Africa39 (10 page)

Syreeta drove through the gate barely three minutes later. Furo started to raise his hand, but let it fall when he realised she’d already seen him. She pulled up, and he climbed into the Honda’s chill, which was spiced with a whiff of the traffic warden’s sweat. The skin over Syreeta’s cheekbones was stretched tight, a vein beat in her temple, and the car radio was off. Furo knew better than to ask about the traffic warden, how she had got rid of him so quickly. He held his gaze away from her face; he stared through the windscreen. Road signs whizzed past.
No honking. No hawkers. No litter. No parking.
No okadas and danfos. The quiet through which the car sailed was deeper-rooted than the fact of the silent radio. No crowds, no roadside garbage, no traffic jam, no noise.

The Lagos he knew was far from this place.

from the forthcoming novel
Our Time of Sorrow

Jackee Budesta Batanda

The bell announcing prayer time rang earlier than usual and more urgently this time. The bell was an old tyre rim tied to a mango tree branch dangling close to the ground. Its persistent ringing reminded me of the numerous times the phone in the vicar’s office rang. I had learned to tell the time by listening to the sounds in the night. The way the trees whistled meant that it was still early and although my brain had become accustomed to the bell ringing at a certain time, my body was still weak. I didn’t feel like praying today or ever again. I just wanted to remain lying on my mat, between the other sleeping forms, listening to the sound of their breathing and snores, and waiting for the End of the World. I tried to imagine what kind of dreams they had when their souls visited the land of dreams; instead my thoughts kept drifting to my own dream. It had been about Mzee Turomwe who doubted and would be killed. In my dream his head was dangling before me, his mouth wide open as if he had managed one last protest before his head was severed. His eyes kept winking at me, and then his mouth twitched into a smile before resuming its mournful countenance. I had opened my eyes to find myself on my sleeping mat and failed to get back to sleep again.

I had difficulty sleeping after I had crept out of the banana plantation ahead of Byaruha, who followed me much later as planned so as not to arouse suspicion. We knew we were treading on dangerous ground. During one Mass, Owa Puroguramu
had announced that the Blessed Mother had banned sex because it made us impure. We were the brides of the Lord Jesus, and we had to keep our purity if we were to go to heaven. That had been the day marrieds were separated and banned from further sexual liaisons. I had not bothered about the purity because I never cleansed myself enough. In any case, none of the penance I performed could rid me of my original sin.

Byaruha had singled me out long before the prohibition on sex was announced. He said he would cleanse me of my sin and then I was too scared to know any better. I also gave in because he was one of the inner circle of police also known as the ‘Blessed Ones’ and I believed he had the powers to cleanse me. He had broken my virginity and since then had continued having privileges with my body.

I never stopped him. This was not as bad as the sin I had carried with me from birth, which made everyone stare at me as if I gave off a rotten stench. I was the love child of a married woman and a priest, a taboo within the community. I was blamed for every bad thing that happened, because of the ‘demon of seductive temptation’, they said, that had led to my birth. The visionary singled me out for exorcism, the day Ma and I joined the Movement. It seemed the demon that possessed me returned in another form and I did not chase it away. I gladly welcomed it back and let it repossess me. Byaruha seemed to know. I still had to do penance for that sin I had no hand in creating. I had accepted Byaruha’s intrusions on my body as a purging of my sin and had come to accept the sex as I had learned to carry the demon which had settled in my body from the day of my birth.

This morning I did not feel like seeking the grace or face of God. I wanted to lie in contentment with my little demon and listen to the voices that the woman who lived in a little store by the chapel had told me about. She was a closely guarded secret, only a few people within the community knew about her. It was my job to feed her and I had nicknamed her the Secret Woman – I didn’t know her name. The voices, she had said, communicated to us from beneath the earth, if we only learned to listen to them. These same voices had predicted Mzee Turomwe’s murder.

