—
We don’t know how long we’ll be waiting for Bongo and the others to return from Woja Beki’s house, so my friends and I decide to make ourselves comfortable in case our wait stretches for hours. Waiting has become us—we’ve been waiting for one thing or another since the day we were born; what is one more wait of a few hours compared with a lifetime of waiting? Grandmothers and grandfathers, leaning on their canes, ask us to run back home and fetch their stools. Mothers ask daughters to bring back mats for them to place under the mango tree so they can sit and stretch their legs; also balls for toddlers to play with, to keep their boredom at bay. Older sisters and younger aunts who had hurried to the square with babies balanced on their hips, some of the babies naked except for the napkins tied around their buttocks, ask their little sisters and nieces to bring an outfit for the baby, and a banana, too, in case the baby gets hungry, and also the straw baby-carrier.
The children of Kosawa run off in every direction. I return with a stool for Yaya and a cup of water for Juba, but most of my friends return with baskets containing assorted items, for they share a hut with parents and multiple siblings and aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents, huts to which their families add rooms with every new marriage so newlyweds can have space to share with their future children, and grandparents can keep their bedrooms, and unmarried aunts and older sisters and female cousins can have a room of their own while waiting to be plucked by a man, and unmarried uncles and older brothers and any other male relatives can be in the back rooms with separate entrances, no one ever needing to leave home unless they choose to.
Mama and the other mothers, having made themselves comfortable on the mats beneath the mango tree, whisper among themselves. Our oldest grandparents lean close to speak into each other’s ears. Some of my friends’ older sisters, girls who recently exited childhood and now walk around with the glow of new womanhood, exchange coy glances with boys who’ve decided they’re no longer boys and are thus ready to prove they can do to a woman everything a man can. Eyeing the giggling girls, the soon-to-be men lick and pucker the lips on which stand countable strands of hair until a parent notices them looking at each other in a way people aren’t allowed to look at each other unless they’re ready to have babies, at which point the shameless adolescents turn their eyes away from each other and pretend that the only thing on their minds is the fate of Kosawa.
Fathers and uncles and grandfathers move farther away from the women and children to confer, nodding to whatever Lusaka is saying. My friends talk about Konga. They imagine he’s in the forest, strolling without cares as animals roam nearby and birds tweet above him, listening to the voices of leaves when the wind forces them to speak.
At the far left corner of the square, Jakani and Sakani stand watching us. They’re in the same spot from which they’ve observed every meeting, including the last one, which they witnessed in entirety, though they did and said nothing even after Konga arrived.
Sitting on the ground not far from our mothers, my friends switch from discussing Konga to wondering when our stand against Pexton will end, how it’ll end. One of our classmates is getting sicker; he wasn’t in school today. Another friend’s baby brother fell ill; she had to stay home to take care of him so her mother could go to the farm. Whatever hope we had only days ago is fading; Kosawa can’t shake off its desolation.
Every few minutes, my friends get quiet—death can be talked about for only so long. One of them suggests that we wait in silence. Another says that while we’re silent we should pray in our hearts. Everyone agrees; if we’ve ever needed to pray without ceasing, now is the moment. I bow my head and start praying for Kosawa. I pray for Papa’s return. I pray for Yaya and Mama and for all mothers to cry no more.
My eyes are closed when a friend nudges me. Lusaka and the other men are walking to retake their places behind the grandparents. I quickly see why—Woja Beki and the soldiers and Bongo and the two other young men are turning around from the path that leads from Woja Beki’s house to the square. Mothers pick up babies and toddlers and stand up for a better view. Everyone stares at Woja Beki as he strides to the front of the square, exposing his spacious teeth, his eyes sparkling. The soldiers are on either side of him, Bongo and the young men a step behind.
—
We do not need to wait long for Woja Beki to begin speaking. He is beyond eager to tell us that his meeting with the soldiers has been a wonderful meeting—Hasn’t it been? he says, looking at the soldiers, who both nod without interest, their demeanors unchanged.
“My dear people,” Woja Beki says, “I put my head together with our fine soldiers here and our sons, and we agreed that we absolutely must find a good explanation for what is going on. We considered many different scenarios that could have happened, and then we said to ourselves, Maybe our dear friends from Pexton decided to make a detour to visit a relative on their way back home—which is possible, isn’t it, my dear people?”
“It is,” our parents and grandparents respond in unison.
“This is what I think, my dear people: I think that the
