Old Lovers Don't Die (25 page)

“So what did you find out? It’s not all just post dramatic stress, is it?”

“No, it’s not. The boy in the first bed is one of the sons of Kariba Offengowe. All the boys are terrified to say anything in case he comes back to get his son and kills them for running away.”

“I knew there was something not right,” Christian said, stopping as they got to the first building in the main street. “And we can’t get them to a safe place until we’ve got them well.”

“Exactly, Christian, but we need to let Emmanuel know. Perhaps we can transfer them to Kigali by ambulance which might be safer for them.”

“Okay, that’s worth thinking about. Let’s have lunch with Mohammed and then I will go and talk to Emmanuel.”

Mohammed was sitting at little wooden table half way up the main street. He spotted Christian and Isabella and waved.

“Good morning,” Christian said as Mohammed stood up to greet them. “This is a friend of mine, Isabella, who is also a doctor.”

“You forget that this is a small community. We have heard about your lady doctor friend, and that she has nursed you back to health, for which we are all very grateful. And I suppose he hasn’t told you, Isabella, that he saved my son’s life?”

“He did mention that to me.”

“May I buy you both a coffee?”

“I didn’t know that you were allowed to drink coffee as a Muslim. We are happy to drink water if you cannot join us,” Christian replied.

“Muslims introduced coffee to the world. There has been debate about it being an intoxicant but mostly it is acceptable as long as it does not have pig’s milk in it. Did you know it was discovered in the year 1400 in Yemen, and Muslims used it to stay awake to pray in the night? Then when it was exported to Europe, it was seen as an evil drink because of its association with Muslims.”

“Well, I didn’t know that. What an interesting bit of information,” Isabella said, looking at Christian who smiled and turned to Mohammed.

“Mohammed, I wanted to thank you for sending all those medical supplies. They may well have saved many of the boys’ lives including those that we brought back.”

“Helping others and contributing to peace and harmony is what the Quran and the prophet Mohammed commands us to do.”

“So that’s not just other Muslims that you are commanded to help but everyone. I thought that there was a Hadith that indicated that this command applied only to Muslim brothers?”

“You are well informed, Christian, and with a name like that I suppose you should be when it comes to religious matters. Since ultimately we are working for Allah, to whom all people belong, we help everyone where there is a need.”

“That’s not too dissimilar to Christianity then. Perhaps there is more common ground than we think. However, I am sure extremists on both sides would never allow any kind of cooperation despite the good that might come from that.”

“Unfortunately, Christian, I think you’re right. Although I don’t think that means that those of us who believe that it can be achieved should stop working for that goal. Within any religion, there will always be an old guard that sticks to the old ways. Many of us prefer the benign persuasion to gain popular support, but there are still those who believe in
al-sama’wa’l-ta’a
, and unfortunately they are the ones who capture the headlines.”

“From what I could see, Mohammed, the way that you assisted with those children across the border, was so far from forceful coercion that it has to have impacted on some of those at the hospital who might have been resistant to the idea of any cooperation.”

“Can we ask you what you know about the shooting?” Isabella asked.

“The truth is very disturbing on many levels. Young boys are kidnapped from their families and forced into being child soldiers. Other boys too young to be useful soldiers are forced into labour camps deep in the Congolese Bush. The most notorious of these, run by Kariba Offengowhe, is called Mount Golgotha. Hundreds of boys are sent down mine tunnels each day, each expected to fill 50 kg bags of rock containing Tin Tungsten and Tantalum. In temperatures of up to forty degrees, many die from exhaustion, and any who rebel are tortured or killed. Offengowe controls the flow of resources and money via the city of Goma, which Bosco the Butcher and his backers are attempting to take control over.”

“Did not the United States pass a law making it illegal to deal with militias in the Congo?” Isabella said.

“That was intended to stop abuse and illegal trade, whereas in effect, it just increased the price of resources and contributed to greater corruption and violence.”

Christian reflected for a few minutes on Mohammed’s explanation before telling him that they had one of Kariba’s sons on the hospital ward and that he was very sick.

“You may be in great danger. Kariba is an atavistic monster and when he finds out where his son is, none of those boys will be safe and you may not be.”

“He has a serious infection, and if he takes him now, then he may well die.”

“Then you will be blamed and he will kill you both.”

