LATER, IN his book Lives and Times, Mamo would write that he knew the instant when his brother was shot; he felt something go out of him at that moment, as if his vitality had been halved instantly. He was seated in the living room then, looking at the open doorway, waiting. He had sat like that for hours since he returned from the palace in the afternoon. He watched the sun go down, all the time his ears cocked, listening to the faraway gunshots coming from the direction of the palace.
LaMamo came as night fell. His arrival was heralded by Rifkatu’s screams. Mamo remained seated, his eyes fixed on the door curtain, which shook in the light wind blowing from outside. He waited to hear voices, or more screams, but nothing came. Then he heard heavy footsteps on the veranda, and his brother’s voice say, “Let’s go in.” He still sat, his head bowed, then the curtain parted, revealing LaMamo supported on the shoulders of an unfamiliar young man, both swaying from side to side as if drunk. Mamo got up slowly, and for no reason at all he looked up at the clock—the time was seven P.M. His legs felt heavy as he moved forward to help support his brother, who was bowed and almost falling to the floor. LaMamo’s left hand was clutched tightly to his stomach and now Mamo saw the blood seeping out between his fingers and dropping to the floor. They all stood in the doorway, saying nothing, and for a moment everything came fully into focus before Mamo’s eyes: his brother’s sky-blue shirt turned black by the blood, and the green carpet turning black wherever the blood dropped on it, and the girl with a wooden bowl in her hand, her mouth and eyes open wide in terror. The sweat ran down the young man’s grimy face, his nose flared with exhaustion as he half carried, half supported LaMamo.
Mamo took his brother’s other arm and led the way to LaMamo’s room. They laid him on the bed—the bedspread was white and fresh, LaMamo must have laid it this morning before going out. Mamo wanted to ask if they shouldn’t change the white sheets because of the blood, but it seemed a silly and trivial thing to say, so he stood aside, unable to say anything. He felt a sharp pain in his stomach at exactly the same spot where his brother was clutching his. He watched the young man unbuttoning LaMamo’s shirt and dropping it to the floor. There was a long strip of cloth wound around his body, covering the wound; it was black with blood. LaMamo started coughing and blood trickled down the side of his mouth.
“We must get him to the hospital,” Mamo said at last. His words shook; he had started to shiver and the sweat dripped from his forehead.
“No, we can’t do that,” the young man said. Mamo turned to him and saw the agitation in his eyes. “The police will be there, waiting. They are out on the streets and they are shooting. We only got here after hiding for hours and moving from cover to cover.”
“Who are you?”
“Samaila,” the young man replied.
“How are you feeling?” Mamo asked his brother, who was staring up at him, on his lips a weak, apologetic smile.
“I… I… I am not too bad. I am just numb. I’ve seen people shot five times and they still made it—” He broke off and began to cough.
“Shh,” Mamo said, “stop talking. You’ll be all right. I’ll get the doctor, just rest now, rest.”
He turned to the girl, who was standing by the door as if ready to bolt, the calabash clutched tightly to her chest. “Go and tell Dr. Njengo to come. Tell him my brother has been shot. And be careful, take the back paths.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed and placed his hand over his brother’s where he was clutching his wound. He could feel his brother’s stomach moving as he breathed, and the warm blood rising to cover his fingers. LaMamo opened his eye and smiled, and then he closed it again.
“What happened?” Mamo asked Samaila, who was standing in a corner, absently making washing motions with his hands, which were crusty with dry blood. His terrified eyes were fixed on LaMamo. He opened his mouth and, his eyes still fixed on LaMamo, began to narrate how he had found LaMamo unconscious in the grass; that was after the police had arrived and had started shooting at the crowd. The palace and the square had been covered in tear gas, men fell from bullets, and the young man, blinded by tear gas, had dropped behind a clump of grass not too far from the palace, and that was when he saw LaMamo lying on his back, covered in blood. He recognized him because of the eye patch—he had seen him earlier leading the donkey cart to the palace. He dragged him to a nearby house where he knew the family. The family sheltered them and helped him tie up LaMamo’s wound. When he came to, LaMamo wanted to leave immediately, but they stopped him because outside the fighting still went on. They waited till nightfall before leaving the house. The young man spoke as if by rote, his voice without emotion, but as soon as he had uttered the last words he sat down abruptly on a chair beside the bed and began to weep. He was really young, not yet twenty, Mamo guessed; perhaps he had never seen so much blood before.
“I owe him my life,” LaMamo answered. His eye was open, staring at the young man. “He is very brave.”
“Shh,” Mamo said, taking his hand. “You must rest. Rifkatu will soon be back with the doctor. Just rest. Just rest.”
But LaMamo went on speaking, his voice growing fainter. “Do you remember that time when I fell from the flame tree and broke my arm?” There was a small smile on his sweating face as he stared at Mamo. For some reason Mamo had also been thinking of that same day.
“It seems like yesterday,” Mamo said.
“Yes,” LaMamo breathed. “I… want you to know I am not scared of dying.… My only regret is now I won’t see my child.” He gripped Mamo’s hand, his grip surprisingly firm. “Promise me you’ll send for Bintou when things are back to normal.… I want my child to grow up here… beneath the hills, like we grew up.… I know everything will be all right.”
He got up on his elbow and reached into his pocket and brought out his wallet. He took out the picture and handed it to Mamo. “Promise.”
“Of course I will. But everything will be okay. The doctor will soon be here.”
LaMamo relaxed back onto the pillow and closed his eye. He died before the doctor came; his face looked peaceful, his hand tightly gripping his brother’s.