With a pounding chest and sweat dripping from his face, Jumaane stood still, staring at the white man who was now threatening him with a gun. He dared not look at the dead body again. He had killed him. He had never killed anyone before, but now a man was dead and he was holding the weapon. He heard the clatter of the rod falling, and he wondered what the sound was or where it came from.
Moments later his head started to clear. It was aching. As the rage left him, his ears and his head were in a strange, dull pain. He now remembered it: the leap, and the blow at the head. He was lost control and he killed. He felt his chest heaving, he felt faint. Trying to collect himself, he exhaled deeply then restrained his panting forcefully. Slowly the world was coming back to its usual form. He saw the body before him, the white man raising the dead soldier’s gun at him, and it suddenly all seemed more real. Too real. But the white man was behaving like a mad person. After having his life saved, why was he angry?
“What are you doing?” said Jumaane faintly. “I saved your life!”
The white man said something. His voice was strange, his face in a weird, mad grin.
“He was going to kill you!” continued Jumaane. “First you, then me! He was your enemy too! I helped you! I saved your life! Put that gun down!”
As he pleaded, his voice began to tremble, then it faded away. He could not keep himself upright, his shoulders sagged, his pain now engulfing all of his mind. His body was shaking and his tears began to flow. He could not contain his emotion, it was so much stronger than him.
The anger, the murderous rage, the fear for his own life, the loss of his family, the hunger, the cold, the danger and the exhaustion found their ways to the surface all at once. He fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face.
“I could have run away! I could be free! Do you hear me? He was killing you! I saved you! Put that gun down! Why are you doing this?”
***
Looking at the black man sagging to his knees, the tears flowing from his eyes, and the trembling words uttered in the unintelligible language, had an effect on Alex like breaking an evil spell. He once again saw the shaken, broken, and weak man; the image of the cold blooded murderer was gone.
I cannot become like one of them. He lowered the gun. He felt confusion and bewilderment. He was clueless what to do now. The man before him just killed another. And even though a moment ago his rage was at its highest, all he could feel now was pity.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do with you now?”
His swearing was meant to cover his own confusion, but in the end it all seemed to just add up. He felt the weapon starting to slip from his hands. He had never used a live weapon before. He was afraid he would shoot the man by accident; he was not used to handling automatics. He could not have judged if minutes passed or just seconds. Time was frozen, there was nothing in it, just him and the African, looking at each other. His eyes bore deep into those of the man before him. He saw that his tears were genuine. He loosened his grip on the rifle until he almost dropped it.
Then the African made a move quite unexpectedly. His head jerked up, as if having a sudden idea, and his right hand moved with considerable speed. He reached into his back-pocket and started to pull something out from there.
Alex’s reaction was instant. He gripped the weapon firmly, raising it as instinctively at the head of the kneeling African, as if he was trained to handle the situation. The man might still have weapons concealed.
“Don’t even think about anything funny!”
He knew his words were meaningless, but he felt better talking, drawing courage from his own words. He watched the African slow down. His right hand was still moving, but his left made gestures that might have been meant to be soothing. He said something in his language, in a calm tone. His voice was not trembling now, although his tears kept flowing. Then he pulled out something slim and small. Alex could not at first make out what it was. The man kept talking, and he pressed the thing onto his own chest.
Alex was watching his face with interest. He kept the weapon firm, his hands rigid around its frame, but his mind was trying to read the African’s expression. There were all sorts of emotions fighting to manifest at once. There was warmth and joy, but those were repressed by inexpressible pain.
The African slowly extended his hand towards Alex, holding the object in it. Alex chanced a look down at the hand. It held a battered, dimmed photograph of a black woman and two small children. They were visibly poor, dressed in rags. Some of the woman’s teeth were missing, but this was only made evident by her broad smile. She was hugging the small ones, who clung onto her tightly. It was picture of an unfortunate but apparently happy family. Alex had only seen such photographs in museums before. It was the sort of photo-sensitive paper they used in old Polaroid cameras, before digital ones were equipped with holographic three dimensional displays. Those things were ancient technology, yet this man was carrying one around with what appeared to be his family on the picture.
