‘Papa Bemba, thank you for coming.’ The small woman greeted Bemba respectfully at the door, nodding her head to Lumumba and the other men who accompanied him.
Bemba’s voice was gruff. ‘Where is he?’
‘Here. This way. He’s bad. I haven’t been able to control his fever.’ She led the men, with Bemba being guided by Lumumba, to the tiny room at the back of the small brick hut.
In the darkness, a young boy no more than ten years old lay in the corner, his black skin marked by hard, painful, weeping lumps, split open and oozing yellow pus, which covered his neck, matching those which sat under his arms and between his legs.
His staggered breathing, loud and hoarse, was intermittently broken for large, red blood clots to be coughed and vomited up. The stench of his body filled the air with a repellent odour as he writhed in pain, muttering muted words. Help. Please help me.
The woman, wide eyed, stared at Bemba imploringly. ‘Please, what can you do?’
Papa Bemba, guided to where the boy lay, sat down on the bed, his hands touching the sick child whilst addressing the woman.
‘The Kindoki lives within him, I told you that before, but you didn’t listen, Sister Zola. You refused to see, blinded by the sight of the possessed, yet you wish me to help you now. I fear it’s too late. His mind is occupied with sorcery contaminating his body with witchcraft.’ Papa Bemba stood up. He shook his head. ‘There is nothing that can be done, Zola.’
The scream from Zola filled the small hut. She fell to her knees at the feet of Papa Bemba. Tears of grief and loss and pain spilled from her as she pulled at Bemba’s clothes. Begging him. Pleading him. Needing him to help. ‘S’il vous plaît prennez mon petit-fils. Please save him…deliver him.’
Papa Bemba put his hand on Zola’s head. ‘If I do, it still may be too late, especially if there are stronger, more powerful spirits working within him. But even to try to deliver him, there needs to be an exchange. The spirits as always will ask for that… The same exchange I told you of before.’
The woman, shaking, wiped her running nose on her sleeve. ‘Mais oui… Yes, anything. Anything.’
Papa Bemba turned to Lumumba. ‘Get the papers.’
Lumumba, took out an envelope from his jacket. Unfolded the papers. Passed them to Zola. His words matter-of-fact. ‘Sign your name, and then it will be down to the spirits to see if they want to save him.’
Zola took the pen, signing her name at the bottom of the typed document.