Tuesday, 11 June 1991
Lausanne, Switzerland
Anna Aube Building
Khole River Regional Investment Group Offices
He hated this office. It had no character. There was art on the walls but not art he’d chosen. Bookshelves full of investment accounts, technical reports, legal documentation. He could have chosen things he wanted but he never spent time here. He should be in London, by all rights, but the news out of Colie couldn’t wait.
There was a light knock on the door. He looked up. The office secretary, a pretty white brunette entering her middle age, opened it a crack and popped her head in.
“There’s a Mr. Maggs here, he says he has an appointment,” she said in French. Emilie, that was her name.
“Show him in, please,” he replied. His French came out easily but she could no doubt hear the exact street he’d grown up on in his accent.
Emilie disappeared and the door opened wider to let through a stout man in a gray suit. He stood about a head shorter than the narrow Englishman, and atop his head was thinning gray-brown hair, as opposed to the sharply-cut and dyed black of the taller. This was Gregson Maggs, one of nine vice-presidents of the Khole River Group as well as being an executive vice president of Goldrush Limited in South Africa. Despite the fact that they came from nearly opposite poles of the world, there was not a paint swatch between their pale complexions.
“Mr. Hayworth, nice to see you,” said Maggs in Afrikaans-accented English. He held out his right hand and Hayworth shook it firmly.
“Mr. Maggs,” he said.
With his left hand, Hayworth gestured Maggs to a chair in front of the oak desk. Maggs moved towards it almost like they’d practiced the routine ahead of time. Hayworth looked up at the open door and saw Emilie still standing there, expectant.
“Coffee, in about ten minutes,” he said to her in French, and then closed the door. In London, his Patty would know that if he said ten, he meant twelve. Another little thing.
“The plane ride up here is a monster,” Maggs said. “Must be nice with your short hop over here.”
Hayworth sat behind the desk. He balanced his right elbow on the arm of the leather chair and he pushed the corner of his mouth into his fist. Maggs’s eyebrows knotted. Hayworth straightened up and folded his hands together on the desk.
“Something on your mind?” Maggs said.
“I suppose there’s no point in hiding it,” Hayworth said. He opened a drawer in his desk.
“Not if you can’t do it well,” Maggs chuckled. Hayworth brought out a small packet of papers, loose. He set it down and pushed it to Maggs.
“News reports out of Colie,” Hayworth said.
Maggs lifted an eyebrow as he took up the packet and used it to hide his smirk while he read. “Good luck there’s no reporters in here to catch you talking like that.”
“It’s just a word,” Hayworth said. “It was on maps.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Maggs said. “We’re on the same side. White man’s burden and all that. But guard yourself in private and you’ll be well protected in public.”
“Good advice,” Hayworth said, “for those who want it.”
Maggs looked up over the papers again. “Give me a second,” he said.
Hayworth nodded and Maggs read on. He laid the packet back on the desk.
“It’s not good,” Maggs said, agreeing with Hayworth’s obvious assessment. “The Sarros were kind of holding that center together, right? Where the border of Djosso and Kannu was?”
“There’s four border provinces that they call Sarroland,” Hayworth said. “The International League has an observer mission there; just a few people, due to the last war.”
“And now this.”
What the four news stories collected in front of Maggs told was the decision of the Sarro Defense Union, along with the International League mission, to refuse any further dealings with non-state actors as they sought the deployment of IL peacekeepers to the region. They wanted protection against the unfolding chaos of the civil war in Kannu and they no longer trusted that the sale of their minerals would buy it for them. That was a revenue stream that Hayworth was responsible for. He had built up a reputation over his career by salvaging situations like this.
“It’s a difficult problem,” Hayworth said.
“So what are you going to do?” Maggs said, but the way he looked at Hayworth made Hayworth sure that there was another question there, unspoken: Why did you drag me out here?
“I have to present this to the board,” Hayworth said. “There’s no way around it. And they are going to want to take a look at their investment strategies in Colie. Maybe even try to reduce our interests. That’s something that can’t happen.”
“Well, you know our stance on it,” Maggs said. “We’d love to get our hands on the gold in that region, but we’re not getting involved until there’s some kind of calm. So honestly, we might want to support this IL boondoggle, once I get it down to headquarters. As long as we can make sure that they eventually open up for business.”
Hayworth shook his head and waggled his hand to and fro, as if Maggs might need the message reinforced. “You’re misunderstanding me. I do want you on my side when we get into that board meeting, but that’s not the main thing.”
“What’s the main thing?”
“What I want you to do is get your people to produce a report about the viability of gold mining in Sarroland,” said Hayworth. “Something that looks good and that we could circulate internally at the Khole River Group as well as sending out to some of our partners.”
“Everyone knows there’s gold in Sarroland, though,” Maggs said.
“I want you to make a case that swift investment into the area could reap massive benefits,” Hayworth said. “Really sell it. The window is closing soon. Six months, a year maybe. Whatever sounds plausible. Once the window closes, there will be profits, but not the fantastic jackpot that investors might get if they get in now.”
Maggs pushed his lips together tightly and he considered the report. Then his eyes opened widely. They tracked from here to there, like they were following lines on a map that Hayworth couldn’t see. Finally, he blew wind out of his mouth and then fixed his eyes on Hayworth.
“Do you really think it’ll work?”
“I think it’ll work,” Hayworth said. “We can stall things in the International League for a while. Once it’s done, there won’t be any basis for sending peacekeepers into the areas we want.”
“And you’re not worried about the Sarro?” Maggs asked. “They were on the cover of Time a few years ago, wasn’t it? People still remember that kind of thing.”
“A tragedy is supposed to get more tragic,” Hayworth said. “That’s what people expect. As long as no one can tie this back to the Group, there won’t be any problem.”
Maggs looked down at the papers. He exhaled through his nostrils.
“We won’t be able to put people on the ground to do any kind of fieldwork,” Maggs said. “But we can write something up. It’s just got to get out there, right?”
“It just has to get out there,” Hayworth confirmed. “We’ll take care of the rest.”
Maggs grinned. He opened his mouth to say something but there was a light knock on the door.
“Enter,” Hayworth called out in French. The door opened and Emilie stuck her head through. Hayworth glanced at the clock. Twelve minutes. Good girl.