I started to move as the others woke up slowly from their fits of interrupted sleep. We were being called to the House of the Lord, and no one ignored the summons. I sprang up, threw my thin blanket aside, rolled my sleeping mat and joined the others heading for the door. We rushed to wash our faces, to rinse the sleep from our eyes and the dreams from our heads because lateness was a mortal sin. The bell could be the sign we were waiting for that the end had come. We wouldn’t want to be left behind. We brushed against each other but only nodded greetings as we scrambled for the door like people rushing out of a room on fire.

By the time we entered the chapel the elders and visionaries were already assembled. It was a large rectangular room. We usually sat on the cold cement floor when we were not standing. The wooden blinds were shut to keep out the early wind and the spirits that would still be loitering about at that time of the morning. We immediately took our places on the floor – children in one corner near the altar, while the rest of us took the remaining places. The guards leaned against the walls. We were told they were there to protect us from any attacks by the evil one. They were like archangels in heaven. The Bishop of our Blessed Virgin, Owa Puroguramu,
the vicar and the parish priest. The other elders and visionaries, also known as the apostles, twelve in number, sat behind the altar where the statue of the Blessed Mother carrying her son, and statues of the Holy Family stood. They sat on the only seats in the room, looking reverent, their hands on their laps.

The bishop was rarely seen at these Masses. We only saw him when an exorcism was taking place, and this was mainly when new members joined the Movement. His presence here also meant there had been another vision from the Blessed Mother. We sat in silence and waited. The vicar stood up and conducted the morning Mass as he did each day. This time he moved towards us sprinkling holy water, which fell on our faces, first stinging us with the cold and later rolling down our foreheads. It was a cleansing carried out before the Messenger stood to deliver the message from the Blessed Mother to ensure that the message fell on holy ground. With the sprinkling of holy water completed, the vicar returned and took his seat and waited for the Messenger. Owa Puroguramu
had indeed received another message.

When she stood up we bowed in silence before raising our faces.

‘My children, do not despair. These are the last days, and only those who follow my teachings and listen to my message shall survive the terror. Pray and fast unceasingly that you may not be left behind. Pray against the demons of doubt. Pray and fast. Keep yourselves pure at all times. Many will fall but stand firm. You are my chosen ones . . .’ Her voice receded, and she started mumbling to herself as she was rocked by spasms. Then a small murmur started at the back of the gathering and picked up slowly as we all started praying out loud.

Even after the declaration of the communal fast, I still prepared the special meals. The fast was meant for the rest of the congregation who were not in direct communion with God; everyone except the vicar, the bishop, Owa Puroguramu, the twelve apostles and the Blessed Ones. For their sake the rest of us had to fast in order to get closer to him. The regular fasts were on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. This time the fast was for all the seven days of the week. We were to drink only water.

I peeled the bunch of
matooke
and wrapped it in banana leaves before placing the load in a saucepan and pouring water round the bundle and putting it on the fire to steam. I put the peelings on a woven tray by the door. The kitchen cleaner would carry the peelings to the rubbish pit later. Next I poured rice on another woven tray, cleaned and sorted the rice before putting it to boil, and set about preparing the sauce:
eshabwe
, beef, beans and
dodo
vegetables. This made me forget the rest of the world for a time, as I concentrated on the meal I was preparing, careful that nothing burned.

I later set the dining table in the house near the chapel, where the elders always had their meals, wondering why they would eat food when they had ordered the rest of the congregation to go without for a week.

I carried a meal to the Secret Woman and entered without knocking on the door. A damp smell filled the room. She crouched in her corner. Her long hair was uncombed and wild, and it seemed like she had been pulling at it. Her eyes looked through me as I set the food down before her and sat waiting for her to eat or to start talking. We sat in silence, listening to the sound of each other’s breath. She stretched her hand over the food and clasped my wrist, holding my gaze as she turned my palm over. I dropped my eyes.

‘He does not believe you,’ she spoke.

I stared at her.

‘He told you not to mention me to the vicar in your confession. He’s right. Every man has a secret that must be guarded. Even the vicar who listens to your sins every Thursday has his own secrets. His own sins. But he does no penance.’

