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Sarah
The little vehicle belonging to Father Amos was parked in the middle of the road. Sarah supposed it was a sign of the general agitation that no one made any attempt to move it when Babu’s little convoy came barreling into sight.
They screeched to a halt. Aguma rested his hand on the weapon next to him. The men in the back of the truck scrambled out, and stood like cartoon secret service men around the Mercedes while Sarah’s grandfather descended to bestow wisdom, or calm, or whatever else he could.
They were at the gates of the Ursuline Boarding School - the school where Matapa had kidnapped ten girls the night before. A frenzied crowd of parents waited impatiently outside the locked gate to retrieve their daughters. The nuns were bringing the girls out one at a time and allowing them to squeeze through the gates to be reunited with their parents. A small group of adults stood off to one side. Even Sarah, who could barely recognize her own emotions, could feel the anger, fear, and sorrow that emanated from this group. These, she knew, were the parents of the girls who had been taken.
Brenda and Sarah climbed out of the pickup and stood to one side watching as Herbert talked earnestly to the parents. A very British voice spoke softly in Sarah’s ear. “Things are going to become very ugly in a minute. You need to get back in your vehicle.”
She turned to see Margaret, her white hair as disheveled as ever and wearing the same washed-out denim jumper she had worn at Rory’s house.
“It’s not our fault,” Brenda said.
“It won’t matter,” Margaret replied. “They’re looking for someone to blame. They’re angry and they don’t know what to do with their anger. In a place like this it only takes a spark.”
“What about you?” Brenda asked. “What are you doing here?”
“They know me,” Margaret said with a toss of her head. “No one will hurt me. I am known and loved.”
A movement passed through the crowd - a sudden change in energy. Sarah saw her grandfather backing away, making a dignified retreat to the Mercedes.
Aguma leaned out of the window of the cab. “Get back inside!” he commanded.
“We’re okay,” Brenda said. “It’s nothing to do with us.”
Babu was inside the Mercedes now and the driver was rolling forward through the crowd. Someone started to beat on the roof of the car. Habati picked up speed. The gunmen leaped nimbly into the back of the pickup and Brenda and Sarah scrambled back into the cab. At the last moment Margaret hurled herself in beside Sarah.
“Hey,” Sarah shouted for the benefit of anyone who would listen. “It’s not our fault. We didn’t do anything.”
The crowd had turned away from the dust of the Mercedes and the people were heading toward Sarah’s vehicle. The school gates opened and another little girl squeezed her way out. The mob, for by now it was more of a mob than a crowd, turned to see who she was.
One of her grandfather’s gunmen fired a shot. Sarah assumed, or at least hoped, that he had fired into the air. The crowd hesitated for a moment and Aguma gunned the engine, roaring down the road following the dust of the Mercedes.
“What was that?” Sarah asked.
“Angry people with no way to vent their anger,” Margaret said.
“But why us?”
“They blame your grandfather for the fact that the bridge hasn’t been mended and that the army hasn’t arrived to protect them from Matapa.”
“That’s hardly fair,” Sarah said, “and why are you hiding in here? I thought you said that they knew you.”
“Discretion is the better part of valor,” Margaret said primly.
“How will they get their children back?” Sarah asked.
“They won’t.”
“But the army—”
“Will never come. They never do.” Margaret’s face was alive with anger and bitterness. “The girls will be taken into the bush and given to the soldiers as wives. Some will die tonight trying to escape. Some will die later in childbirth. They’ll be dragged around with Matapa’s army until they’ve forgotten where they even came from. They’ll see and do things that we can’t even imagine. They won’t be rescued. They’re as good as dead already.”
“Not if he doesn’t leave the district,” Sarah said. “If we can’t leave the district, then he can’t either.”
“He can leave to the north,” Aguma said. “We are cut off from Kampala but Matapa can walk through the bush and leave. He can be in Sudan or Central African Republic if he just keeps walking.”
“He says he’s not leaving without the baby,” Sarah said.
“Ah,” said Margaret, “the baby. Have you had any luck?”
