“I’ve nothing else.”
Waldo rubbed his upper arms. He was cold, and he had not eaten in days. His eyes filled with tears. All his efforts had been in vain. He still had not recovered from the exhausting journey that had begun the day a two-and-a-half-meter-long boa caused confusion in the reed beds at the airport and started an argument between the guards to see who would kill it and take it as a present to the warden of Black Beach so he could eat it. Waldo had dragged himself along like a snake, crawling without breathing to get away from the horror, for hundreds of meters until his skin bled. Hours later he had continued his escape from the island in a canoe to the continent and later, the terrifying nights in the jungle, the dangerous crossing to Cameroon, the odyssey as a stowaway in a merchant ship to the Canaries and from there in another one to Cádiz.
He had worked there for a few days on the dock to get enough money to pay for the bus fare to Madrid, a bus on which he had had to put up with suspicious looks from those who avoided sitting beside the shabbily dressed black man who spoke Spanish. He thought things would be easier, that when he told them they had once all been Spanish, they would open their arms to him.
“I’ve nothing else,” he repeated bleakly.
The police officer raised his cap with one hand and scratched his head.
“Well, we don’t want vagrants or beggars. I’ll have to take you to the station.”
Waldo looked at him in surprise. Had he taken such a terrible risk to end up in the same situation? He felt tempted to run away, but his strength was beginning to fail him.
“There you will at least get something to eat and clean clothes,” continued the officer. “Later we’ll see what will happen to you.”
Waldo resignedly agreed. The officer put him into his car. During the short journey, Waldo shut his eyes and sank into a light sleep until they got to the basement of a gray multistory building where the station was located. There, in the waiting room, he was told to wait.
After what seemed like forever, the officer returned with another.
“You’re in luck,” he said. “My colleague here has told me he knows someone who looks after people like you. We’ll take you to him.”
The other added, “We’ll walk. Father Rafael’s parish isn’t very far.”
Waldo felt his hopes renewed. Could it be possible that it was the Father Rafael from Sampaka? When he saw the priest’s bulky frame, his limp, and his bushy gray beard, Waldo gave thanks to God.
It was not until after long minutes of sobbing and blubbering that, sitting on one of the church benches, he could narrate the calvary suffered by the priest’s abandoned children.
That same day, Father Rafael called Manuel and told him of Waldo and the terrible news he brought from Guinea. Manuel sent an urgent telegram to Kilian, telling him to get in contact.
“I know how I can help Bisila,” he wrote.
The path leading up to Bissappoo had been cut open with machetes and trampled by many pairs of boots. José had a bad feeling. When he got to the buhaba, out of breath, his suspicions were confirmed. It was then, more than ever, he regretted that his hunched body had lost its agility. He had not gotten to the village in time to warn them that they were looking for his son Sóbeúpo, something he had just learned from Simón. A penetrating smell of smoke came from the other side of the entrance arch. He approached carefully and saw the flames. Bissappoo was burning among the anguished cries of its neighbors, huddled together and threatened by the guards’ guns. José brought his hands to his head, now covered completely by gray hair.
Something stuck in his ribs.
“You, old man. Walk.”
They put him with the rest. The first one he recognized was Iniko. But he was still too young! He motioned to them all to keep quiet. A quick look round showed him that according to the mass recruitment plan to substitute the Nigerians on the plantations, men of working age included old men, sick people, and children. José located the commanding officer and approached him to show him the document he always carried in his pocket.
“I’m in charge of the Sampaka plantation.”
The officer read the document and returned it to him in a condescending manner.
José frowned. He took some banknotes out of his pocket and gave them to the officer.
“Sorry, I forgot the other papers.”
The man smiled. “That’s better.”
Once again, José silently thanked Kilian for his help. If he could only tell him how essential the money he was sending for him and his family really was!
“I came up to look for workers for the plantation,” José lied. “I need a dozen.”
“You can take five. The rest are going somewhere else.”
“Why are you burning the village? Isn’t it enough to take the men away?”
“They didn’t want to tell us where a conspirator was hiding.”
“So you didn’t find him?”
“No.”
José breathed a sigh of relief. They would not find his son Sóbeúpo so easily if he had hidden in the forest. With a broken heart, he saw how the flames devoured his house. The women gathered together what they could in bundles and said tearful good-byes to their men. Some of them came over to José.
“And where do we go now?” they asked him.
“Go to Rebola. They’ll help you there.”
“And the men? What will they do with them? When will we see them again?”
“I’ll try and find out which plantation they’re being sent to. They need workers. They’ll be fed. Nothing will happen to them.” Not even he believed what he was saying. “Someday, all this will end.”
He pointed to Iniko and four nephews around the same age and motioned them to come with him. They walked over to the officer.
“I’m taking these.”
“Very young. You’re not stupid.”
“They’re strong, sure, but they’ve no experience. It will take me a while to train them.”
“Don’t forget the two daily hours of military training.”
The six of them gave a last look at what remained of Bissappoo and walked away not knowing if they would ever again see the men who, disconsolate, waited between rifle barrels for the moment of their last good-bye to their mothers, wives, and daughters.
The radio began its usual daily broadcast with a litany of the positions held by Macías. That was followed by the playing of the first songs praising his person. Bisila turned the thing off.
“Don’t you like the music?” the doctor asked with a friendly smile.
“I’m trying to concentrate.”