‘You should not talk so,’ I whispered.

She laughed softly in response.

‘But I can. I should. They say something ate my brains and held my tongue. He told you last night. Yes! Something ate my brains and put something else there instead. But you are special. That is why my tongue is loosed when you come in here. You are special.’

I tried to disengage my hand from her grip. This was the first time someone was telling me I was special. It sent warmth through my body. I smiled – a shy smile that started slowly and took over my face. My other hand went to my cheek. I saw my smiling face in her eyes. She did not let go of my hand but tightened her grip.

‘No, I’m not. There is a demon that sits in my body. I carry it like the memories in my head.’

‘That’s what they tell you. But what do you tell yourself?’

‘I have paid for all my future sins,’ I heard my voice say.

‘You should learn to smile more often,’ she said.

‘But what is there to smile about?’

‘The man. You have started to love him. You feel a burning in your heart when you see him.’

I looked at her and dropped my gaze because her eyes were searing through mine, reading secrets I did not want revealed. It was wrong that she would read me so well. It was wrong to start to love the man. It was wrong.

‘I am not special,’ I mumbled. ‘I am a child of sin.’

‘We all are children of sin. And we all have secrets.’

‘No,’ I burst in. ‘The apostles do not have sins. They are God’s messengers.’

‘Ah, but they have the biggest sins and secrets too.’

‘I have to leave,’ I said.

‘Nothing ate my brains,’ she replied letting go of my hand. ‘I see things and hear many things. The man who doubted was not at the Way of the Cross?’

I had forgotten about Mzee Turomwe. I had not searched for his face during the Mass.

‘He was.’

‘Hmm . . .’she grunted and spat on the floor. ‘His life left him. Look again.’

I stumbled out of the room. This time I had not cajoled her to eat. She had taken over the conversation. How could she accuse the elders? They were in direct communion with the Blessed Mother and received messages from her. They had the powers to punish and pardon any of us. We led a life according to the visions passed on to us through the apostles.

When Byaruha and I met in the plantation that night, I asked him.

‘What’s your secret?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We all have secrets. Those little sins we polish and pretend are harmless. What is yours?’

‘You,’ he said. ‘You are my secret.’

‘Why doesn’t the Blessed Mother punish us?’

He did not answer me.

The closed meetings intensified after the declaration of the fast. The apostles, the bishop, the vicar and Owa Puroguramu
spent hours locked in the meeting room, only taking a break to eat the meals I prepared. It made the air around the place thick with anticipation. It reminded me of the time in the mid-nineties, when Father Romaro left the Movement, a few months after Restetuta, the first deserter had left. Restetuta, a widow, had been the first person to leave the Movement enclosure and walk down that winding dirt road out of the imprisoning fold of the compound back to the one-street town that stands on a roundabout. Nothing was done because the Movement did not consider Restetuta a threat. The departure of Father Romaro, one of the apostles, shook the foundation of Movement. Meetings had been held for days. Only then, the elders had not raised their voices at any time. It was obvious that something was amiss. We had not been told what the matter was but from the little Byaruha said, it had to do with Father Romaro’s disagreement with Owa Puroguramu
over the vision, which ordered the followers to sell all their property and give the money to the Movement. Father Romaro’s argument had been that when Jesus walked this earth thousands of years ago, he had not requested people to sell their property and give him the money. The meetings had been held to discuss the matter at hand and to bring him back to his senses. They had yielded nothing and Father Romaro had addressed us in the church, asking those against the selling of their property to return with him to the main church. Only a few people had followed him, while the rest of us had looked at them in sympathy. Sorry for them, that they were returning to the world of sin. That the End of the World would pass them by while we ascended to glory to sit at the right hand of Jesus Christ, our Saviour. We had pitied them. After all, Owa Puroguramu had warned us of the fickle ones who would lose their faith in favour of worldly riches. They had not understood the meaning of separation, of oneness, of humility and sacrifice. Of nothingness in exchange for eternal life.