Limbe, Cameroon
Alang put his foot down with the full weight of the bucket of water he was carrying. He was deep in thought, which always happened when he was alone. This time he was thinking about food, partly because he was writing an essay on food politics, but mostly because he was hungry. So it took him completely by surprise when something soft shuddered violently underneath his foot and at the same time, the silence of the bathroom was shattered by a piercing shriek.
He jumped off in horror, managing to spill half the contents of the bucket as he stared down in amazement at the rat that lay squirming on the gravel in the middle of the bathroom.
The bathroom and toilet structure stood less than three metres from the back wall of the main house. It was built out of used corrugated roofing sheets supported by beams of rotting timber. Two sheets separated the latrine from the bathroom section, but the cement had ran out after the latrine floor was completed, so that the bathroom only boasted a stone and gravel floor, the corners of which had turned green with moss and algae. There were shallow puddles dotted all around the bathroom edges, literally heaving with microscopic life.
Standing less than two metres from this structure, on the other side of a heap of rubbish was their neighbour’s toilet, and adjacent to that was yet another toilet. Alang had long since come to the conclusion that if for any reason, someone was made to stand for a few minutes between these three corrugated metal structures, on a hot day, they would have gotten a pretty good idea of what hell would smell like.
A rat in the bathroom was not really a strange occurrence to Alang. He had seen all kinds of rats before, in his twenty-two years of existence. One time, he had seen a rat which was paralysed down the entire right side of its body, so that it moved by dragging its body in a sideways motion. And another time, he had chased a one-eyed rat up the little stream and watched in amazement as it swam the entire length of the house completely submerged under water like a fish, until it came close to a hole by the banks into which it had disappeared.
But this rat was the biggest he had ever seen. It was enormous. Obviously it was dying. It lay on its back with its feet kicking up in the air, struggling for each breath.
“God!” Alang shuddered as he remembered how it had felt when the rat had struggled underneath his foot. He did not like rats. Of all the creatures in the world, his three most-hated were flies, mosquitoes and rats. Yet even in this select group, the rat still topped the list. And now he had a dying rat lying in the middle of his bathroom floor.
He went outside and looked around in the yard for a long stick with which to flick the rat outside. Not finding one, he went into the house, then into the small room where all the junk stuff was kept and there he found what he was looking for; the old rake with the broken handle.
Carrying it back to the bathroom, he paused once more to stare in horror at the dying rat. Somehow it had managed to flip itself over so that now it lay upright. It was so old it actually had wrinkles. There were huge patches where the hair had fallen off from its back. Even as he watched, the rat tried to crawl forward, stumbled and flipped onto its back again, breathing even harder.
Every minute or so, it would emit a long squeaky coughing sound that raised the hairs on the back of Alang’s neck. For a second, Alang considered hitting it on the head to put it out of its misery. But so strong was his disgust for rats that he could not bring himself to kill it. Underneath the disgust though, Alang acknowledged that he was more than a little bit scared of them too.
What frightened him the most about rats was the constant look of desperation in their eyes. He could not understand how they could go through life with that much anxiety bottled up in their tiny bodies. He decided to let the rat die of a heart attack, or old age, or whatever it was dying of.
Positioning the prongs of the rake behind the rat’s body, he quickly flicked it towards the door, which he kept open with one hand. The rat sailed through the air, missed the gap created by the open door, hit the side of the door and with new found strength, quickly crawled to the corner where it curled up against the wall which separated the bathroom and the latrine. All this time it kept up a continuous heartrending squeak.
Alang considered it with a mixture of pity, disgust and anger. Because the bathroom floor was made of stone and gravel, it was difficult to use the prong end of the rake now that the rat had taken up position at the vee of the wall. Turning the rake over, and trying as much as possible to avoid holding it by the prongs, he now used the pointed end to half drag, half beat the rat back to the centre of the bathroom, matching the rat’s shrieks with loud howls of his own.