“I don’t know that anything could be called luck. If I find the baby and give it to him, then he’ll give back Matthew but—”
“What?” Margaret asked. “What do you mean?”
Sarah looked at Margaret. Of course, she didn’t know. The phones weren’t working and no one had told her that Matthew had been taken. She wondered if the mob that attacked them knew about Matthew.
Did they know they were attacking a family who had also lost a child? Would it even matter? Their anger had come to focus on the man they held responsible for their security. He was riding around in a big shiny car with a cadre of gunmen to protect him from kidnappers while some of their children had already been snatched in the night. More would be taken in the days to come unless Matapa got what he wanted.
They rolled into Budeka, passing the locked gates of Rory’s house and eventually stopping in front of the little gothic cathedral.
Sarah’s grandfather was greeted by the parish priest in a faded cassock and someone else who Sarah guessed was the bishop, wearing a large gold cross and a much less faded cassock. When the formalities were completed, they proceeded around to the back of the cathedral to a large low building protected by a high fence and metal gates.
“Oh,” said Margaret, “they’re putting you in the Speke Guest House.”
“I don’t remember this,” Brenda said.
“It used to be the home of the district governor but I don’t suppose he ever invited you and your friends to dinner,” Margaret said. “You’ll like it here. They serve alcohol.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brenda snapped.
Margaret shrugged her skinny shoulders. “Oh nothing. I just remember that you liked to drink.”
“Yes,” said Brenda, “I like to drink. In fact, as soon as I get out of this wretched truck, I’m going to have a drink. I might even have two. I might even buy a drink for Sarah. In this country it’s not illegal.”
Sarah’s ears pricked up. A drink? For her? That would be a first. There had been drinking on the college campus, but not for the likes of Sarah. A girl could miss out on a lot of fun if she went to college when she was only fourteen.
The entrance to the guest house was through a beer garden with round tables and umbrellas. The five stranded soldiers were lounging around one of the tables drinking beer straight out of the bottles. While Brenda and Sarah went up to the reception desk where they were obviously expected, Aguma went over to talk to the soldiers.
While Brenda was concentrating on completing the register and making inquiries about the bathroom facilities, Sarah was totally distracted by the interaction between Aguma and the soldiers. Hah, she thought, so much for not being in the army. The five soldiers had risen abruptly and they didn’t sit down again until Aguma waved them back into their seats. Even then they gave the impression that they were kind of sitting at attention. No one saluted but they certainly did look respectful.
By the time Sarah had returned her attention to Brenda and the whole question of whether the water was hot, and whether the toilet flushed, Babu was climbing into the pickup truck.
“Where’s he going?” Sarah asked.
“To the bridge,” Brenda said, “to see if they’ve made any progress with the repairs. He’s left us the Mercedes, and instructions that we’re not to go anywhere.”
“Oh,” Sarah said, “so where are we not going?”
“Well, I’m going to see Rory,” Brenda said. “Apparently there’s a gate from here directly into his yard.
“What if it’s locked?”
“Then I’ll stand and yell until someone comes. Rory knows more than he’s telling.”
“Well good luck,” Sarah said distractedly. Her mind was on the fact that she could finally talk to Aguma and find out what had happened the night before. She had been dying to ask him, but a secret was a secret and he’d sworn her to secrecy.
“They’re going to turn the generator on,” Brenda said, “so you can get the laptop charged.”
Sarah rearranged her priorities. Get Zach’s computer to charge, and then talk to Aguma.
Margaret scuttled up to the reception desk. “I’m not going home. I’m going to stay here,” she said. “I’m sure no one would harm me, but —”
“But you can’t count on it,” Sarah said.
Margaret lowered her gaze. “Discretion is the better part of valor,” she mumbled. Sarah guessed that was the mantra that had kept her safe for so many years.
“Are there any other white people in town?” Sarah asked.
“Couple of missionaries. I hope they have the sense to come here.”
“But if we’re all in one place—”
“Oh, I know,” said Margaret, “Cawnpore all over again.”
“What?”