Friday, 19 July 1991
Bouachi, Collia
British Embassy
Drawing Room
The high commissioner Malcolm Leavitt rose to his feet first when the doors opened. Kodowu Ijemah, director of sales for Hastings Bank Collia Ltd., stood up immediately afterwards and smoothed his blue suit. He was 41 and had held this position for 2 years since being sent down from London. He’d never before had to meet high-ranking officials like he was doing now but, when he’d been sounded out, he was willing. The word came direct from Mr. Hayworth. They thought that he was the one to make the pitch.
Kodo could see a soldier in fatigues and a red beret standing just outside the door. The soldier saluted as a skinny, small, older black Collian in a neat navy-blue suit approached, nodded, and came into the drawing room of the embassy. The surroundings were quite reminiscent of a drawing room in an English townhouse: rich wooden furniture and heavy drapery that had clearly been dreamed up in a warmer climate. The light seemed wrong, so that it cast the Collian in even deeper darkness as he approached. It was English light in an English room.
“Secretary Nunyiwe, I am pleased you would accept my invitation,” said Leavitt, reaching out and shaking Nunyiwe’s hand. “I think it is a matter that will interest you. If I may introduce my associate, Mr. Kodowu Ijemah of Hastings Bank. Mr. Ijemah, the Secretary for Information.”
When the secretary’s hand escaped Leavitt’s grasp, he held it out for Kodo to shake.
“Kesannu,” said Kodo. Kesannu meant “hello”; it was the only word of Orani that he had ever learned and he didn’t venture any more, continuing in English: “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Secretary Nunyiwe.”
Nunyiwe nodded and waited for Kodo’s grip to relax so he could extricate his hand. Kodo was taller, broader, and lighter-skinned than Nunyiwe, though he was not particularly tall or broad himself. Commissioner Leavitt gestured for Nunyiwe to take one of the two luxurious chairs in the center area of the room, then he took one of a less-ostentatious kind. The other luxury chair was for Kodo. Well, Kodo reminded himself, it was for presidents and high-level government officials and the like. He was just sitting in this chair because it was available.
Leavitt’s seat put him physically an inch or two lower than Kodo and Nunyiwe, but his seat was in between the two black men. On a small, splendidly-worked little table sat a closed folder.
“Secretary Nunyiwe, I would not bring you here for a small consideration,” said Leavitt.
“Good, because I would hate to think that you would waste my time,” said Nunyiwe sharply. Leavitt glanced up at the ceiling, just a split second.
“I would not,” Leavitt agreed. “This matter could be critical for Collia’s ability to compete economically in the Khole River region. With the commodities situation in Kannu being, well, in flux, there is every chance that players such as Hagaram or Songhay will be able to capitalize at Collia’s expense.”
Nunyiwe nodded and cast his eye at Kodo. “And you have some economic solution?” Nunyiwe asked Leavitt.
Leavitt said: “Hastings Bank is uniquely positioned to help Collia contain this situation.”
“These things are not my concern,” Nunyiwe said. “Finance and banking, economics. I don’t deal in it. But Britain has always helped us, so when they told me the high commissioner wanted to meet, I came. But what do I have to do with this, other than tell Danjabi at the cabinet meeting?”
“I don’t have every detail,” Leavitt said, “but I have been given every confidence in Hastings by their work and the work of my own staff on this issue. It’s Mr. Ijemah who can tell you more directly.”
Secretary Nunyiwe finally fixed his attention on Kodo. It was not pleasant for Kodo.
“You say kesannu,” said Nunyiwe, accusing, and then he continued speaking in Orani, and Kodo did not understand. Leavitt looked at him worriedly, trying to keep his face smooth.
When Nunyiwe had satisfied himself that Kodo couldn’t reply, he barked a laugh like snapping a bone.
“You think I don’t know you?” Nunyiwe said in English. “You are Baja, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Kodo said.
“Mmhmm!” Nunyiwe replied triumphantly. “You are Baja.” He said something else in Orani, and then: “We are not like you British people, Mr. Leavitt. You come from the same country, you say that you must be brothers. It is not like that in Collia.”
“It won’t cause any problems, will it?” Leavitt asked.
“There is someone who thought that I would be happy to see a man from my country with a story to tell,” said Nunyiwe. He looked at Kodo again. “You were born here?”
“Yes, sir,” Kodo said.
“But you grew up in England?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your father was a diplomat, right? Mr…. Mr. Daniel Ijemah.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When did you leave here?”
“When I was 2.”
“And how long have you been back?”
“It’s been two years.”
Nunyiwe laughed again, this time a little more mirthful, like he was mocking Kodo. Which he probably was.
“Wonderful, wonderful,” said Nunyiwe, but he did not say it as if something good had actually occurred.
There was a beat that seemed to last forever. Kodo waited for another question. He waited a year for it. When it didn’t come, he unlatched his jaw.
“We’re interested in opening up a bank,” Kodo said. “A subsidiary. For high-risk investments.”
Nunyiwe sat back in his chair and didn’t say anything, but didn’t make any move to stop Kodo from speaking. Kodo sat forward and opened up the folder to get at the assembled reports inside.
“We have a report here from the Khole River Regional Investment Group which says that market conditions right now, and likely for the next nine months, are so good for gold that production within that time frame will be able to reap rewards of almost 50 times the normal return. Currently, the mine with the third-highest potential in the entire region is right here: Sogbofo Mine in eastern Djosso. This isn’t the only mine that we are looking at production from, but we are expecting these miners to require a lot of investment in the very short term in order to meet demand, and there will not be a lot of places for them to get it.”
Nunyiwe had sat up while Kodo spoke and was now staring intently at the papers that Kodo was going through. It was when he’d mentioned Sogbofo Mine. That was the one he’d been told to highlight specifically. Djosso and Collia had been allies for many years, so this opportunity was riper than others in the area. That single mention was enough to change this entire meeting.
The conversation proceeded cordially, but Kodo had the distinct impression that the secretary was no longer listening. When he left the meeting, he had strong assurances from both Secretary Nunyiwe and Commissioner Leavitt that they would push through any red tape and get the Southern Khole Regional Development Bank established within weeks. He wondered if he might be chosen to head that bank. No, it’d probably go to someone else.
Monday, 22 July 1991
Bouachi, Collia
Willingham House
Grand Conference Room
“Gentlemen,” said Prime Minister Charles Buriname in English. “And lady,” he added to Mabeze Afoke-Ebulo, the Secretary of Education and the one woman in the Council of State. “I thank you for another productive council meeting. Until our next meeting. I will be quite busy, but you can always reach me.”
