Kananga
26-05-2004, 16:06
The tall man, stooping under his burden, picked his way steadily across the burning dust-bowl of the market square, watching, without seeming to, as the ragged mass of humanity jostled and pushed one another to reach the stalls selling what little food remained, as isolated instances of casual murder were ignored as scores, both old and new were settled, as old and young alike were trampled underfoot where they feel.
“This is what we are become,” he though grimly to himself. “It’s worse than I thought.”
Hitching his load higher on his back, and wary of the throng, he drifted steadily through the tangled masses. He caught glimpses as he moved over the heads of his countrymen of the strangers, the hated imperialists. There were several groups of the hated ones posted around the square, and he could just make out a cluster of what looked to him like junior officers huddled, heads together, under a parasol in front of the old colonial hotel. He turned his head away and spat. “Foreign dogs!” he muttered under his breath. “Their time has come.”
Coming finally to his target, he carefully checked the crowd around him. His security detail were all in place. Dropping his bundle, hitching up the dusty, shredded trousers that were his sole clothing, the man hopped up on the low wall that ran across the front of the shebeen, and turned to look out across the square.
Raising his hands high above his head, he began to speak, ignored for the most part in his tattered rags, except by the street urchins who always seemed to lurk where there was entertainment to be had. But, occasionally, men and women stopped to listen, and having heard, stayed. He spoke of history, of the great tribes that had been before the men had come with their guns and their liquor and their diseases. He spoke of the ancestors, and reminded the slowly increasing circle of listeners of their forgotten culture and roots. Slowly, imperceptibly, ripples of silence coursed across the crowded square as more and more turned to listen, rapt. As they did so, he gradually raised his voice, so that all could hear his words.
“And, oh my people, what now? I see you this day scavenging like dogs for the entertainment of the imperialists . .”
A low muttering ran through the crowd. The hated ones were aware of him now, and the cluster of officers had broken up, with a few looking his way and speaking into their communication devices. Their men (“Pah!” he thought to himself) were no longer relaxed, and had closed their groups tighter together. As he spoke he watched the various groups of hated ones scattered around the outskirts of the square gradually draw together.
“And there they are!” he flung a gaunt arm out, pointing straight at the coalescing groups of hated ones. “They claimed to bring peace and prosperity! They are no different from all the other imperialist invaders! Bumato was not a good man, Bikala was not a good man, but they were OUR men,” he roared across the silent square. “They were our rulers and we were their people – these foreigners,” he spat into the dust, “they are not even men. How can we let them rule us? They say they want to help us, but they just want to use us like all the other imperialists! To strip our country bare! To take our women as little more that slaves, to oppress our children!”
The crowd had got into the mood now, and a barely suppressed growl erupted with his last statement. Heads were starting to turn towards the hated ones.
“What should we do?” he shouted.
“Kill the hated ones!!” shouted an anonymous voice.
“No, no, my children. The time is not right for killing – we have treated them as honoured guests, we have made them welcome and we must now thank them for their assistance. And we must ask them to leave now!!”
Loud shouts, both of agreement and disagreement, greeted his announcement, and the hornets’ nest hum of the crowd grew and spread like the rising tide.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small group of the hated ones starting to push their way through the crowd. “Ah,” he thought, delighted. “They finally did it!”
“See, my children,” he cried over the rising drone of the people, massed and angry before him. “They don’t want to go – they want to stay forever!! Their leader has even said this!! They don’t want you to know the truth, so they will take me away from you!!” he bellowed, pointing at the knot of hated ones trying to push their way towards him.
Cries of “protect the teacher” and “don’t let them near him” rent the air as the crowd began to compress around the small knot of foreigners, who were forced to a standstill by the sheer weight of humanity ranged against them.
Suddenly, a shot rang out across the square, and the speaker was pitched headlong from the low wall he was standing on. The crowd surged forward with a wordless scream. Gingerly, the speaker clambered unsteadily up from where he had fallen, and retook his perch on the wall, raising his arms wide, to reveal the blood pulsing from the wound in his side and running in ruby rivulets to stain his rags.