“The Indian Mutiny. All the white people hiding in one building - terrible business.” She gave Sarah one of her pinched little smiles. “Don’t look so worried. I lived here through the very worst of Idi Amin and I haven’t lost faith in the essential goodness of the people.”
“Kidnapping girls—”
“No,” Margaret interrupted, “that’s Matapa, and that’s something quite different. No one here is going to hurt us if we keep ourselves to ourselves for a day or two.”
“It didn’t look that way outside the school.”
“Grief does terrible things,” Margaret said. “All we need to do is stay here and stay quiet and this will blow over. Matapa will move on. He always does.”
Somewhere behind the building an engine started up with a loud clatter. The few people sitting around the tables lifted their heads and immediately rose to their feet. They came crowding onto the verandah pulling their mobile phones out of their pockets.
“That’s the generator,” Margaret said. “Better enjoy it while you can. There won’t be a cell signal but at least their phones will be charged.” She looked at Sarah gloomily. “If the cell tower is actually down, it will take months to get it up again and most of us have come to rely on our phones.
Sarah lugged Zach’s backpack into the bedroom and pulled out his laptop. She located the one live outlet in the room and plugged in the charger and then sat on the bed for a few minutes just to make sure the laptop didn’t explode or catch fire. She had no idea what kind of voltage was coming through the outlet and how that would relate to Zach’s American equipment.
While she waited and watched the flashing green light on the charger, she paged through his journal again. There was the picture of Matthew, and there was the picture of the old soldier, and there was... she looked carefully at the pencil sketch of a very old woman with a child in her lap. The child looked to be about two years old, and the woman looked about a hundred. She knew it was a stretch of the imagination but she couldn’t help wondering - was this woman the wife of the old soldier, and was this the missing child?
Something stirred in the back of her brain, or the pit of her stomach, or maybe in her soul. She felt a stab of comfort, as if someone or something had just told her that she was on the right track. It was not exactly a divine revelation but it was something beyond her understanding. As she was a total stranger to the idea of divine interventions, she set the thought aside as something to be considered later. Perhaps tonight, when no one was looking she would have another chat with the cosmos.
She left the laptop to charge and picked up the photograph of Sergeant Okolo. It was only a hunch, but it was all she had and it felt somehow right.
She went in search of Aguma and found him sitting alone at a table in the beer garden. The soldiers were nowhere in sight.
“About last night?” she asked.
He nodded his head gravely.
“Did you find out anything?”
“No, not so far. We will try again tonight. We will find him.”
In the distance, above the clatter of the generator, Sarah could hear Brenda shouting for Rory. Apparently no one had come to open the gate for her.
“Do you know anything about Rory Marsden?” Sarah asked.
“I have not asked?” Aguma said.
It wasn’t really an answer to her question. Aguma had a way of answering without actually answering. Rightly or wrongly, Sarah was more than ever convinced that he knew more than he was telling about many things and maybe even about the miracle baby.
“I want to go with you tonight,” she said.
He shook his head and rolled his eyes.
“I have a clue.”
“Really?”
“Well, not a clue, but a lead. It might mean nothing but I have a feeling.”
“Do you know where Matthew is?” Aguma asked.
Sarah shook her head. “No, it’s about the baby.”
“We’re not looking for the baby.”
“Well, you should be,” Sarah snapped. “You should be looking for both of them.”
Aguma dropped his head and refused to meet her eyes. “This business of AIDS,” he said, “has given Matapa power. The way his soldiers live - the way they take women and even go to prostitutes, they are sure to be infected. He doesn’t offer them medicine, he offers them magic. If they believe he has brought them a cure for their disease they will follow him. That’s all he wants.”
“They’ll kill her,” Sarah said.
“Yes,” he said. “What they will do to her is unspeakable. I am ashamed for my people.”
“Well, so am I,” said Sarah, “I mean, I’m ashamed for my people, the white people, and whoever the white idiot was who decided to pick that baby out of the crowd and make her into something special. “
Aguma lifted his head again. “We should not make this about black and white,” he said.
“Are you kidding?” Sarah spat back at him. “Everything here is about black and white whether you admit it or not.”