Christian was about to tell Mohammed about Michelangelo when a text message registered on his phone. It was from Cindy telling him that Kim Yao had found out that Michelangelo was in hospital and would be arriving that evening to return him to the orphanage. Christian finished reading the text message and quickly explained to Mohammed that Cindy had concerns that the orphanage was being used to supply boys to the militia. She thought Michelangelo might have information about that which is why Kim Yao desperately wanted him back.

“You can bring him to us. We have brothers who will protect him.”

“We could dress his wounds in the morning, and then switch him to oral antibiotics. Is there some way that we could get him to you, Mohammed, unnoticed?”

“One of our brothers supplies the pharmacy with soap. The pharmacy is next to the paediatric ward. If you were to transport him from the ward to the theatre to do his dressings, we could bring him back to us in the van. Now I must excuse myself for afternoon prayers.”

Christian and Isabella sat in silence for quite some time after Mohammed left. Isabella looked at Christian and said,

“We are going to need to tell Emmanuel and try and get his cooperation.”

“I agree. However I’m concerned, though, that he will see it as creating even greater influence for Mohammed within the hospital and may not agree. I had thought about taking Michelangelo back so that we can look after him at the Sudani’s, but then that’s the first place someone would look. Let’s walk back and see whether he’s in his office and I’ll text Cindy to find out what time Kim Yao is arriving.”

“I’ll phone the hospital to find out where Emmanuel is. Can I borrow your phone, Isabella, as I’ve left mine at the Sudani’s?”

“What’s yours is nearly mine!” she said winking at him.

They found Emmanuel sitting in his office reading an article in
Newsweek
magazine on the Somali jihadists and Boko Haram.

“You might want to read this given what I hear about your developing friendships. Africa does not need these extremists and despite a moderate approach from those locally, they cannot control the extremists. Christianity may have its fundamentalists but they do not kill innocent people,” Emmanuel said sliding the magazine across the desk towards Christian.

Christian took the magazine, thinking that the Crusades had not exactly been blameless when it came to killing innocent people. However, now was not the time to have that discussion with Emmanuel, especially with what he was about to ask.

The last text from Cindy had indicated that Kim Yao would be at the hospital at 10 AM. Mohammed had organised to deliver the soap at 9 AM to the pharmacy. Emmanuel, after much discussion, had reluctantly agreed to the plan. Christian decided to review patients in Accident and Emergency early, while Isabella went to talk to Michelangelo, so that he understood what was going to happen. It was 8 AM by the time Christian finished. There were two machete injuries, which would require suturing in theatre, a possible appendicitis and two obstructed pregnancies.

Opening the door from onto the covered concrete walkway, he saw Isabella in the distance. She was running towards him frantically waving to him to stop.

“Kim Yao is already on the ward,” she said breathlessly. “She’s making arrangements to take Michelangelo back with her.”

“Get John the orderly and I’ll slow her down,” Christian said running in the direction of the paediatric ward.

He slowed down as he entered the ward, composing himself and getting his growing anger under control. As he entered, Kim Yao was standing at the foot of Michelangelo’s bed. The only sound that could be heard in the ward was her strident voice, instructing the two men on either side of her. Christian understood the French instructions were to carry Michelangelo to the waiting car. The nurses stood back as the two men placed a stretcher next to Michelangelo’s bed. Each of the men carried a large machete in a pouch attached to their belt. Michelangelo, on seeing Kim Yao, had turned on his side with his knees pulled up under his chin and his hands over his head. Christian could see him shaking with tears trickling out of the corner of his eyes.

“If you take him, he will die.”

Kim Yao didn’t turn around or respond, continuing to instruct the two men to place Michelangelo on the stretcher.

“At least let us change his dressings before you take him.”

Kim Yao turned to face Christian with a deliberately slow and unrushed movement designed to convey to him that it was she who was in charge. Despite being a head shorter than Christian, her demeanour insinuated control. Short black hair was cut to emphasise almond oriental eyes which concentrated the gaze of anyone looking at her, reinforcing the feeling that great power resided within. There seemed, as he looked at her, to be no soul connection, so devoid were they of any feeling. Facing him, she stood with both legs apart, the balance position, which allowed movement forwards or backwards quickly. Finishing her appraisal of Christian, she said in perfect English,

“You have fifteen minutes to do the dressings before we take him with us where our doctors will attend to him.”

“His wounds need surgical debridement,” Christian said wondering what happened to John the orderly.

Kim stood and looked at him. Christian could sense that she was deciding whether it was worthwhile continuing the discussion.

“Let me repeat, in case you did not understand, we have access to doctors who can treat him. You have fifteen minutes to get him ready.”