He quickly flipped the rake over once more and scooping the rat up with the prongs, flung it out of the bathroom. For a few minutes, he stood there breathing hard. He could still hear the rat shrieking outside. After a while he threw the rake outside as well. Leaning over, he dragged the door shut, and kept it in place by hooking the string tied to it to a nail on the doorpost. There was now only a small crack through which he could see across the little stream to his friend Stephen’s house. He hung his towel over the crack and semi-darkness descended.
Of course some light still came in through the holes on the corrugated metal sheet walls. The smell from the adjoining toilet was over-powering. He breathed in little puffs. Taking off his shorts, he proceeded to wash his body as quickly as possible, now with only half the original amount of water.
As he dressed up after his wash, his mind wandered back to the subject of food. He had hardly eaten anything all day. As so often happened in the Mofor household, there was nothing to eat that day. His Dad had gone out in the morning to see if he could borrow money from a friend, and as the day had worn off, one by one, everyone else had left the house to fend for themselves. First his elder brother Jacob, then his two younger sisters Irene and Grace. Experience had taught them that there was no telling when their father would come back. At least to his credit, they could say that he always came back with something, however small.
All his life Mr. Mofor had slaved for his children. He only had a primary school education but he had vowed that all his children would go through university, no matter what it cost him. And it had cost him. Not that he would’ve ever been rich, Alang thought. He was far too trusting and honest for that.
Well, as far as ‘getting his children through University’ was concerned, he was almost there. Jacob had just completed university the year before, with a degree in Physics, and Alang was doing his final year. Irene would be going to the university the following year and Grace was in form five.
It was 3.30pm now and Alang was also preparing to go out. He had to meet his friend Mr. Senjo, the delegate for labour and social insurance. They had first met at a conference organised by the UNESCO club in Alang’s secondary school. From then on they had become good friends, sharing the same burning interest for social change. He also had quite a library, which was one of the reasons Alang had maintained the friendship. Before becoming delegate of labour, he had been a history teacher in a local secondary school.
Alang had told him he was preparing for a debate his university UNESCO club was organising on the occasion of the visit of the Prime minister.
As Alang stood combing his hair in front of a cracked piece of glass that had once been part of a mirror, his mind was already making the transformation from the world of poverty his family lived in, to the relatively well-off and intellectually superior one that Mr. Senjo lived in.
Alang lived in three worlds. There was the world of his family and the poverty and misery they lived through every day, then the world of his friends and the big-talks, ideas and plans, and finally there was the world that existed only in his mind. And in this world, he was a prince.
Often he would sit with his friends discussing some complex idea, while hunger raged in his stomach and all the time his mind would be thinking, “I should not be here, I am better than this.”
Maybe it was this that intrigued and endeared him to almost everyone who met him. The arrogance he had to hide because of the poverty, and the intelligence which made him do it so well. In a group of people, he hardly ever spoke unless directly spoken to. But there was always an intensity about him, a fire behind his eyes that people invariably noticed, and somehow dragged him into the conversation until he was at the centre of it.
***
Thirty minutes later, the taxi dropped him off at the Cite-Nanga junction. He fished in his pocket and gave the driver a hundred franc coin. This brought his net cash balance to zero. He would just have to walk back home. Still, as he’d only had the fare for one way, it was better this way, rather than having to arrive all sweaty from walking and taking a taxi home later. At the gates into Mr. Senjo’s house, he rang the bell and peered through the gates as one of the kids ran out to open it.
“Who is it?” asked the cheeky little seven-year-old. She already had the side gate half opened.
“Me,” Alang answered smiling down at her. “Is your Dad home?”
“Yes.” She said, skipping towards the house.
Standing at the door, Mrs Senjo was smiling at Alang as he walked towards the house. Unlike her husband, she was still a secondary school teacher. Of all the married couples Alang knew, he had not met another pair who seemed to genuinely like each other as much as the Senjos. Maybe there was something in the theory about marrying a friend after all.