“No,” Aguma said, “even without you mazungus, we would still have a problem with tribe and clan. We don’t need white people to make us fight. We can do that on our own. The problem with the baby is not caused by the mazungu evangelist. It is caused by the witchdoctor who profits from people’s ignorance.”
“Do you believe he put a spell on her?” Sarah asked.
“Of course not.”
“Do you think she deserves what’s going to happen to her?”.
“No, she’s a baby,” Aguma replied. He shrugged his shoulders. “I have a daughter her age.”
Sarah’s heart almost stopped beating. In the midst of all the horror - the murder, the kidnapping, and being cursed by the witchdoctor - she had allowed herself the comfort of a stupid, secret fantasy about Aguma.
Well, that was the end of that fantasy. He had a daughter, so presumably he had a wife. No doubt she was a beautiful woman with shiny black skin and big brown eyes and a soft but possessive smile.
The loss of the secret fantasy left a hollow feeling in her heart and she had to force herself to remain calmly at the table as if nothing had happened - as if she had not been overcome with jealousy and disappointment.
She showed Aguma the photograph. He looked at it solemnly for a moment and then turned it over. He fumbled in his shirt pocket and produced a pair of reading glasses. Sarah tried not to concentrate on the way they made him look. It was over. The fantasy was dead.
Aguma read what was written on the back and handed back the photograph. “I do not know him,” he said, taking off the glasses and putting them back in his pocket.
“Apparently the people at Kajunga Trading Center know him,” Sarah said, “and apparently Zach visited him.”
Aguma raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
“I think that he took the baby there,” Sarah said. “We know he took her somewhere where no one else would look. As far as I can tell this old man is the only other connection he had and...
“Yes?”
“There’s a sketch in his notebook of an old woman holding a little child.”
Aguma made a noise that might have been a “tell me more” noise, or might have been a “you’re full of it” noise.
“I thought that you could get someone to go to Kajunga and find out where the old man lives,” Sarah said. “Obviously I can’t go because that would arouse suspicion, but after you find out where he lives, we could go there tonight and see for ourselves.”
“This will not help us to find Matthew,” Aguma said.
“It will give us something to bargain with,” Sarah replied.
“You would bargain with the life of a child?”
“No,” Sarah said, coming back to the essential weakness in her plan. If she had the child, what would she do? She sure as hell would not give her to Matapa or the witchdoctor.
“It would draw Matapa out,” Aguma said.
“It would,” Sarah agreed.
“I will send someone,” he said.
“Do you need the photograph?”
He shook his head. “They will ask for the old king’s soldier. That will be enough.”
A shadow fell across the table and Sarah looked up to see Brenda preparing to sit down beside her, and behind Brenda was a waiter. “I’m having a beer,” Brenda announced. She looked at Sarah. “Do you want one Sarah?”
“Yes,” Sarah said, “I do.”
Aguma rose, inclined his head respectfully toward Brenda and departed.
“Nice man,” Brenda said.
Sarah nodded her agreement.
“Rory’s home,” Brenda said, “but he won’t come to the gate. I’d love to know what’s going on with him.”
The waiter arrived with two bottles of beer, and a bottle opener. He snapped the lids and set the beer down on the table. The bottles were frosted and icy. Sarah set all her concerns aside and concentrated on the fact that she was going to have her first really cold drink since she’d arrive in Uganda. The fact that it was also her first beer, was only of secondary importance.
“Bottoms up,” Brenda said lifting the bottle to her lips and taking a long pull.
Sarah practically poured the beer down her throat. She wasn’t really impressed with the taste but the coldness was just wonderful. She sat back to savor the moment but there was no opportunity for real savoring because Margaret came running down the steps and across to the table.
“The children,” she said, and then she stopped, suddenly distracted. “You’re letting your granddaughter drink beer?”
“Yes, I am,” said Brenda, “and it’s none of your business. What did you want to say about the children?”
“Come and see,” Margaret said.
They set the beer back on the table and followed Margaret through the reception area and out to the front of the building where they had a clear view of the main street into Budeka. Hundreds of children were making their way silently into town. They passed in a solemn procession, little barefoot children carrying blankets, and hardly speaking at all. Sarah saw that Rory had opened the gates of his compound and was standing by the road watching them as they passed by.