The prime minister was a broad man who seemed crammed into a dark blue suit standing at the head of the meeting. The other members of the Council, sitting around the large semi-ovular conference table, murmured their thanks and well-wishes as they got up, gathering their papers and other materials. Abema Nunyiwe, the Secretary of Information, shot another look at General Bayeh Itanemdi, the Chief of the military General Staff. Itanemdi looked away from him and towards the prime minister so he could murmur his own goodbyes.
Nunyiwe got up and turned around, exchanging a few pleasantries with the Secretary of Housing and Welfare who sat next to him. He made sure to linger, though. The general sat much closer to the prime minister, and Nunyiwe wanted to be sure to catch him.
Another general came near to Nunyiwe and looked at him curiously. Gen. Camoah Obeng was the Secretary for Defense. There was a way in which Gen. Obeng technically outranked Gen. Itanemdi; as the head of the Defense Ministry, Obeng should have been briefed on anything military that Nunyiwe wanted to talk about. But Nunyiwe could talk to whoever he wanted, especially if they were in a Council of State meeting. He smiled thinly and held out a hand for Obeng to shake. Obeng shook it, nodded, and moved on out of the conference room.
“The little elephant,” laughed Itanemdi as he came near.
“General,” Nunyiwe said, holding his hand out. Itanemdi shook it firmly. “I was hoping I might talk to you.”
“Happy to,” he said. “Let’s start walking. Your office is here, right?”
Nunyiwe nodded. They entered the small group of officials at its back and, once they’d passed the double doors, turned right and walked down the hall. There were other functionaries moving in the opposite direction, every one of whom ducked their heads for the secretary and the general. Past a turn, Nunyiwe brought Itanemdi to his office and opened the door to let him in.
Nunyiwe had a very comfortable space afforded to himself, with a sitting room equipped with comfortable chairs and a desk for his secretary, and a private office letting out of another door. His secretary was not in; he usually didn’t stay in his office on council meeting days. Gen. Itanemdi entered and looked around, a strange smile on his face. He threw himself into a chair while Nunyiwe closed the door.
“You know,” Itanemdi said, “Obeng has good eyes.”
Nunyiwe sat down and then rubbed his own eyes. “Let’s not talk about Obeng.”
“I’ll have to report something to him,” said Itanemdi. “I hope you thought about that.”
“I didn’t. That’s for you to think about.”
Itanemdi chuckled and shook his head. “So what is it?”
“R.I.G. says we have a chance to make very good money if we can take a mine in Djosso,” said Nunyiwe.
Itanemdi’s eyebrows rose. He had very obvious interests.
“Great, if we could get there,” said Itanemdi. “But we don’t have anyone in that area. L.L.K. are in east Kannu for the most part.” The Collian government had been supporting the League for the Liberation of Kannu for years by this point.
“That’s not the problem,” said Nunyiwe. “We don’t need to hold it ourselves. R.I.G. knows how to exploit the area.”
“Then what is the problem?” asked Itanemdi, but as soon as he had spoken he seemed to figure it out: “Where did you say the mine was?”
“East Djosso, in the new provinces,” said Nunyiwe.
“Hey-eh,” exclaimed Itanemdi, shaking his head. “So they can’t deal with S.D.U.?”
“The Sarros are not making deals anymore.”
Itanemdi clicked his tongue and said something in Yadi under his breath. It was a curse that didn’t translate well into Orani.
“How did you find out about all this?” asked Itanemdi.
“R.I.G. sent an errand boy,” said Nunyiwe. “A blind one.”
“Okay. So we receive, ah… what do they call it? Finder’s fee?”
“They will set up a bank which we can be drawing from.”
“Jesus.”
Nunyiwe smiled and leaned back in his chair. “We can learn from these white people, you know.”
Itanemdi nodded. He appeared to be deep in thought. That worried Nunyiwe.
“Will there be a problem?” Nunyiwe asked.
“No, no,” Itanemdi said. “There shouldn’t be a problem. But I will have to speak to Obeng. I hope you didn’t think you would avoid that.”
Nunyiwe shook his head. “You tell him what he needs to hear. I wanted to talk to you because you have a good head on your shoulders and you would know what to say to him.”
Itanemdi smiled – smirked – and pushed himself up out of his chair. “My friend, I am not a piece of bread,” he said. “You don’t need to flatter me.”
Wednesday, 24 July 1991
Ironsah Base, Collia
Headquarters Building
Officers’ Club
Football talk stopped when the door opened to admit Gen. Camoah Obeng, but no one stood up. The air was heavy with cigar smoke. Obeng took his jacket off when he entered and he closed the door behind him. The seven men already inside did sit up in their comfortable chairs as Obeng walked forward to take a chair of his own. He threw his jacket onto the arm of a chair and then walked to the bar so he could pour himself a drink.
“You kept us waiting, Secretary,” said Gen. Bayeh Itanemdi in English. He leaned forward and ashed his cigar into an ashtray next to him. He sat in the high-backed chair which everyone called The Captain. “I said 7 o’clock. Did they not tell you?”
“You should have told him European Time,” said Major General Kefik Nkrui, a grin on his face. He waved his cigar back and forth. “If you aren’t careful, he stays on Collian Time always.”
A few of the others chuckled. Obeng came back to his chair, now carrying a short glass half full of brandy. He sat down.
“Is this still a European country?” Obeng said in Orani. Four of the others laughed at this. The three remaining scowled. One opened his mouth, but Obeng held up his hand. He repeated his rhetorical question in Maso, and then in Yadi. The scowls relaxed somewhat.
“Don’t be angry,” said Itanemdi in English. “We are here to relax.”
“Are we?” Obeng said in the same language. “If I want to relax, I go home. Do you know that when I am home, I rarely touch alcohol?”
“What would your wife say?” laughed Major General Ansah Mentafotey.
Obeng told him off in his limited Arabic. No one understood him but they all knew it was Arabic and started to speak up all at once, in varying degrees of annoyance and affront. Five of the other officers were Muslims, too, and three were drinkers; there was no need to question about the Christians.
“Okay, okay,” said Itanemdi. “We’re not here to quarrel.”
The others trailed off and made themselves relax.
“That raises the question,” Obeng said, “of why are we here? You must want someone not to hear you. Why?”
Itanemdi rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. Smoke floated up from the end of his cigar.
“I have a delicate operation which I must make you aware of,” said Itanemdi. “It is a situation I cannot ignore. But I remind you that I answer directly to the prime minister in matters of military affairs.”
“And I am at the head of the Defense Ministry,” said Obeng sharply. “I must be fully informed about all security matters. What is it you are hiding?”