“You see, my children,” he wailed. “They cannot and will not let you hear the truth!! But do not fear them, they will not beat us down for ever!! Honour them for their …”
The last was drowned out by the mindless roar of the crowd as it surged in on the isolated pocket of hated ones still trapped in their midst. Here and there machetes glittered. The foreigners’ officers began to hastily deploy their remaining men to try to link up with their stranded troops, only to be forced back onto the crumbling veranda of the old hotel.
Into the sudden silence came the dreadful sound of firing as the surrounded hated ones, in fear for their lives, opened fire on the mass of humanity surrounding them, pressing in on them from all sides. Behind the gunfire, they started to try to cut their way through to their comrades in front of the old hotel. With an angry howl, they were buried under a mass of bodies as men fought their way through the firestorm to bury their machetes in the their bodies.
The mass of humanity, men, women, children, seethed as the people struggled to come to grips with the hated ones, to tear them limb from limb, to hack out in their desperation at their oppressors.
Long after the hated ones were dead, the crowd continued to flail at them with their machetes as the corpses were dismembered and thrown at the remaining hated ones cowering behind their levelled weapons on the old hotel’s veranda. Bits of the dead flew through the air, impacting with sodden slaps amongst the remaining foreigners.
The crowd paused, before turning their savagery on the remaining foreigners, who opened fire, scything down whole sections of the mass of people as it surged towards them, propelled by its own momentum. Bodies lay strewn across the dusty square, and the wounded were trampled underfoot, mewling and wailing in agony, as the enraged crowd pressed heedlessly on towards the hated ones.
It was a massacre. The sheer weight of firepower pouring in on the struggling mass was too much for many, and the dead and dying piled up in droves. People began to force their way back, and the battling mass seethed and roiled as more and more tried to escape the fury of the foreigners’ guns, to flee across the square and down the side alleys – anywhere but away from the stammering guns, hammering out their message of pitiless fury.
Many looked for the Teacher as they ran, knowing, certain, that it was he who had spoken to them, and that he was their true salvation.
But he was gone, his security team having collapsed in around him at the first shot, leading him off to safety through the shebeen.
He would be back. The blue touchpaper had been lit.
“This is what we are become,” he though grimly to himself. “It’s worse than I thought.”
Hitching his load higher on his back, and wary of the throng, he drifted steadily through the tangled masses. He caught glimpses as he moved over the heads of his countrymen of the strangers, the hated imperialists. There were several groups of the hated ones posted around the square, and he could just make out a cluster of what looked to him like junior officers huddled, heads together, under a parasol in front of the old colonial hotel. He turned his head away and spat. “Foreign dogs!” he muttered under his breath. “Their time has come.”
Coming finally to his target, he carefully checked the crowd around him. His security detail were all in place. Dropping his bundle, hitching up the dusty, shredded trousers that were his sole clothing, the man hopped up on the low wall that ran across the front of the shebeen, and turned to look out across the square.
Raising his hands high above his head, he began to speak, ignored for the most part in his tattered rags, except by the street urchins who always seemed to lurk where there was entertainment to be had. But, occasionally, men and women stopped to listen, and having heard, stayed. He spoke of history, of the great tribes that had been before the men had come with their guns and their liquor and their diseases. He spoke of the ancestors, and reminded the slowly increasing circle of listeners of their forgotten culture and roots. Slowly, imperceptibly, ripples of silence coursed across the crowded square as more and more turned to listen, rapt. As they did so, he gradually raised his voice, so that all could hear his words.
“And, oh my people, what now? I see you this day scavenging like dogs for the entertainment of the imperialists . .”
A low muttering ran through the crowd. The hated ones were aware of him now, and the cluster of officers had broken up, with a few looking his way and speaking into their communication devices. Their men (“Pah!” he thought to himself) were no longer relaxed, and had closed their groups tighter together. As he spoke he watched the various groups of hated ones scattered around the outskirts of the square gradually draw together.
