“Ah, the vehicle!” Manyenga cried out as the cones of headlights swung into the clearing, the beams lighting the stony ground and the sloppily whitewashed boulders that marked the perimeter of the chief’s compound.
The brothers rose and approached the vehicle — a white van that had crushed through the low bushes — and conferred with the driver. Hock could tell by the logo and the name L’Agence Anonyme that it was the same van that Aubrey had driven him in his failed escape.
“Back up, turn around,” Manyenga called out, first in English and then in Sena, giving explicit commands. And hearing the efficiency of the orders, Hock remembered how Manyenga had told him he’d been a driver for the Agency.
With the arrival of the van, the dancers had ceased their stamping and clapping. The drum rhythms slowed to a scraping patter on the drumheads as the van backed up, jerked forward, then turned and repeated this until the rear of the vehicle was facing the circle of spectators. Pleased with himself, his face gleaming in the firelight, Manyenga marched over and slapped the rear door of the van. “Open!” he called. He yanked the handle, pounded the doors again, and then, frustrated, he roared and the drum patter stopped.
Now a small figure rounded the van from the driver’s side. He poked a key into a slot in the door handle, as Manyenga hovered, and swung the doors open.
The dancers and spectators rushed forward and crowded the van, to marvel at the sacks of flour and rice, the cartons of milk powder, the stacked crates with labels that identified them as beans, marmalade, ketchup, salt, baby food, syrup, corned beef, chicken parts, creamed corn, pickles, and more. Some of the boxes were stenciled, others had colorful labels. Hock’s first thought was how clean the cardboard was, how well stacked the boxes, the order of them, absurdly framed by the dusty compound and scattered firewood, the hungry people gloating over the load like the jubilant, rewarded faces of a cargo cult.
It was more than food: it represented influence far beyond the village. It was wealth. This penetration of the outer world was something like belief, a concentration of visible power. Small children jumped up and down at the sight of it, others pushed for a better look, and there was a howl of hunger in the laughter.
“We will now unload,” Manyenga said, and he directed some of the bigger boys to begin stacking the crates against the wall of his hut.
All the attention was directed at the van, the food, the process of unloading, the interior of the van growing emptier, larger, as the crates and boxes were removed. The very size of the boxes excited interest. Kitchen Magic Toaster Oven on one box and Electro-Mop on another; but since Malabo had no electricity, these items were no more than random loot.
Hock had turned away and was looking at the one person who seemed indifferent to the spectacle of unloading. It was the driver, that small skinny person who had unlocked the rear doors of the van — Aubrey.
Hock stared at him. Aubrey’s face was scratched, welts had been raised on his cheeks in places, and he wore a white bandage on his neck. His arms had been raked, too, and one of his wrists was wrapped in a thickness of gauze. Alerted by Hock’s staring, Aubrey jerked his head away. He blinked, shifted his posture, and touched his face. Then he stepped back, as though cowering.
“You!” Hock called out, and in the confusion of unloading no one heard him, or rather, only Aubrey heard. The shout was enough to make him hesitate.
Hock rose from his chair and took three long strides to where Aubrey was standing. As soon as he had gotten out of the chair he’d felt the strain of the effort, and the thought came to him: I am weak.
Pure fury had carried him forward, and when he reached Aubrey he did not hesitate. He swung and slapped his face with such force the young man lost his balance and fell against the legs of some women who were celebrating the arrival of the food. Aubrey tried to regain his footing, but while he was on his knees, Hock hit him again, slapping him with his sore hand, and Aubrey slumped to the ground. He crouched, whimpering, making himself small.
All Hock’s anger, months of frustration, stiffened the muscles in his arm and gave strength to that slap, delivered so hard his hand stung. He hoped that such a slap might flay the skin from the young man’s face. Hock stood over him, to assess the pain he’d inflicted, as Aubrey crawled on all fours, away from the firelight and into the shadows near one of Manyenga’s huts.
The children who’d been so excited by the sight of the food were distracted by the sudden fight, and they grouped around the groveling Aubrey, kicking out at him, while the women mocked. The attention shifted from the van to the sight of Hock following Aubrey, the screeching children urging Hock to slap him again, crying, “Fight! Fight!”
That was when Manyenga stepped in. He placed himself between Hock and Aubrey. He shouted for silence, he roared again, and when the crowd became quieter he began a speech in English — Hock realized it was for him to hear — and that it was so loud and so pompous, in a language that most did not understand, assured Manyenga of their close attention. Holding his mouth open when he spoke, he affected a gagging British accent.
“This is an auspicious night,” Manyenga said. “Never mind that our chief is angry. He has brought us good luck. He was here long ago and he returned to find us wanting and poor. So he did his level best to give us help—”
Hock turned his back on him. He could not bear listening. He walked a little distance and saw that the van was empty now. All the boxes had been piled near one of Manyenga’s huts, and a blue plastic tarpaulin was being fitted over the pile and fastened to keep the dust off. Manyenga was taking possession of it all.
“—the mzungu is our dear father. Without him we would be lost. We are therefore offering him a promotion.”
As he spoke, standing near the fire so that he could be seen, glorying in the uprush of sparks from the flames, Manyenga commanded the attention of the entire crowd. Only Hock was not watching, and hardly listening. He saw a small hunched-over figure bobbing in the shadows behind the van, so small he was hardly visible.
“This is our ceremony of farewell,” Manyenga said. “You, find the driver. Make him ready,” he added, shoving one of the brothers. “He must stand up. He cannot be intimidated by a little slap in the face. It is time to say goodbye.”
The small bobbing figure — was it Snowdon? — moved around the van, efficiently, close to the ground, and then was gone, and when Hock looked again he saw Aubrey emerge from the crowd covered in dust, one side of his face swollen. Hock stepped forward, intending to hit him again. But his arm was snatched and held, his other arm gripped. He was restrained so tightly he couldn’t move.
“Shut him in the van,” Manyenga said to the two boys holding Hock.
“Festus, wait,” Hock said, struggling.
“But we must,” Manyenga said.
“You’re selling me — I know you’re selling me,” Hock said. “Why are you doing this?”
In his affected British accent that was like gargling, Manyenga said, “We are doing so because we are hungry.”
“And what will they do with me?”
“Those boys will tend to you,” Manyenga said. “And one day you will be released to your people.”
“I want to be released now.” Hock heard the gulp of a whimper in his own voice.
At this, perhaps maddened by the whimper, Manyenga screamed and lost his British accent. “You mzungu can go anywhere! You people can do what you like. You are free to just come and go because you have maahhnee! This is a little holiday for you, but this is our whole life, as we are condemned to live on the Lower River forever!”