“Hiding?” Itanemdi’s voice rose, but he controlled himself. “I have the authority to make my own decisions as they bear on the integrity of the military. This is not a question, this is the law.”
Obeng was obviously holding himself back now as well. He took a sip from his drink and slowly brought the cup back down. “And you want me to cooperate?”
“I am telling you that this is a military matter, not a national security matter,” said Itanemdi. “But your cooperation would be appreciated.”
“A man who wants help is supposed to bring something sweet,” said Obeng.
“This is not a time for candy,” said Itanemdi.
Obeng snorted.
“The security situation in the new provinces has deteriorated greatly,” said Itanemdi.
“I haven’t heard this,” said Obeng, startled.
“Which means that my orders were followed,” said Itanemdi. The officers other than Obeng were stone-faced. “The instability in Kannu is already at a critical point. If it is known how dire security is in eastern Djosso, forces in Kannu may decide to move into Djosso where they can re-establish themselves. This would also destabilize Djosso and could pull it into civil war as well.”
Obeng’s face worked as he tried to choose a mood that fit the information he had just received.
“What can be done about it? I understand our forces are fighting the rebels in east Kannu. Could they push through the country?”
“We will use air transports,” said Gen. Mentafotey, deputy chief of the Air Force. “As well as trucks moving through Iriko. We can dominate the region with air power before we seize it.”
Obeng stared forward for a moment, digesting what he had been told. And then:
“No.”
“General Obeng–” Itanemdi began, but Obeng didn’t let him finish.
“We cannot send uniformed soldiers in to do this,” said Obeng. “The International League will not stand for it, the International Assistance Bank will not stand for it. Discussions with the Bank are already very difficult for money we had already made agreements about. We cannot risk this. It must wait.”
Itanemdi shook his head. “It can’t wait,” he said. “If Djosso falls, it is almost certain that there will be a general war in this region. We must preserve whatever shred of peace we can if we want to ensure that no violence spills over our border.”
Obeng balled up his fist and frowned into it.
“What about the S.D.U.?” Obeng asked. “Or the Djossian Army? Can’t we supply them weapons?”
“Now we come to the problem,” Itanemdi said with a grim triumph. “The Army there is already very busy: they are fighting against M.D.D. and against the jihadis from the north. And S.D.U. was just defeated badly by fighters from Kannu; we think M.D.K. but we don’t know.”
“Destroyed?” Obeng asked.
“We don’t know,” Itanemdi said again. “But they cannot fight, not for some months at least.”
Obeng shook his head and took a drink.
“I will speak to the prime minister,” Obeng said slowly. “Make no move until then.”
“General,” Itanemdi said, his eyes darkening, but Obeng didn’t give him space.
“Don’t,” said Obeng sharply. “We will not throw this country into a crisis in order to save Djosso. What will cause a greater war, the fall of Djosso or the fall of Collia? Eh? I tell you that we cannot take a risk like this.”
“Do you think he will agree?” Itanemdi asked, and this time he didn’t let Obeng in: “He will speak to his colleagues in Barbary and in Egypt, and they will tell him no, and he will tell you no, and we will only lose time.”
“Slow down,” said Obeng. Not sharply. Not heated. Itanemdi looked at him strangely. “Listen to me.”
“I am listening.”
“We cannot move our own troops now,” said Obeng. Itanemdi opened his mouth but Obeng raised a finger. “But we do not have to move our own troops. We have lost the S.D.U. in the area. There must be some other group that can take their place, at least until they become themselves again.”
“If L.L.K. could reach, we would send them,” said Itanemdi. “But the only way for them to fight through the other forces in time is if we supported them with tanks and artillery. And that would be worse, if we simply conquered our way through Kannu.” They all understood: the people in Bouachi might cheer, but a campaign that looked like a war of naked conquest threatened to make them global pariahs.
“The war is not just L.L.K. and S.D.U.,” Obeng said. “You must be able to find someone who can do this. Move L.L.K. through Iriko if you have to. But you cannot make any move that would make it obvious we are intervening in this conflict.”
Now Itanemdi was silent for a moment. He puffed on his cigar. And then he smiled.
“You know, Camoah, I have always said you were intelligent,” said Itanemdi. “I knew you would come with a, ah, what do they call it? A stick up your ass.” The others laughed. Obeng let himself smile. “But you are a thinker. This is why you are where you are and I am where I am. But we must work together.”
Obeng lifted his nearly-empty glass. “We will work together.”
Friday, 2 August 1991
Namali, Djosso
Boasi & Sons Warehouse
Sergeant Okwuobi Makai sat in the passenger seat of the truck, his AK rifle sticking out of the open window. He smoked a cigarette intently and looked at the blur of people and buildings as they tore past. He wore green, a stereotype of a military man who was not allowed to wear his colors but couldn’t imagine going too far. That wasn’t an accident; they wanted to tease the line. The Collian Army had only sent two out for this, and though they didn’t want to be tied directly to anything going on here, the sight of a gun and an Army-looking man would keep riffraff away. But they weren’t taking chances. That was why Antawuah was pushing 120 kph even in the outskirts of the city.
Major Banwon Antawuah dressed in a light-colored shirt with his sleeves bunched up above his elbows, a pair of khaki pants, and brown loafers. Another part of the ploy. They wanted to look like traders working on their own, trying to avoid attention while they moved their product. Connected to the military, possibly, but not close enough that someone could take a picture and use it as evidence.
Namali was a city of 12,000 which sat at the border of Djosso and Borso, which usually gave it a kind of protection; no one had wanted to accidentally cross the border and anger the Borsi since they had one of the more powerful armies in the region. Everything had changed within the last five months.
The Djossian Army had already been combatting the Movement for a Democratic Djosso and the Western Jihad Movement for some time when they finally got an agreement from Borso to supply a regiment – the 3rd Regiment, under the command of Marshal Adeku Motonsah – to help secure Djosso against the foreign fighters. As soon as Motonsah crossed into Djosso, he declared himself and his regiment at war with Borso as well as Djosso. His force, which he called the Khole Unity Rally, has grown to over 10,000 fighters. They hid in the forest just a few miles from Namali, threatening everyone with their presence.
Antawuah finally saw the dilapidated park he had been told to watch for, with its rusted merry-go-round and swingless swings. He stomped the brake and the road screeched under the truck. As soon as he had a manageable speed, he hauled the beast around a corner and started in among the narrower streets. Here the streetsides were packed with people and things. Much of the things were garbage, collected after being neglected over time, but much was still in use. People packed up mats which marked out stalls or swept clean the front of stores. No one paid them much attention. They’d all seen guns before.