“Your man is still asleep. He went out this morning to a meeting in Buea.” She felt warm and smelt fresh as she half hugged Alang welcome.
“Come and sit down, would you like a drink? I will tell Boboh you are here.” ‘Boboh’ was the nickname they had for each other. She didn’t even pause to let him say yes or no to the drink offer, but was off to the kitchen to get it.
Four children sat in the living room area watching TV, none of them lifted their head up even out of curiosity. Alang hovered behind one of the chairs waiting for Mrs. Senjo to reappear.
As he stood tapping his fingertips together, his thoughts went back to the subject of the debate. “50 years on, should Africa be re-colonised.” It was considered slightly risky for the occasion.
At first the Rector had flatly refused to even consider the topic and had demanded that it be changed. But the UNESCO club had stood firm, changing the wording only slightly, from the original, “50 years after independence, should Africa be re-colonised”. The rector’s hand was finally forced when a local newspaper had published the story along with the title of the debate.
She had been furious, threatening to cancel the debate all together. But when a response came from the Prime Minister’s press secretary by way of the official government-owned newspaper, saying that the Prime minister was looking forward to the debate and hoped to learn something from it, the rector had had no choice but to accept it.
Even so, she had had a little ‘talk’ with the members of the UNESCO club and had left them in no doubt about what would happen if they made any personal attacks in their debate. She owed her appointment as Rector directly to the Prime minister and could not afford to have her students make him look bad.
“You should understand that the aim of the debate should not be to criticise individuals, but to discuss the issues in general terms,” Alang remembered her saying. Just what ‘general terms’ meant, she had not explained.
But Alang was not worried about that. This was not why he was preparing so carefully for this debate. Normally, he hardly ever prepared for a debate. He would look up a few dates, confirm a few names or check out some relevant quotes. But on the whole, he just let the thing flow. His mind had a way of organising thoughts which he had grown to trust. It was a gift he had. As soon as he started speaking on any subject, thoughts would simply fall into place. Things he had read long ago and forgotten would pop into his mind, striking examples, interesting parallels or stinging ironies, depending on his mood.
Yes, he was a natural, he thought to himself. A warrior! And that was what this was all about. It was about war. The University UNESCO club was split down the middle. Of the seven senior members, two were with him and two with Eddy. Simon refused to support either side. He seemed to want to create a following himself.
At the thought of Eddy, Alang’s upper lip coiled and his brow furrowed, so that he looked at the same time challenging and defensive. Eddy was the complete opposite of Alang in almost every way and in Alang’s opinion, a real ass. His parents were wealthy... so wealthy, he had owned a car even back in secondary school. Now in the university, he was on his third car, a black Nissan Cressida, complete with air conditioning.
But one thing Alang could not begrudge him was the fact that he was intelligent. Plus, he could make a good speech. His charisma was born out of a strong self-confidence and a bubbling forceful personality which few could resist. Eddy always moved in a crowd of friends, admirers and hangers on.
While Alang had helped create the University UNESCO club, Eddy had only been a member for the last six months. It was really by accident that he had joined the club, dragged to watch by his girlfriend Cecile. Back then he was still trying to get her to like him. Cecile, unlike most girls did not immediately fall down and worship him, which presented quite a challenge to Eddy. And if there was one thing Eddy could not resist, it was a challenge.
“Alang, please sit down.” Mrs Senjo reappeared with a plate of biscuits and a tall glass of some kind of fruit juice. Homemade juices were her speciality. “So, how are you? How is school?”
“I’m fine, school is tough though, I’m thinking of quitting and becoming a taxi driver,” he joked.
“Well if you decide to go ahead with it, I will tell my brother to give you one of his taxis to drive.” She was laughing too.
As they bantered idly, half of Alang’s mind began to relax, taking in the clean comfortable surroundings. He made himself wait five minutes before taking his first sip of the juice, which he genuinely praised. Mrs. Senjo beamed with pleasure. She liked Alang. He was intelligent, but with the right amount of self-consciousness to make him appear more than slightly vulnerable. He reminded her a lot of her husband, when he was this young; all thin and wiry.