At that moment, John trundled through the open door of the ward with the theatre trolley, a wobbly wheel making it difficult to negotiate the beds. Christian realized that he would also have to distract Kim in case she decided to follow Michelangelo to theatre.

“You will need to come with me to the superintendent’s office to sign the release papers that frees the hospital from responsibility for his care. I would then like to inspect the vehicle that you’re taking him back in. Could you please ask your two assistants to bring the vehicle around to the superintendent’s office?”

Kim did not move and did not blink. Christian could feel the repulsion implicit in complying with an order; commands, he sensed, she was used to giving - not being forced to act upon. She shifted on her feet, changing balance so that Christian wondered if she was going to strike him. Then she turned to the two men holding the stretcher and issued commands in French to bring their vehicle to the superintendent’s office. She picked up Michelangelo’s observation chart, faced Christian again and stared unblinkingly for some time conveying the harm which may come to him if she wasn’t happy with the outcome. As she walked past him and headed in the direction of the superintendent’s office, John manoeuvred the theatre trolley next to Michelangelo’s bed before helping him onto it.

Christian opened the door leading from the ward that ran down to theatre. John pushed the theatre trolley with Michelangelo onto the concrete walkway. Christian could see part way down the walkway that the pharmacy door was open. He quickly glanced back down the corridor door to make certain that Kim and her two assistants were not returning, before turning to John.

“John, you know what to do. Michelangelo is being taken to the safe place we told you about. Leave the trolley in theatre as I know they will come looking for it.”

Christian watched through the door as John slowed the trolley in front of the pharmacy. Two dark arms in a white flowing robe quickly lifted Michelangelo into the pharmacy. As he heard the sound of the van being driven away, he relaxed slightly, knowing that Michelangelo, at least for the time being, was safe. The next challenge would be to deal with Kim Yao’s anger. Christian closed the door offering a silent thank you to Mohammed. He walked slowly to Emmanuel’s office; the black Range Rover with Kim Yao’s two assistants was parked outside. Both doors were open and as Christian approached, he was invited to inspect the vehicle. A perfunctory glance was all that he needed. He closed the door and nodded to one of the assistants as Kim Yao strode out, waved the papers at Christian, and sat in the passenger seat. He watched as they drove off in the direction of theatre. He wondered how long they would wait outside before entering and finding the empty trolley.

Christian walked into Emmanuel’s office, who was sitting at his battered wooden desk shuffling the newly signed papers. Emmanuel did not look up or smile when Christian entered. He continued shuffling the papers; after a few minutes he put them in the top drawer of the desk. Then he looked at Christian and said:

“You might have bitten off more than you can chew. Kim Yao gives the impression of getting what she wants and if she is involved with the militia, as you think she is, she is going to want her material witness back whatever it takes. I hope Mohammed knows what he’s getting himself into, and that your solution to this problem doesn’t involve anyone getting hurt.”

In the previous day’s discussion, Emmanuel had been reluctant to agree to hide Michelangelo with Mohammed and his family. It was only when they explained that he was a potential witness, not only to child slavery but also Chinese government involvement and that his life was at risk if he was returned to the orphanage, that Emmanuel relented.

“If Cindy is right and there is a Chinese government involvement, they are not going to want to create publicity.”

“I hope you are right,” Emmanuel said locking the papers in his drawer.

Christian walked out through the front door and headed back towards the operating theatre. Part way down the concrete walkway, he saw Kim and her two assistants coming out from the theatre. He stopped and watched as she calmly closed the theatre door behind her before almost running to where Christian was standing. Stopping less than a meter away, she fixed him with a rabid glare.

“I will find him. And when I do, I will find you again.”

She then strode off collecting her two machete-carrying assistants before departing in the Range Rover, barely missing five new patients as it turned out through the front gate. Christian turned and headed back towards the surgical ward. He had been concerned about Kariba’s son’s increasing pulse and temperature, which he felt was going to be his next problem. As he entered the ward, he was still thinking about Kim’s threat and did not immediately notice the three older boys sitting in the corner of the ward with their intravenous lines disconnected. Then he saw Sister Margarita standing in the middle of the ward fearfully unmoving. Standing in front of her, with an AK-47 slung over one shoulder and a large machete hanging from one hip, was a young man. A red bandanna tied around his head partly covered his severed left ear, testimony undoubtedly to some previous violent encounter. He wore a dirty green T-shirt with
Kariba’s Army Rules OK
written across it. Christian walked in, and the young man turned away from the boys, taking up a stance between them and Christian. Looking to his left, Christian could see the two nurses were loading Kariba’s son in the first bed onto a stretcher. They were being supervised by an older male who sat with his boots up on the ward desk, his AK-47 pointed in the direction of the two nurses. Kariba’s henchmen had arrived to repatriate not only his son but also the other three injured boys. He looked at the older male who had now trained the AK-47 on him. A thin black moustache outlined voluminous lips. Yellowed sclera suggested he suffered from liver disease, as did the perspiration running from his brow.