Makai looked at Antawuah strangely. Antawuah knew he must be reciting the instructions under his breath, but he only consciously realized it it when he noticed Makai’s look. His recitation skipped but then he continued. He didn’t know this place, it was the only way he’d keep it straight in his head. Most of the buildings were low, rarely taller than three stories, and the stores bore signs that were more often-than-not half advertisement for Rock-a-Cola.
Near the top of one building was painted the words “BOASI VE OĞULLARI”. Antawuah slowed down further. A gaggle of boys, none older than about 14, stood together on the road and looked placidly at Antawuah and Makai, illuminated in the deepening evening by the truck’s headlights. Antawuah rolled down his window and leaned out.
“Come on, get out!” he snapped in Turkish, sweeping his arm upward like he wanted to scoop them up and toss them over his shoulder. “We have somewhere to be!”
Slowly, the boys began to move away. Most of them shifted to the right. A few, having chosen wrong, let themselves drift to the other side and simply watched their compatriots as Antawuah gradually nudged his truck forward, craning his neck to get the best look so he could make sure not to crush any of these children. He thought he’d made it past, so he sped up a bit to get through. No one screamed. He looked back and the boys came back together, doing whatever they had been doing. Antawuah exhaled.
“Hey! Hey!” A man came out from the building, crossing the packed lot towards them. He wore dark clothes and carried an Uzi slung over his shoulder by a strap. Another man stepped out from the small door as well, this one carrying an AK-type rifle. The first one shouted, still in Turkish: “Who are you? What are you doing here? Back this thing out of here!”
“I am called Ibrahim Sifah,” Antawuah called back. He shut the truck’s engine off. “Go call your boss. He knows I am coming here.”
The man with the Uzi came forward a few more steps while Antawuah spoke but he didn’t come right up to the truck. He eyed Antawuah and Makai. Then he called back to the other man: “He says he is called Sifah! Go see what the captain says.”
The AK man nodded, opened the door, and went back in. The Uzi man waited, finger hovering near the trigger but not on it.
“Look,” said Makai, under his breath and in English. Antawuah glanced at him and Makai jutted his chin up. Antawuah followed. There was a man with a rifle on top of the roof now. There were probably even more inside the building. Makai’s cigarette was done; the butt spat out on the road.
Finally, the door opened again. The AK man stepped out and called: “Let Sifah come in.”
The Uzi man stepped back from the door and gestured impatiently. “Okay, come out, come out.”
Antawuah nodded and opened the door of the truck, then stepped down onto the earth of the unpaved lot. Before he could take two steps, the Uzi man had jabbed his gun into Antawuah’s ribs.
“Do you have weapons?” the man asked.
Antawuah nodded. “In the glove box.”
The man used one hand to search all over Antawuah’s body, his other hand keeping hold of his weapon, making sure Antawuah wouldn’t feel bold enough to make any move.
“Okay,” the Uzi man said. “Now him, too.”
“No, he’s not coming in,” Antawuah said.
“It doesn’t matter,” the man said. “He gives up his weapon, and he gives up your gun from the car, too.”
“He does not give up his weapon,” Antawuah snapped. “He will stay here, armed, and you won’t do anything about it.”
The Uzi man simply adjusted his grip on his gun.
“I’m going inside to meet your captain, correct?” Antawuah said. “I will speak to him. If your captain wants him to be searched, you can come back out and do it. But let him be until then.”
The Uzi man glowered. After several seconds, he looked at Makai and shouted, for both their benefit: “If you move, we will shoot! Understand?”
Makai nodded. The Uzi man used his gun to gesture Antawuah toward the door. “Go in. They will show you where he is.”
Antawuah walked into the building through the open door. The room beyond was full of old shelves made of scrap metal, bearing assorted boxes and loose items wherever they hadn’t collapsed. Two men with rifles stood inside, looking at Antawuah with hard eyes. One of them jerked his head towards the back of the large room. It was a loading bay, Antawuah realized, just full of merchandise. The garage door had been obscured by one of their vehicles.
He made his way between the rows of shelves and towards an office in the back of the bay. Another man with a rifle stood there; when Antawuah approached, the man opened the door and pushed it backwards. Antawuah nodded at the guard as he passed by and entered the little office. The door was closed behind him.
A narrow, middle-aged man with a blunt face sat in a metal folding chair, his feet up on a cheap metal desk, a cigarette in his mouth. Antawuah looked over his shoulder. There was yet another guard, this one wearing a ball cap and carrying an Uzi, leaning in the corner of the room. Antawuah looked back at the seated man. The seated man rolled his eyes over to Antawuah. He wore a faded t-shirt for an American rock band and a pair of blue jeans cut off at the knees.
“You are Sifah?” the man asked in Turkish.
Antawuah nodded. He glanced back at the guard again.
“Must he be here?” Antawuah asked the seated man.
“Does it matter?” the man asked. “Are we conducting secret business?”
Antawuah stared at the man and the man grinned.
“This is Kwadu,” the man said. He brought his feet down off of the desk, stamped them on the ground, and slapped his hands on his knees. “Kwadu, meet Ibrahim Sifah.”
“Kwadu, would you wait outside?” Antawuah asked without looking back.
The seated man’s face darkened. He held up a hand to stop Kwadu doing anything.
“What do you think you are doing?” the man snapped.
“What are you afraid of?” Antawuah replied. “I have no gun. I’ve come here to deal with you, not to play games and waste time. If you don’t want to deal, I turn around and I go home.”
The man frowned for a second. Then he looked at Kwadu.
“Wait outside,” the man said. “If we have to shoot this one, I’ll let you do it, huh?”
Antawuah didn’t look to see how Kwadu took that. He just listened. The door opened, feet moved, the door closed. The man looked at Antawuah now.
“Remember who commands the guns in this place,” the man said. “We are both military. Remember that.”
“This is not a children’s game,” Antawuah said. “I don’t speak in front of people who shouldn’t know me.”
The man held up a finger. “Do not give orders to my men,” he said. “That is the one thing I will not tolerate.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Antawuah said. “How many people are walking out of that forest without hands these days?”
“This is war,” the man said. “As if your hands are clean.”
Antawuah wanted to retort. The man was waiting for it. But he had to listen to himself.
“You are Marshal Motonsah,” said Antawuah.