“Where are they going?” Sarah asked.
Margaret was close to tears. “I never thought I’d see this again,” she said.
“What? What’s happening?”
“Their parents have sent them into town to sleep.”
“Sleep where?” Sarah asked.
“Anywhere they can,” Margaret said. “It’s what they used to do in the Amin days, and later when Kony was here.”
“Where are the parents?” Brenda asked. “Why aren’t they with them? Those children are so little. If this was the US, they wouldn’t even be allowed to cross the street on their own.”
“I know,” Margaret said, “but this isn’t the US and this is the best that anyone can do for them at the moment. The parents are at home protecting their property and they’ve sent the children here so that Matapa won’t take them in the night. In the morning they’ll walk home again. They’ll keep this up until Matapa leaves.”
“Where have they all come from?” Sarah asked. “There are so many.”
Margaret snorted. “This isn’t all of them. These are just the first ones to arrive. They’ll be coming in all day from miles and miles away. Some of them won’t even get here before dark, heaven help them.” She looked at Sarah and then at Brenda. “Well,” she said, “you go and finish your beer. I have things to do.”
“Can we help you?” Brenda asked.
Margaret shook her untidy gray head. “You wouldn’t know what to do. You’d just be a distraction. “
She hurried away and Sarah watched her as she was swept along by the tide of children. Margaret picked up one of the smaller kids and hoisted him onto her hip. Still holding the child, she stopped to speak to Rory and they surveyed the crowd together. After a moment, Margaret put the child down and went in through the gates to Rory’s compound.
“Watch out for that one,” Brenda said.
“Margaret?”
“It’s her eyes.”
“What’s the matter with her eyes?”
“Wild. There’s a wildness that wasn’t there before, like she’s just holding on by a thread.”
“She’s upset,” Sarah said, “and she’s probably scared to death although she won’t admit it. “
“Oh, she’s scared,” Brenda agreed. “They are all scared, even Herbert. The situation here could go out of control at any minute, and there’s no one here to take control. All it takes is for one person to set the match.”
“We’re safe enough here,” Sarah said but Margaret’s words came back to haunt her. Cawnpore all over again - all the white people in one place.
“It’s her eyes,” Brenda said again. “Look at her eyes. Margaret Veitch is about to tip us all over the edge.”
Margaret Veitch, Budeka 1963
“The Americans are still out there,” Margaret said to Mrs. Fowler as they sat at breakfast.
“Hippies!” said Mrs. Fowler. “Disgraceful.” Her husband looked up from his morning Bible reading. “Can’t you do something?” she asked.
He shook his Brylcreemed head. “I no longer have any authority. It’s up to the locals to get rid of them.”
“But they’re on church property,” Mrs. Fowler complained. “That awful yellow van is still on top of the grave.”
“It really is too much,” Margaret said.
Mr. Fowler closed his Bible. “I’ll have a word with the bishop. Perhaps he can say something to them.”
Mrs. Fowler was not satisfied. “We don’t even know who they are. What are they doing here? Where are they going?”
“From what I hear,” Mr. Fowler sad, “they are trying to drive that Volkswagen from Cape Town to Cairo. The three boys are Americans and so is one of the girls.”
“The blonde one,” Margaret said, “is an American. The other two girls are from somewhere else. They’re hippie beatniks.”
“Maybe Margaret could talk to them,” Mr. Fowler suggested. “They’re about Margaret’s age.”
Margaret shuddered at the thought. “Oh, no I couldn’t do that. Really, I couldn’t.”
“I don’t know what’s the matter with their parents,” Mrs. Fowler complained, “letting them run around like that.”
“More money than sense,” said Mr. Fowler.
Margaret stood up from the table and brushed toast crumbs from her floral shirtwaist dress. “I’m off to work.”
“How are you getting along with the children?” Mrs. Fowler asked.
“We’re getting used to each other,” Margaret said evasively.
