BEYOND THE PALE
SHORT STORIES AFTER 8 (5th Instalment)
In May of 1960, Congo held its first election. It was an exciting time, even if most of the people didn’t exactly understand what was at stake. How do you explain to a people that they’ve gained their independence, when freedom as we know it is an incomprehensible concept? Livingstone let himself get swept up with events as they became known.
“You should have entered the race yourself,” the Reverend Hoegeveen said calmly as he began stuffing his pipe. “You’re just as qualified as the next man. Maybe more.”
Livingstone laughed.
“How many candidates are there?” I asked.
“If anyone believes Congo will become self-sufficient now that we’ve declared for independence—or self-contained as an economic power—they are sadly mistaken,” Livingstone replied, ignoring my question.
“One hundred and twenty candidates,” the Reverend said, turning to look at me.
“Why do you think that?” I asked Livingstone. “About Congo, I mean? Don’t you believe in Congo?”
We were sitting at the small kitchen table in the Reverend Hoegeveen’s cabin, the soft, gentle light of more than a dozen candles filling the room. The candles splashed large, shadowy caricatures of us against the walls as the flames sputtered in the breeze coming through the open windows. Latisha, Livingstone’s mother, had been working at Bulongo Station for more than forty years. She was a large woman with a fixed expression that sometimes came across as harsh and unfriendly; it was only when she smiled that you could see the resemblance between her and her son.
“And do you think people here have any idea of what the world is like?” she asked as she began clearing the table. She’d made an amazing meal of wild boar Livingstone had shot earlier in the day, and when I made an effort to stand up and help her, she held a hand out until I sat down again.
“You don’t listen to the radio like me an’ Livingstone, do you? There’s a hunnerd and twenty different peoples out there looking to run this place, and not one of ‘em with brains enough to wanna talk to the other about what needs bein’ done.”
“Not true. If anyone does have a plan, or wants to implement something—” I began saying.
“Then they be getting theirselves arrested by government forces—”
“What government forces?” I said. “There is no government.”
“The Force Publique—it’s the only force around here that matters. Oh, the stories I could tell you,” she said, shaking her head as she left with an armload of dishes.
“Those are her opinions on the matter, and there’s nothing you can say to change them,” the Reverend said with a laugh as he finished stuffing his pipe, lighting it with slow, methodical puffs.
“Are you at least voting?” I asked Livingstone.
“I will be, but like Momma says, what’s the use? People think that independence means we’ll no longer have the Europeans here to tell us what to do. I don’t see how that’s possible. Someone has to run things until we educate enough of the next generation to take over.”
I looked at the Reverend who was nodding in agreement.
“I don’t see it lasting any longer than that,” the Reverend smiled.
“If the Europeans stand to lose so much, why leave at all?”
“I don’t think we’ll ever really be rid of them,” Livingstone smiled. “We need them as much as they need us, I’m sorry to say—and by that, I mean our natural resources. But we’ll always need teachers, doctors, and lawyers. We need infrastructure—”
“But why don’t you stand for office?” I asked quickly.
“He has no wish to leave you here, alone,” his mother called out from the kitchen, and I looked at Livingstone who turned away in embarrassment, the soft light reflecting off his beautiful black skin.
By the end of May, Livingstone made it a habit to visit me at least once a week. He tried explaining what was happening, and more importantly, what it meant to Congo. I found myself smiling at everything he said. We’d sit out on the narrow verandah watching the sun set over the jungle, behind the protection of the mosquito net. I could hear the river hurdling its way into the expanding darkness, falling into the rapids and blending into the distance where I imagined it flowing through the heart of the country toward the wide expanse of the Congo River. I’d sometimes find myself looking up at the night sky, at the stars that seemed so bright and cluttered against the blackness of the night, reminding me of the boat trip upriver and my first nights on the Edgewater Fortune. It all seemed so long ago.
“It’s so quiet here without the children,” I said softly.
“I like it,” Livingstone said with a smile.
“Don’t you like the children?”
“Not having them here makes my life easier. I hunt once every other week...maybe once every ten days. I don’t have to make repairs because there’s no one here to break things. I don’t have to go into the villages trading for what we need, or whatever they need, because we don’t need anything. The Reverend enjoys his gardening, and that takes care of whatever foodstuffs we might need. I have more time for myself, and that’s a luxury I don’t have too often.”
“Oh? And what do you do with all your spare time?”
“You mean aside from following the elections,” he said.
“Yes. Politics aside,” I smiled.
“I tend to my needs,” he said softly.
“Your needs?” I asked. “And what is it you need? What is it that Livingstone Welles needs, that he doesn’t already have?”
“Well,” he said, and then paused, looking at his feet and trying to avoid eye contact with me.
“Well, what?” I asked, leaning forward and looking at him under the light of the hurricane lamp hanging on the post.
“I need a wife,” he said finally, levelling a look at me.
“A wife?” I said, and sat back. I’d never considered that he might have the same desires as any other man—a wife, a family. Children.
“I’m not a young man anymore,” he explained.
“And how old are you?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“What makes you think you need to find a wife?”
“Every man needs a son.”
“Yes,” I said, sitting back and thinking how Everett had been so pleased with Gerald’s birth.
Every man wants a son.
“And Richard? Did he want sons?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
“A daughter, perhaps?”
“How does one go about getting a wife here?” I asked, changing the subject.
“You buy her.”
“Buy her?”
“Of course. I’m an excellent hunter. That makes me wealthy because I have so much to offer.”
“You do? I mean, you are? Wealthy? I didn’t know it mattered.”
“I’m considered a man of standing because I know the ways of the Europeans. I live among them.”
“And what sort of a woman are you looking for? Surely, you can’t be thinking of taking one from a nearby village? You need a woman who is educated. Have you ever even known a woman?” I asked, somewhat boldly.
“What’s to know about women?”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
He looked at me for a moment and it seemed there was a palpable tension hanging in the air between us—heavy with its insistence—and I thought, perhaps, that I’d gone too far. I thought of Richard briefly, and the last time I’d slept with the man. I wondered what I was thinking, and why, oh God why, was I thinking of it with this beautiful, black man?
“I’ve known women,” Livingstone said as he stood up. “I’ve even known them Biblically. Is that what you want?” he asked, looking down at me.
“I’m not thinking of anything,” I said, feeling my pulse quicken.
“What you’re thinking of could get a man killed.”
“I would never—not like that,” I said, my voice a mere whisper.
“Did I say you were wrong for thinking it?” he asked, and held his hand out for me.
I looked at his hand before looking into his eyes; he tilted his head slightly—almost as if he were daring me, or offering up a challenge—and I found myself melting at the sight of him. I wanted to put my hand on his breast and feel the stirring of his heart under his dark skin; I wanted to feel his rough hands on my breasts. I needed to feel the hardness of him inside of me.
I took his hand, and following him into the cabin, he closed the door behind me.
So well written!! 🙌