The man nodded and said “I am.”
“I am Major Banwon Antawuah, Collian Army,” said Antawuah. He did not have to expose himself more. Motonsah nodded.
“I was surprised when they told me that the Collians wanted to talk,” said Motonsah. “I’m interested to hear what you want from me.”
“It’s an urgent matter. We need to seal the border between Djosso and Kannu.”
Motonsah’s eyes seemed like they were going to explode out of his head. “Eh? Do you not know what brought me here to this place?”
“I know that,” said Antawuah. “We don’t need you to support the Djossian Army. We need you to block any of the Kannian fighters from drifting into Djosso.”
“What is Djosso to me?” said Motonsah. “Just an obstacle to the unity of the Khole River peoples. Let it fall.”
“Don’t try to fool me with bullshit,” said Antawuah. “Do you think Collia will stand by while you try to build some new state? I don’t know what pushed you away from your country but don’t try to sell me on it.”
Motonsah crushed his cigarette out in an ashtray and then looked at it like he regretted doing it. He turned his eyes to Antawuah. “You haven’t told me why I should bother.”
“What is it you want?” Antawuah asked.
“I want the Collians to recognize the Unity Rally,” said Motonsah.
“Have you gone crazy?” Antawuah said.
“They must recognize us so that we can operate freely,” Motonsah said. “We must have access to the international markets. We must have investment.”
“Investment?” Antawuah said, half-bark and half-laugh. “Marshal, I’m not here to talk politics. You know that is not up for negotiation.”
“Everything is up for negotiation,” Motonsah said.
“Not this.”
Motonsah stared at Antawuah, rubbing above his upper lip.
“What do you want?” Antawuah asked again.
Motonsah did not want to answer. Antawuah could see that. But finally the general said “We need weapons. I have many many people without proper guns.”
“We might be able to help with that,” Antawuah said. “If you can secure the region, the Army will–”
“No, no, no,” said Motonsah. “We need guns now. You must allow us to set up a connection with someone who can be supplying us as we need. We need a connection at the port who we can trust.”
“You ask quite a lot from us,” Antawuah said. “That is not something easily set up. And this cannot wait.”
“Give me something,” said Motonsah. “Do you think I’m foolish enough to throw away the lives of my people for nothing? If you have nothing to give, we stay here and wait for our opportunity.”
“You’re asking too much,” Antawuah said again. “We might be able to help you arrange that kind of deal but we can’t do it now.”
“So you are useless.”
“Wait, marshal, wait. We can’t give you everything you want right now. But we will help to supply you if you can get this done. Can you get it done?”
“That is irrelevant,” said Motonsah. “If you cannot give us guns now, there is no deal.”
“But you can do it?”
“If I tell my soldiers to push over a mountain, they will push it over,” said Motonsah. “But only if I say it. Not you.”
A typical brag. But it told Antawuah enough.
“Okay. Let’s go outside. I brought something which I think will convince you.”
Motonsah got up and gestured towards the door. Antawuah knocked from his side, then pulled the door in to open it. Kwadu waited on the other side. He, Antawuah, Motonsah, and the others walked back to the door and out into the evening. Someone lit a kerosene lantern.
“Turn on the lights,” Antawuah called out to Makai. In a moment, the headlights flicked on. Kwadu said something to someone else and they hustled off. Antawuah led Motonsah and the others around to the back of the truck. The high sides of the hauler were metal and a tarp had been thrown over the whole thing, tied down with military knots. Antawuah undid them and lifted the flap up. One of the others came to pull up the other side.
In the back of the truck were stacked wooden crates. Between two stacks was wedged a briefcase; Antawuah reached out and grabbed it. There was running around them; one of the other men had come back and he ran into another truck in the lot and turned on its headlights, casting that light onto the back of the truck where Antawuah and Motonsah stood.
“You have a crowbar?” Antawuah asked the marshal. Motonsah looked over at Kwadu who called another person. Rather than wait, Antawuah set the briefcase down at the edge of the truck bed and unlocked it, then opened it to show the neatly tiled dollar bills inside. “2 million, US.”
Motonsah picked up a sheaf of bills and flipped through them. “Okay, that’s good,” he said. “Cash is king, like they say.”
“Where’s the crowbar?” Antawuah asked, looking around. In a few more seconds, someone came up and handed over a shovel.
“What is this?” Motonsah said, annoyed. He snatched the shovel. “Get out of here. Foolish people.”
“There is no crowbar, now,” Kwadu said in defense of the man.
“Shut up,” Motonsah snapped. He jammed the blade of the shovel under the lip of a crate and levered it a few times before the lid peeled back, nails still dug in. He finally lifted the top fully off and looked inside. The lantern was brought forward so that Motonsah could properly inspect the cargo.
“Five hundred M-16s,” Antawuah said. “And about one million rounds. I know you would have preferred Russian.”
“M-16 works fine,” Motonsah said. “Gun is better than no gun. And soon we will be able to buy ammo whenever we need.”
“So you’ll do it?” Antawuah asked.
“As long as this is just a start.”
“It is. It will be.”
“Good.” Marshal Motonsah looked up at his people. “Get the others, open the big door. We’re taking everything out and putting it inside.”
Kwadu started shouting for people to get others and bring carts. Motonsah lifted one of the rifles out of the box and started to inspect it. Antawuah went into his back pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He handed it to Motonsah.
“What is this?” asked Motonsah.
“General locations of strong points,” said Antawuah. “If they have crossed over the border, they will likely be in these places.”
“I see.” Motonsah took the paper. He held out his hand. “Mr. Sifah, we will do more business in the future.”
Antawuah shook the marshal’s hand, then the marshal set the M-16 down, picked up the briefcase, and went back inside. Unloading the truck took roughly fifteen minutes with all the hands that Motonsah’s people were able to roust. Antawuah then backed the truck out of the parking lot and started down the road to take him back out of this city. They would stop for the night but at a smaller town. Somewhere they hadn’t already passed through.
In the warehouse office, Motonsah dropped the briefcase onto the desk and sat heavily into the chair. He reached into a drawer for another cigarette. First Captain Kwadu Fadutumah, Motonsah’s aide-de-camp, entered soon after, accompanied by Captain Bateme Daran, his intelligence officer; like Motonsah and Kwadu, Capt. Daran was dressed casually, in a pair of loose-fitting slacks and a red t-shirt that declared his allegiance to a fruit punch mascot. Motonsah lit a cigarette, drew, then tossed the pack of cigarettes and the lighter over to Kwadu who caught them and lit up himself.