Finally Mr. Senjo appeared at the far door. He was quite an impressive man, six feet two and full bodied, with just the slightest hint of a gut. Though his hair was beginning to recede at the front, he kept the rest of it very short. On the whole, he looked the successful and happily married man he was.
“Alang” his voice boomed across the room, making the children look up, even if only for a second.
“How are you doing?” he said as he crossed the living room. Alang got up to shake his hand.
“I’m fine, I’m fine ... She told me that you were out all morning.” Even in T-shirt and jogging bottoms he still looked distinguished, Alang thought.
“Yes, we had a committee meeting in Buea.”
“On a Sunday?”
“Yes, I’m telling you that the way the Prime Minister’s visit has turned everybody into a party enthusiast you wouldn’t believe. If you don’t attend these meetings, then it would appear as if you are not committed enough. Personally I find them very boring. A bunch of old men arguing over who should sit on the left or right of the Prime Minister and that kind of rubbish, but then …” he left the sentence unfinished. “So what have you young upstarts been up to?” he added, after sitting down.
“Preparing for the Prime Minister’s visit,” Alang laughed.
“God help us,” Mr. Senjo sighed.
“We have this debate that we are planning to …”
“Yes, I read about it in the newspaper, you people are becoming quite famous now eh!”
Alang couldn’t help laughing again. “That is nothing. Wait until after the debate, then you would need to book an audience to see me.” Mr. And Mrs. Senjo both laughed. “Anyway it is because of this that I wanted to pick your brains,” and use your library he thought.
“Children ... go and do something outside; I can’t even hear myself think.” The children had started an argument over something on TV. A protest of grumbles began.
“Hey! It is either that or you would have to go and do your homework or study something.” That got them out fast.
“Boboh, don’t threaten the children with school work, it gives them the impression that it is a bad thing.”
Mr. Senjo grunted, “It worked didn’t it?” then shifting in his seat to give his full attention to Alang, “So, what is the subject of the debate again?”
“50 years on – should Africa be recolonised?” Alang paused to let it sink then added, “and I am arguing against.”
He watched Mr. Senjo’s eyes quicken as he considered the subject. He recognised the spirit of a fellow warrior.
“So what have you got? Where do you plan to begin?” Mr. Senjo asked.
“I haven’t done much yet, all I have now is a strategy, and other little bits and pieces.”
Mr. Senjo looked thoughtful for a moment, then standing up purposefully, he said, “Wait here,” and strode over to the long bookshelf that stood against the far wall.
It was already dark outside when Alang finally left the Senjos. He had three huge volumes in a plastic bag under his arm, which he had borrowed from Mr. Senjo library. As Mr. Senjo walked Alang to the road junction he was still in full flow on the merits and demerits of dictatorship in Africa. Alang was only half listening.
Already he was thinking about what he had to do when he got home. He was hoping that his father would be home by the time he got there. His stomach growled with hunger. It was almost seven-thirty pm and Mrs Senjo’s fruit juice and biscuit snacks were about all he’d had all day. To his surprise, Mr. Senjo pressed a thousand francs note into his hand as he said goodbye.
“For your taxi fare,” he said, brushing away Alang’s thanks. “I am not completely sure about the program, but maybe I will be able to attend your debate this time.”
“I hope you can. Thank you again,” Alang said, gesturing with the thousand francs note in his hand.
It is amazing how two people can see the same thing from different positions. To Mr. Senjo the money he had given Alang was merely a token. He wished he could do more, but he was a man of many responsibilities and could only afford so much. Still to him a thousand francs was nothing. To Alang on that particular day and time, it was better than gold. It solved so many of his problems that he felt a surge of love for this man who treated him with so much dignity and respect, yet understood him well enough to know that he would need the thousand francs.