“Your family, huh?”
He expected no answer, but the other seemed to sense his meaning in some way because he nodded. Then he took the picture back, pressed it against his chest, he raised it once more, kissed it, and put away.
Alex felt even more confused. What on Earth am I supposed to do with you now? There was nothing that could have prepared him for this. Somehow all of it felt just surreal. The black man just kept talking to him, so he began shaking his head.
“No, no, sorry, I understand nothing of what you say. You’re talking about them?”
The African stopped talking, looking hesitant for a moment. Then he pulled out the image again, and with broad gestures, he pointed his finger at it, then at the gun in Alex’s hand. When Alex still looked blank, he extended his thumb, and made a gesture as if cutting his own throat with it. It started to dawn on the humanitarian.
“They are dead…?” he stated this rather than asked.
The African nodded. He understood him, like they spoke the same language now. Then the man pointed at the corpse of the guard, at the gun, then at Alex, and finally himself, finishing the pantomime with a similar gesture of cutting his own throat. Alex considered this for a moment, yet the obvious meaning could not have escaped him, even if he tried to pretend not to understand it.
“You are right,” he conceded, nodding his head to show his understanding. “He would have killed us both.”
***
How much time passed while they stood there looking at each other, the African in tears, Alex in utter confusion, he could not have told. Yet this time was important, it was a long intimate moment. He felt it somehow brought him closer to the black man with the strange language, now mourning his family. I am risking my own life for him, and I know nothing about him. He felt this was somehow just right. Not in a sense that it would be proper, but it felt the right thing to do. Now he saw the man for what he really was, torn and abused, but stronger than anybody he had ever known. It dawned on Alex that he could barely imagine what he must have been through. He had never even thought of it. He had only ever met these people when they ‘dropped in’.
Footsteps echoed from the far side of the corridor. The sounds brought his mind back to the present in an instant. They were probably seconds away from being discovered; there was no time to waste. He jumped towards the African, who had instinctively covered his head as if expecting to be beaten. Alex stopped short, then he threw the gun away and shook the man’s shoulder gently but with a degree of firmness that he hoped to indicate urgency.
“Come on! We need to move!” He tried to sound as calm as he could manage in the situation. It was not easy, but he realised that the other was scared enough. To shout at him would probably mean he would never get him out of his defence.
The African looked up. Alex showed him his empty hands, then made a beckoning gesture, and pointed toward the corridor leading to the exit. The African got up and took a hesitant step forward. The footsteps came closer. Alex looked in their direction, then at the African. Their eyes met.
“Read my fucking mind now!” he said. “We need to move!”
When the African did not move, Alex gave up and started running down the corridor. He did not look back again. Soon he heard shouting from behind him. His own footsteps now echoed loudly, mingling with thuds of heavy boots from behind. He could not bother to try to convince the man any more. If he came, he might live.
He reached the ladder. He climbed up, opened the trapdoor and got out. It was morning already. No more sheltering darkness, the sun was over the horizon. He had to move as quickly as possible. He looked down and saw that the black man was at his heels.
“Come on!” He yanked the man out, grabbing him under the shoulder. Then he shut the door.
“Run!”
Shelter was far away and their chances were slim, yet he knew that if they stopped they would die. But he was not ready to give up yet, not without trying. They stumbled across the fields. Now he could see the way and the first bushes were impossibly far away. He was running at the edge of his breath. He heard the African pant beside him, yet he dared not look at him. He dared not look back either. He expected gunfire to erupt behind their backs. It would all be over soon. But he would not stop, not for them!
As they ran, the bushes were getting closer. He could even see the tower of a village’s Church. Still no sign of them, he began to think, but then he heard a machine gun’s staccato tearing up the quiet of the morning. Then another, and another.