene stepped forward she saw
little point in hiding and the two women walked out into the road
to face the strangers. They introduced themselves as Ibrahim, Rose
and Therese, and said they were fleeing from Nyakunde after
escaping an attack on the town. Ibrahim explained the attack on the
hospital where they worked while Rose looked at the ground shaking
her head and Therese fidgeted with the edge of her blouse.

“We were at the hospital when a column of
Ngiti militia came down the mountain,” he said. “As soon as they
came into town, they seemed to know right where they were going. I
heard the commander shout, ‘Do not touch the hospital,’ but they
ignored him and made straight for the hospital. I was afraid, I ran
inside, I wanted to tell the doctors,” he said.

“Through the window of the hospital, I saw
them kill a Bira woman, Louise. They caught her out in the yard. I
saw another woman shot by arrows. I saw them break through the
fence and break into the building I was in and they started killing
people. We hid in the ceiling of the operating room. At night, we
snuck out and made it here.”

Philomene listened to this story and knew it
was the story shared by many in that country, the actors varied but
the narrative was essentially the same and always ended in
violence. Not knowing what else to say and not wanting to have to
recount their own circumstances, she shifted the subject to the
present. “We don’t have much with us, we also left in a hurry, we
have some water we can share.” She produced a plastic water bottle
which she handed to Rose unsolicited and Rose thanked her.