Mama Koko and the Hundred Gunmen by Lisa J Shannon

Author:Lisa J Shannon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: PublicAffairs
Published: 2014-12-05T05:00:00+00:00

Ash-Like Snow

• • • •

The day after the mango tree riots, the governor of Orientale Province stepped in, declaring that the real problem was the mayor of Dungu. The locals needed a villain and the governor knew that he had to make someone—anyone—responsible for the incident to pacify them. Firing the mayor did the trick.

The riots subsided the next morning, but Bamokandi still smoldered.

Keen to see the remnants of the machete-wielding rioters, we trailed after the air-tight UN SUVs resuming their morning commutes between the air base and town, as locals cleared the downed mango trees from the road.

At the cusp of town, Mayano pointed to a Protestant mission. “They saw the LRA this morning.”

We pulled into the brick complex, all but abandoned save a few groundskeepers and a minister. Now, this place was what I had pictured from the sky over Congo, this was what I had imagined of Le Procure de Mission: spotless and nestled into grassy rolling hills.

As we stepped out of the car, the air crackled and gurgled with fire. I looked up at the hazy sky. Ash and burnt grass drifted in the air like snow. Smoke rose in a ring from the ravines encircling the mission.

Francisca scoped the place out, imagining from behind what tree or road or field the LRA might surprise us. As was becoming a habit, she mentally worked through our getaway: The river is close by, through the forest. I know the fishermen in the area who keep canoes. We could run through the forest and catch a canoe back into town. Yes, that would work. Most white people—if you say “Run!”—wouldn’t just run into the bush. But Lisa, she’s a runner. She runs in the forest. If I say “Run!” she’ll run through the bush.

Groundskeepers led us to the far end of the hilltop and pointed into the forested ravine, a jungle dense with ancient trees and climbing vines. The LRA were sighted there the night before in the underbrush, a big flashlight in the trees and darkness.

“How did you know it was them?” I asked.

“We could see their flashlight,” the groundskeeper said.

“But how did you know it was them?”

“It was them.”

There wasn’t much more to say about it. This Protestant mission was in the inauspicious position of being the last compound before the bush, teetering on the edge of town. If anyone was going to receive LRA visitors, the mission was surely it.

Walking back to the car we saw, from a distance, a group of men emerge from the burning ravines. They had weapons.

I tensed.

“Local defense,” Francisca said.

The label wasn’t soothing, given the rioting, threats, warnings from leaders to stay away because locals might take out all of those frustrations on a foreigner, even with Francisca at my side. In fact, I’d never run across a militia that didn’t consider itself some form of “local defense.” Given the explosive riots and the ominous sight of any and every machete I’d seen in Congo, I could only assume “local defense” equaled menacing and bloodthirsty.

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