“And there they are!” he flung a gaunt arm out, pointing straight at the coalescing groups of hated ones. “They claimed to bring peace and prosperity! They are no different from all the other imperialist invaders! Bumato was not a good man, Bikala was not a good man, but they were OUR men,” he roared across the silent square. “They were our rulers and we were their people – these foreigners,” he spat into the dust, “they are not even men. How can we let them rule us? They say they want to help us, but they just want to use us like all the other imperialists! To strip our country bare! To take our women as little more that slaves, to oppress our children!”
The crowd had got into the mood now, and a barely suppressed growl erupted with his last statement. Heads were starting to turn towards the hated ones.
“What should we do?” he shouted.
“Kill the hated ones!!” shouted an anonymous voice.
“No, no, my children. The time is not right for killing – we have treated them as honoured guests, we have made them welcome and we must now thank them for their assistance. And we must ask them to leave now!!”
Loud shouts, both of agreement and disagreement, greeted his announcement, and the hornets’ nest hum of the crowd grew and spread like the rising tide.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small group of the hated ones starting to push their way through the crowd. “Ah,” he thought, delighted. “They finally did it!”
“See, my children,” he cried over the rising drone of the people, massed and angry before him. “They don’t want to go – they want to stay forever!! Their leader has even said this!! They don’t want you to know the truth, so they will take me away from you!!” he bellowed, pointing at the knot of hated ones trying to push their way towards him.
Cries of “protect the teacher” and “don’t let them near him” rent the air as the crowd began to compress around the small knot of foreigners, who were forced to a standstill by the sheer weight of humanity ranged against them.
Suddenly, a shot rang out across the square, and the speaker was pitched headlong from the low wall he was standing on. The crowd surged forward with a wordless scream. Gingerly, the speaker clambered unsteadily up from where he had fallen, and retook his perch on the wall, raising his arms wide, to reveal the blood pulsing from the wound in his side and running in ruby rivulets to stain his rags.
“You see, my children,” he wailed. “They cannot and will not let you hear the truth!! But do not fear them, they will not beat us down for ever!! Honour them for their …”
The last was drowned out by the mindless roar of the crowd as it surged in on the isolated pocket of hated ones still trapped in their midst. Here and there machetes glittered. The foreigners’ officers began to hastily deploy their remaining men to try to link up with their stranded troops, only to be forced back onto the crumbling veranda of the old hotel.
Into the sudden silence came the dreadful sound of firing as the surrounded hated ones, in fear for their lives, opened fire on the mass of humanity surrounding them, pressing in on them from all sides. Behind the gunfire, they started to try to cut their way through to their comrades in front of the old hotel. With an angry howl, they were buried under a mass of bodies as men fought their way through the firestorm to bury their machetes in the their bodies.
The mass of humanity, men, women, children, seethed as the people struggled to come to grips with the hated ones, to tear them limb from limb, to hack out in their desperation at their oppressors.
Long after the hated ones were dead, the crowd continued to flail at them with their machetes as the corpses were dismembered and thrown at the remaining hated ones cowering behind their levelled weapons on the old hotel’s veranda. Bits of the dead flew through the air, impacting with sodden slaps amongst the remaining foreigners.
The crowd paused, before turning their savagery on the remaining foreigners, who opened fire, scything down whole sections of the mass of people as it surged towards them, propelled by its own momentum. Bodies lay strewn across the dusty square, and the wounded were trampled underfoot, mewling and wailing in agony, as the enraged crowd pressed heedlessly on towards the hated ones.
It was a massacre. The sheer weight of firepower pouring in on the struggling mass was too much for many, and the dead and dying piled up in droves. People began to force their way back, and the battling mass seethed and roiled as more and more tried to escape the fury of the foreigners’ guns, to flee across the square and down the side alleys – anywhere but away from the stammering guns, hammering out their message of pitiless fury.
Many looked for the Teacher as they ran, knowing, certain, that it was he who had spoken to them, and that he was their true salvation.
But he was gone, his security team having collapsed in around him at the first shot, leading him off to safety through the shebeen.
He would be back. The blue touchpaper had been lit.