“So that was the Collian?” Daran asked in Gugbani; all three of them were of the Gugban people, as was most of the core of regulars Motonsah had brought with him into this independent venture.
“Yeah,” said Motonsah.
“What did he want?” Daran asked.
“He wants us to move to east Djosso. Make sure none of the Kannians can get across the border.”
“Is he going to tell the Djossians to clear our way?”
“No,” said Motonsah.
“They want to act like they’re not involved,” said Kwadu through a cloud of smoke.
“Okay,” said Daran, “so what are we going to do?”
“Nothing, right?” said Kwadu. “We have whatever money he gave us, we have these guns. They’re going to cheat us out of anything more. We don’t need to spill any of our blood.”
“We are going to do it,” said Motonsah. “But you’re right. We can’t trust the Collians any more than we could trust the British.”
“So why do their dirty work?” Daran asked.
“Simple: we can’t stay here. We’ve been in the forest for months. The people in this town are getting restless. Back home, they are figuring out how much more of the army they can risk to try and hunt us down. Right here, we’re only making it easy for them.”
“East Djosso is Sarroland,” said Kwadu. “Do we want to get involved fighting S.D.U.? The Collians will not want them harmed. The international press, you know.”
Motonsah smiled. He took the paper which Antawuah had given him out of his pocket and unfolded it. After a quick look, he saw what he expected to see. He handed it to Kwadu who scanned the map briefly.
“What is this?” Kwadu asked.
“The Collian, Major Antawuah, said that they were places where Kannians might set themselves up,” Motonsah said. “It’s nonsense. Those are S.D.U. strongholds. You see? Collia wants us to wipe them out.”
“I don’t believe it,” Daran said.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Motonsah said. “I don’t know everything they want but I don’t care. They want S.D.U. out and I am happy to do it.”
“Why not ally with S.D.U.?” asked Kwadu.
“Will S.D.U. give me Sarroland?” Motonsah replied. “They will not. But we can take Sarroland. We can make it into the center of our Unified State of the Khole Peoples. All we have to do is clean the place out of the Sarro.”
“General, I don’t think this is wise,” said Daran. “We will make many enemies.”
“Whoever wins in Kannu will ally with us,” said Motonsah. “Songhay will ally with us. Eventually Collia will ally with us. The Sarro will soon be forgotten.”
“Collia will not ally with us,” said Daran. Pleading. “Collia will fight us to the last. Europe will send in troops against us.”
“Daran, my friend,” said Motonsah, “are you with me or are you not with me? Eh?”
“Marshal, I am with you, but–”
“But?” Motonsah demanded, his voice rising. “But?”
“I am with you,” said Daran, shakily.
“You are?”
“I am with you.”
“Again?”
“General, I am with you.”
“Again?”
Daran stood sharply at attention. “General! I am with you!”
Motonsah sat back in his chair and waved Daran away. Daran looked over his shoulder at Kwadu who was staring into him as if he had become a rabid animal.
Sunday, 18 August 1991
Embane, Djosso
It started on the road south out of the village of Embane. A group of women walking, baskets balanced on their heads, were gunned down from the forest which pushed up against the village from the south and west. They fell into the dirt and bled, their baskets emptied laundry onto the road. Others who came to the south edge of the village were shot at. Panic rippled through the houses, through the groups of people who were outside. A few men went into their houses to find where they had put their guns.
Suddenly the south road was full of people coming from the south. Most wore tanktops and t-shirts, shorts mostly, sneakers or sandals or nothing. They carried rifles, most of them AKs but a few M-16s. They didn’t march in order, they loped along in a gang, bumping shoulders, kicking up dust. And they sang.
Who has seen the white man?
We have chased him out of here
So why do we suffer
The white man’s little friend?
If mosquito comes by
Slap his face and sit in peace
Do not let him land on you
White man’s little Sarro
The song was in Turkish, the common language of the Khole River region. Not everyone in the village would understand, but enough would. And some of them might even recognize the song as a Kannian song. It was first sung seven years ago in the Djosso–Kannu War, when the Kannians had turned the weight of their military against their Sarro population. Radio Kannu had made the song infamous, but no one had played it over the radio since the end of that war.
Those at the front of the column opened fire as soon as they saw buildings. Screams filled the air. Some village men fired back at the column, but they couldn’t do more than wound a few people. Whenever one was seen, the fighters of the Khole Unity Rally simply gathered in force, five against one, and riddled their target with bullets until there was no return fire.
1st Capt. Kwadu Fadutumah rode on the back of an open-topped military vehicle which rolled along near the center of this detachment. He was in fatigues and a black beret and a pair of dark sunglasses, his preferred attire. He didn’t need to give any orders. His fighters were already overrunning the village. Doors were being kicked in. The screaming hadn’t stopped; now there was wailing. Fewer of his men were singing, but that was alright; he knew it was because they were busy fighting.
All men and boys must die. Everyone else, that was not Fadutumah’s concern. He knew his soldiers were raping the women and looting the houses. He had been a common soldier before, he had done what they were doing now. He knew some were using their knives, he knew there was torture. Who cared? The Sarro were not going to survive in this place. Whatever his fighters wanted to do was fine as long as they killed all the males.
“Hey, captain!” someone called out. Fadutumah looked over at a fighter in a black tank-top and shorts, carrying an AK rifle across his body. The young man jogged to keep up with Fadutumah’s vehicle.
“What is it?” Fadutumah asked.
“They told me to tell you that there are people gathered at the mosque. There’s a few fighters inside and they are defending it.”
Fadutumah nodded. “Burn it down.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, and then he took off.
Fadutumah let the driver take them to the center of the village where he could see women being dragged out of their homes, being struck with fists and feet and rifle butts. Children screamed and cried. As many of his fighters were using machetes as were using their guns. He shook his head. He wanted them to move fast; they didn’t need to conserve ammo.
“Let’s go to the mosque,” Fadutumah said, tapping the swagger stick on the side of the vehicle. The driver assented and drove out, heading the same way as a well-trodden road. Fadutumah could see the mud-built minaret from here.
There, the fighters were already putting together bombs made out of alcohol bottles, under the direction of two of Fadutumah’s Borsi soldiers. When enough had been made, a group of his fighters set up and opened fire on the mosque to keep them from firing back. This let those with the bombs come up and throw the bombs in through the mosque’s windows. Soon, smoke poured out of every window, and flames licked out as well. The soldiers yelled and the shooting stopped. Eventually, a boy pushed his way out of the mosque door, stumbling and coughing pathetically. Someone shot him. The other rifles opened up again.