She went outside to the verandah, released the padlock on her bicycle and was soon cycling past the graveyard where the mini-bus sat with its yellow paint catching the bright rays of the morning sun. Drawing closer she saw that the bus was now missing its wheels. What did that mean? Did that mean they were never going to move on? Were they never going to leave her in peace?
The tallest of the boys leaned over the broken railings and called out to her as she went by. “Hi there!”
Margaret brought the bicycle to a halt.
“Off to work?” the boy asked.
“Yes.” She could think of nothing else to say. The Americans were a threat to the morals of the boys and girls in her classroom. They were the antithesis of everything that she had been brought up to believe, but this boy...well, this boy was a different kind of temptation altogether.
“We haven’t been introduced,” the boy said.
Margaret was very uncomfortable with the way she responded to the boy’s accent. His slow drawl reminded her of the hero of every American movie she had ever seen.
“I’m Rory,” the boy said.
“Margaret,” she replied.
“So, what are you doing here?”
“I’m a teacher.”
“From England?”
“Yes.”
“When you’re not teaching,” said Rory, “have you found any night life around here?”
Margaret shook her head violently. “I didn’t come for the night life.”
The boy made no response and the silence dragged on. Margaret knew she should pedal away from temptation of this attractive American boy. This was not the reason that she had come to Uganda. If she had wanted to meet boys she could have stayed in England although, to be honest, she hadn’t done very well at meeting boys in England. Her desire to be a missionary had always put a damper on her social life.
The boy was looking at her and grinning his easy grin, almost as though he knew what she was thinking.
“What happened to your wheels?” she asked - anything to break the silence.
“We’re getting them fixed,” he said “at least that’s what they say.”
“And then you’ll be leaving?”
He grinned again. “We’re in no hurry.”
“Oh.” She should say something else, but what? Could this be called flirting? Was this boy flirting with her?”
“Hey, Rory.” A blonde girl emerged from the bus, tossing her long ringlets out of her eyes. She was wearing something skimpy and revealing. Baby doll pajamas, Margaret thought. What on earth kind of girl would walk around in broad daylight in nothing but a flimsy transparent smock and tiny bloomer panties?
“This is Songbird,” Rory said.
“Really?” Margaret could not avoid arching her eyebrows skeptically. The girl was ridiculous. Songbird, indeed!
“No, not really,” said Rory, “but—”
“Songbird is my traveling name,” the blonde girl said. “Brenda is so confining, don’t you think?”
Margaret had never given a thought as to whether or not a name could be confining - a name was a name.
“So you’re a teacher,” Songbird said with a wide, welcoming smile. “That’s cool.”
“I’m a missionary teacher,” Margaret said, “from the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel.”
“Whoohoo,” Songbird said. Rory tried to shush her but she kept talking. “Stop by any time and propagate the Gospel.”
Songbird began to giggle and Margaret realized that the American girl was not entirely sober. How could she be drunk at eight in the morning?
Two more skimpily clad girls now stumbled from the Volkswagen. How many were sleeping in there, Margaret wondered and who was sleeping with whom?
“That’s Annie,” Rory said, waving a nonchalant hand at a small dark-haired girl in a short white shift. “We picked her up in Cape Town, and that’s Diana. She’s from Bulawayo.”
Diana was a brown-haired girl whose hour glass figure was accentuated by brief shorts and a tight tee shirt. Dianna and Annie waved cheerfully and disappeared into the bush alongside the graveyard.
“I’m sure they could use the bathroom at the Fowler’s house,” Margaret said.
“Didn’t want to trouble anyone so early in the morning,” Rory replied.
“It’s not early. Most of us have been up for hours. Most of us have work to do.”
Songbird smiled beatifically. “We are not like most people.”
No, Margaret thought, you certainly are not, and thank goodness most people are not like you.
Songbird’s glance slipped past Margaret and she broke into a broad smile. “Oh look,” she said to Rory, “there’s that student we met last night. Isn’t he gorgeous?”
Margaret turned around and saw a young African man in a dazzling white shirt.
“Hi Herbert,” Songbird said, “why don’t you come and have breakfast with us.”