“If you take him, he will die,” Christian said, nodding in the direction of Kariba’s son.

The mail with yellow eyes lowered the gun so that it centred on Christian’s chest before speaking to one of the nurses in Kinyarwandan. When he had finished speaking to her, she walked to where Christian was standing at the foot of the bed. Her hand was shaking as she gestured to Christian to bend down so that she could whisper in his ear.

“He says that you need to go with them to make the boy well.”

“Tell him that he needs surgery and the medicines that we only have here in the hospital.”

Christian watched as she walked back and resumed a discussion in Kinyarwandan. As the nurse finished conveying Christian’s instructions, sclerotic eyes focused unblinkingly on Christian.

“You come,” he said

“He will die,” Christian said as he heard Isabella walk into the ward behind him. Christian turned his head slightly, enough to see the look of horror on Isabella’s face. The perspiring face behind the AK-47 moved the gun and pointed it in Isabella’s direction as he indicated to one of the nurses to come closer. Once he finished talking to her, she approached Christian and again whispered in his ear.

“He is going to take Doctor Isabella and then if Kariba’s son dies, she dies,” she said.

He turned to explain what had been said to Isabella, when yellow eyes issued a command to the younger male in the red bandanna. The three boys in the corner then immediately stood up and walked out through the front door. Taking his boots off the desk, yellow eyes stood up and prodded Isabella in the same direction with his AK-47.

“Wait,” Christian said, positioning himself between the barrel of the gun and Isabella. With one hand placed over the barrel of the gun, he stared at the jaundiced eyes. The black pupils were like coloured stones in sea of poisonous sulphur. As they stared at each other, he could feel Isabella push in behind him and take her phone out of the pocket of his white coat. Thankfully, she had remembered. At least they would have communication.

As Isabella was marched out of the ward, he could see the prescient fear in her eyes. The overwhelming feeling of wanting to protect her briefly threatened his rational thought. He turned away, knowing the best way to keep her safe was to keep Kariba’s son alive. One of the nurses had put the young boy back in his bed and reattached his intravenous line. Christian checked that it was running correctly, and that he been given the correct dosage of antibiotics that morning.

Emmanuel put his head in his hands as Christian related the incident to him. Slowly he looked up to where Christian was sitting and shook his head.

“This is not good. I will need to inform the Minister of Police and the Minister of Health.”

He then reached for the phone on his desk, and as he did so, it rang. Christian listened as Emmanuel spoke in a combination of French and Kinyarwandan. They were short words, and it was mostly Emmanuel who was listening and replying. After a minute, he put the phone down and looked at Christian.

“That was Kariba. He wanted to make it plain that if his son, Prince Kariba he called him, died then so did Isabella. And if there was any attempted rescue or publicity, he would kill her anyhow.”

“I am going to go and see his son; I have been concerned about his temperature,” Christian said, not quite certain what else to say or do.

He walked out onto the dirt roadway and headed towards the surgical ward. He noticed a small group walking up the hill towards him. They were three or four mothers and their children. Two of the children were strapped on their mothers’ backs African style, swaying gently with each step; next to one of the mothers was a young boy in white flowing Muslim robes. When they drew level with Christian, he felt the young boy’s hand momentarily touch his. A small piece of paper was pressed into his palm. Christian stopped and was about to say something to the boy when he noticed one of Kim Yao’s assistants standing next to Accident and Emergency watching him. He squeezed the paper deeper into the palm of his hand and headed to the operating theatre where he knew he could read it unobserved.

Closing the theatre door behind him, he looked into theatre and the changing room to make sure he was alone before unfolding the paper. Mohammed had written that Michelangelo was well and they were doing his dressings twice a day as instructed. If Christian would like to come to five o’clock prayers at the mosque the next day, he could see and check up on Michelangelo’s progress. Christian quietly sighed. At least that was one thing less to worry about. He would go and see Kariba’s son, and see whether his temperature had come down as hoped.