Chapter Sixteen.
Ngongo, July 16th-July 17th, 2007; Nairobi, July, 2007; South Africa, July, 2007-January 2008.
It turned out that no bomb had gone off. Since the news of my apprehension was learned by the Cadre just in time to effect the escape of the boy, Albert, who had placed the trash can in front of the Musee’, no-one other than myself was apprehended. The members of the Executive were, of course, nowhere to be found.
On Monday, July 16th, the day of my liberation, I was brought to a safe house in the city’s northern suburbs. There, my wounds were attended to, I was fed, and slept for the remainder of the day and night. Since I still looked terrible, and the bribe had purchased only a forty-eight-hour safe conduct, which might be revoked for any number of reasons, I was instructed to turn up at the market that afternoon (Tuesday), disguised as a ragged beggar. Should the NKN intercept the note I was told to give to Mr. J’s emissary, Bob Shepard, it might lead them to believe they could apprehend me late that night in the Parc.
Directly after making contact with the American, I switched to the first of several further identities, and they whisked me out of Fort Chaltin, across the country, over the border to DRC, and on to Nairobi. As in the days of my youth, I made parts of this journey by mammy wagon and matatu, but much of the time I sped along secondary roads on the backs of motorcycles or scooters, in the trunks of automobiles, or beneath piles of cargo in long-haul trucks.
In one village where I stayed the night, almost at the border of DRC, I heard a story of how Cadre fighters had ambushed a pack of NKN searchers on the outskirts of Mindouli. One among the latter was Gros Pierre. I thrilled to hear of how this thug had been battu à un pouce de sa vie [“beaten within an inch of his life”]. I was glad, however, that no one had been killed.
Not only do I share the attitude of one of my great heroes, South Africa’s Archbishop Tutu (1931-2021), who endorsed violence only when it was measured and necessary, I also retain the belief from my Acholi childhood that killing G.P. would have been kir, the violation of a taboo, and would thus have required elaborate and costly cleansing ceremonies for the perpetrators.
Is it my faith in Pan-Africanism that makes me believe that Desmond Tutu was, deep down, a fellow Acholi? Was the God of Peace that he worshipped a kinsman of Lacwec, the Acholi creator? Is it any wonder that many Acholi have found Christianity compatible with our traditional beliefs? Of course, the Cadre comrades who cornered Gros Pierre also knew that they need not soil their hands with the blood of people like him and his master, Michael Horvat. For luyaks [“robbers”] like them can expect premature death, if not sooner, then later.
My arrival in Nairobi occasioned a subdued celebration: I was Guest of Honor at a small party at Mr. J’s emporium. My old benefactor was still convalescent from his recent cardiac episode, and the few Cadre present were licking their psychological wounds over the failed assassination, but everyone was glad of my escape, and relieved that no-one else had been apprehended. Accompanying the usual vats of tea was a delicious chocolate cake. The baker, Freddie Kipsang, was especially ebullient about my reappearance. Between hugs and kisses, she jumped up and down, shouting, Lazaro anatoka kaburini [“Lazarus come from the tomb!”]. Dear Freddie!
Among others in attendance, in addition to those just mentioned, I saw only a few known faces, including Dr. Mwita and his guest lecturer, whose name (as I mentioned) was Blanche Mbabazi, and whom the Professor introduced to me as the Executive Secretary of the One Kenya Committee. Also present was my Zambian host-for-a-day, Dorcas Banda, aka “Bila Kujulikana.” When I asked Mr. J. where Mishach Ndukwe was, he replied with a sad expression and silent shrug.
One might have thought I would remain in Nairobi for a while longer, licking my wounds and enjoying further “R & R.” But I was told this would be unsafe, for even that peaceful haven was currently plagued by post-election protests and related inter-ethnic vendettas. The fact that I looked like a typical Luo could have exposed me to particular danger. (I remembered Mishach’s having been persecuted as an Igbo.) Poor Freddie was terribly conflicted. She approved of the protests, which were against corruption and inequality, but these good motives were inseparable from the ethnic violence that endangered her lover –- me!
By then, I was aware of the horrid possibility of becoming this generation’s Mishach, a wandering refugee. Of course, it was unthinkable to identify with the many thousands of destitute, faceless masses huddled in tent cities across Africa, and beyond.
In the event, it did not prove necessary to consider that I might share their fate. For, within a few days of my arrival in Nairobi, Mr. J and Freddie’s extensive network managed to whisk me off to Cape Town, to the sheltering arms of the ANCYL. Those people had not forgotten my services, such as they were, during the early nineties. In fact, it was Jonny M--, the man who had prompted my return to Ngongo in 1994, who vouched for me the most vociferously. If he had been a different type of person, I might have thought he was feeling guilty for having pushed me into the jaws of the crocodile.
Thankfully, in 2007, South Africa was enjoying a quiet time. So I remained there long enough to witness the nation’s October victory over England in the Rugby World Cup! Meanwhile, since the glow of Majority Rule had not yet faded, S.A. remained a popular tourist destination. Soon after my arrival, I procured (with ANC assistance) a job as translator for a Cape Town tour-bus company. As compensation for riding hither and yon all day, and for translating the driver’s patter into French, Swahili, and occasionally even Luo, I was paid a wage that enabled me to subsist during those months, without any need of charity.
Meanwhile, Mr. J. and Freddie’s network continued their efforts to find a more lasting remedy for my “homelessness.” On Monday, November 12th, 2007, I received a momentous phone call at, of all places, Robbin Island. Since the call reached me during a lunch break, while my flock was touring the “facilities” under the care of a former prisoner, I was able fully to savor the excellent news.
My lover and my benefactor had somehow procured a coveted visa for me to move to the Promised Land, the United States of America. As Freddie said, “They need your skills over there, Petey. You will easily find employment as a translator for one of the agencies dealing with the flood of refugees from our poor Africa. Perhaps, even, the United Nations High Commission for Refugees!” Dear selfless Freddie did not even mention the fact that my good fortune might mean our permanent separation. Or had she grown tired of me?
I also owed this good fortune to a third helper. The obstacle to U.S. immigration of my having fled my home country was circumvented through the assistance of Mr. Bob Shepard, who turned out to be a retired attorney. Mr. Shepard vouched for me, promising me a job upon arrival, and thereby satisfying the Immigration authorities that I would not become a burden on the American taxpayer. An acquaintance of his who was an immigration specialist also procured a coveted “Green Card” for me, on the basis of Ngongo’s well-documented persecution of political dissidents. Possession of this card was a prerequisite for…
At any rate, it took until the second week of January, 2008, to clear all the bureaucratic hurdles, at which point a plane ticket from Jo’burg to New York City was purchased for me. With all of my papers in order, I was finally on my way to the U.S.
Arriving at New York’s Kennedy airport, I spotted a vaguely familiar elderly gentleman, wearing an immense coat that looked like a green igloo. He was holding a placard aloft, on which was printed PIERRE B. TSHOMBE, in large block letters. In smaller letters, at the bottom of the placard, was his name, ROBERT M. SHEPARD. Had I been in need of such, Mr. Shepard would have made a second “great white father.”
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