Fadutumah began to sing again, and others joined him, singing of being rid of the Sarros. There was another verse, one which hadn’t been heard in the last war, and which not everyone knew.
Who will fight for Khole?
We will fight for this sweet land.
Who would sell the river?
We will not allow them to.
Yes, we fight for unity
Unity of Khole River
Sarros would sell the river
So we cut them into pieces
Thursday, 29 August 1991
Embane, Djosso
The Anatolian observer from the International League, Captain Ahmed Shener, leaned forward on the hood of the jeep and shook his head with its big, ostentatious blue helmet strapped on tightly. Shener wore a khaki uniform as well. He was not here to fight. The Djossians, First Lieutenant Jehan Chiriwe and Second Lieutenant Mambouba Mamboiku, were both leaner than him, both wore fatigues, and both were without head protection. Chiriwe, the shorter, watched Shener take in the information. Mamboiku lit a cigarette.
Around them was the ruined village of Embane. Blood was splattered tellingly all around this square, and bodies lay rotting in the sun. No one had touched this place since the Khole Unity Rally had moved through it. They had found thirty-one bodies so far, including three women on the road into the village. Most of the dead were in and around the village mosque. The K.U.R. fighters hadn’t spared any of the buildings, though. Not a single one.
He had hoped that riding into town in two jeeps, effectively alone, would have induced anyone hiding to show themselves. Either they didn’t trust anyone in fatigues at this point – reasonable, from Chiriwe’s point of view – or they were simply gone. He didn’t care to follow that line of thinking any further. Hopefully they’d hidden away in the forest.
“I can’t believe what you’re saying,” said Capt. Shener, speaking Anatolian Turkish. “I am here to ensure the protection of the Sarro. How could they not know what the international community–”
“You aren’t listening to me,” said 1st Lt. Chiriwe in the local Turkish. “They know about the international community. No one who commits these acts of violence doesn’t know. But they also know you are limited. See? You are here and not a company of Turkish tanks. You and a few other observers.”
“They will be brought before the Court of Human Rights,” said Shener. “General Mogho is in Brussels even now–”
“Mogho was only taken because Kannu signed a treaty,” Chiriwe said. “The Court would never have got their hands on him if he wasn’t given up.”
Shener shook his head again, but he didn’t have anything to say.
“But I don’t understand,” said Mamboiku. “Are you saying they want to wipe out the Sarros or not?”
“Some of them want to,” said Chiriwe. “The others just see an opportunity and they don’t care.”
“How can people be so heartless?” asked Mamboiku.
“It’s very easy to do,” said Chiriwe. “You think it’s easy to feel for people? It’s heavy, my friend. You were taught to bear it, so you don’t think about it. Now. One day it will get even heavier.”
He was going to continue speaking but he heard someone running up behind him. He turned. It was one of his soldiers, Marcher Azuda Koadao, who stopped and snapped a salute.
“Sir, I have Captain Ighokote on the radio,” said Koadao.
Chiriwe nodded and followed Koadao to the edge of the village. He kept his eyes away from the houses where he could see evidence of the K.U.R. assault. Two of the other soldiers hung out near the jeep that Koadao had ridden in on. They both saluted as Chiriwe approached, and one of them handed over the radio from its place in the jeep.
“Captain,” Chiriwe said.
“Mr. University,” 1st Capt. Ighokote replied. Chiriwe scowled.
“Do you have orders, sir?”
“Have you found anything new?”
“No, sir. They’ve been through here but they didn’t leave anything. No survivors that we’ve found. I have a few people in the forest but–”
“No, no, that’s enough,” said Ighokote. “Return to the company. It’s time we head back to base.”
“Yes, sir,” said Chiriwe. The other end went dead. Chiriwe handed the radio back to one of the marchers.
“What did he say?” asked Mamboiku. He and Capt. Shener had just walked over from the village center.
“We’re going,” Chiriwe said.
“Going?” asked Shener, incredulous.
“We’re not going to do anything?” Mamboiku asked. “Did you tell the captain about what it’s like here?”
“Do you think he doesn’t know?” Chiriwe passed his eyes from Mamboiku to Shener.
“If he knows, he must come back with force to make it right,” Mamboiku said. Shener could not say so but Chiriwe expected that he agreed.
“How many thousands of K.U.R. do you think there are in this forest?” Chiriwe asked. “Sogbofo Mine is just a few kilometers from here. You tell me which of your fellow soldiers you would choose to go die against them.”
“So they’ve won?” asked Shener.
“What use are we if we cannot fight back against them?” asked Mamboiku.
“I said that K.U.R. is like a fist at the end of a long arm,” said Chiriwe, “with a brain that is in Europe. Us here, we are like a finger. If we want to strike, we have to be gathered into a fist. And we must have a strong arm to launch us, and a steady shoulder, and a sturdy neck, and a brain that’s clever enough to have us punch what needs to be punched. If the finger goes by itself to knock over the wall, what happens?”
“We cannot always wait,” said Mamboiku. “Not everything is solved by reading books.”
“Then go,” Chiriwe said. He looked seriously at Mamboiku, who was five years his senior. “Go pick up your gun and go into the bush. But there is a chance that the Army can tear out these enemies. One day. Just not today.”
Chiriwe looked at Mamboiku and Mamboiku looked at Chiriwe. After neither said anything for a moment, Chiriwe turned and walked off, waving his hand to get the attention of some soldiers who were off at a distance. Mamboiku stared after him. Another few moments passed. The stench of flesh-rot swam under his nostrils. He pushed down a retch, then opened his eyes when he noticed Shener coming up beside him.
“It’s a hard lesson,” Shener said. “But he’s right. What else could we do now?”
Mamboiku closed his eyes and inhaled. The stench of the village flooded him but he needed the air.
“If I had any courage,” said Mamboiku, opening his eyes. He glanced at Shener, then looked off at the trees. “I would shoot you in the head, and then go shoot Chiriwe.”
Mamboiku walked away from Shener then, his arms swinging at his sides. He wasn’t sure if he would ride back with Chiriwe and the others. He avoided the buildings, avoided the village. He walked towards the forest, through tall grass. His boot hit something and he stumbled, then caught himself. He turned back to see what it was. It was an arm. A left arm, hacked free. Mamboiku squatted down in front of it, his arms folded atop his knees, and he pushed his face into his arms, and he wept.