An eagle and a dove

An Eagle and a Dove

By

R.Paul Mohan Roy

Outside our house, forest winds create sounds that keep changing from time to time, every moment we hear a new one finally merging into a camouflaged silence. The house is mostly made of wood and erected aloft on stone pillars. It’s a Sunday morning, the time we play a game of chess or watch birds building nests. The one-legged security on day-duty has come. He’ll sit at the outside door comfortably and sleep with his vintage rifle slung across his chest, keeping his crutches on the floor.

Suddenly we hear a screeching noise made by a fast moving jeep. An old tattered four wheeler comes straight towards us and halts near the first pillar of the house.

It’s a strange and unusual sight, never experienced before. The driver in a military fatigue jumps out, walks towards me with a piece of paper in his hand. His expressionless face announces some danger is waiting for me. I felt fear gripping me. I look at my wife. She nods, for she understands what to do if I’m taken a prisoner or hostage. The man makes quick steps and reaches the ladder. Again we exchange glances meaning the list of things to do and the persons to be contacted that we have rehearsed several times. Is he bringing news from the President? Chances are remote though, we are always ready to leave the country in a minute’s notice.

Leaving the jeep’s engine running, the man gets down, climbs up the steps, ignores the presence of my wife, walks straight towards me and hands over the paper. He almost throws it on my face. My hands begin to shiver. Rarely does an engineer from Mumbai disappear in the African forest or taken hostage. The paper bears a one-line command, “Come to the Palace. President”.

Nine months back, from the Goma Airport to this sleepy outpost on the border between Eastern Congo and Rwanda, I was taken in a brand new Toyota Land Cruiser through a different road. Now the jeep takes a less-travelled narrow and muddy one I haven’t seen before. There are long stretches of tiny huts. En route to the palace I see ill-clothed black children playing soccer. They do not bother to notice me.

I don’t know when I’ll be back or whether I will ever join my wife again. I read the note from the president for a second time. ‘President’ is euphemism for the chief of the tribe who holds control of the mines and logging rights, the ‘palace’ his hide-out-headquarters deep inside the jungle. Frequent clash between prominent tribes, followed by liberal blood shedding, is only news to us.

The work force does not know for which tribal chief they are working. The natives who work in the mine are always silent. But they could hear the noise under their feet that foretells the marching of an enemy tribe. Here, death by violence is so casual that it’s the head-count that would dethrone a sitting president. A new president occupies the palace for a year or two, takes few more wives and changes the palace guards. Seized by his relentless greed he would denude the forests, or lease the land illegally to foreign mining companies, stash the stolen money in foreign banks and run away at the opportune moment.

The world outside does not know their unethical rule and their unlawful activities. It is here the two chief raw materials—-Coltan and Cassiterite—-used in the third generation tiny wireless devices are unearthed. They are critical elements in the miniaturization of electronic circuit boards to razor-thin chips. The Presidents and their men believe they are leasing out the land to dig out uranium. The ore processing personnel know the truth: inside every mobile phone in the world there is Congolese blood.

On reaching the palace, two men take charge of me. They motion me to follow them. I obey meekly as they lead me in. Their uniform in dark khaki belongs to a private militia. When an erring native is taken like this, his usual prayer is a wish for swift death by a single bullet. When death is certain and it waits close by, a quick one is more welcome. I begin to think of the cruelties a militia can bring on their enemies. Amputation is a casual one for a simple crime like spying for another company or uttering a few words against the management. Their hospitals have paramedics who are specialists in doing amputation with clinical precision. I shudder at the thought of walking in prosthetics.

Now I’m taken to a hall. Two smart young guards stand to attention and open the door. One of them signals me to take a seat in the corner. No one talks to me. A middle-aged lady, a Mulatto in appearance, perhaps a personal assistant or secretary to the president, is sitting behind a long well-polished mahogany desk. There is no telephone or calling bell. She is busy with a handful of papers and a pencil on her left hand. She has straight hair in half brown colour with unenviable big bosom. Her long strides announce her authority and her proximity to the powers inside.

My eyes survey the whole setting. The place looks like a conference hall bereft of matching furniture. There are symptoms of luxury in the interior painting and wall hangings. There is a door leading to another ante-chamber, which I guess may be the president’s office. Here stands another guard looking for instructions from the lady. Now and then she walks to the door and hands over a paper and returns back to her seat. But for the annoying sound made by her high-heeled foot wear there is absolute silence—-a silence created by an unseen human power. It is so oppressing that it makes the inexorably moving time to stand still.

Just above the door, through which men enter and leave the president’s room, I see a large portrait of a man—-must be the president. His typical African face is morphed against a group of soldiers, all holding their guns up in the air. The coat of arms at the bottom bears an image of a flying eagle spreading its wings on air. There is a strange charm in his face. Below the beret pulled down to his right eyebrow, he looks full of terror and confidence. No wonder he holds a territory to plunder and a militia to command.

Few more, like me, are brought in and asked to take seats next to me. The whole atmosphere is charged with mystery, secrecy and gloom. Now I see two officer-looking men in army fatigue enter the hall along with a man in handcuff. They stand to attention before the lady and hand over a paper. No words are spoken. She glances at the paper for a brief second and directs them to the president’s room. One of the two sentries lets the officers in along with the handcuffed. They quickly return, now without the man, and leave the hall through the main entrance.

What is happening? Is it a day of judgment, presided over by an African god of cruel justice? I don’t know why or what for I’m made to wait this long. A reward or punishment is waiting for me, I am certain. The long waiting itself has become a loathsome punishment I don’t deserve.

I felt thirst and hunger. I’m sitting glued to a chair almost for five long hours. I summon some courage, stand up and am about to move towards the woman and ask her why I’m brought. She sensed my intent. Without even looking up or seeing my face, her left hand rises, and with her index finger directs me to move back and sit. I obey implicitly, now my face reflecting more fear.

Hours tick by. The one-act tragic drama continues without intermission. Now the time is half past four in the evening. The lady takes a brief munching of something off from a silver plate. The insides of my stomach churn and swirl with a rolling noise I only could hear.

I now replay the scene I ran into in a job fair in Mumbai. The placement service chief goes through my resume carefully, marks in red the place showing my graduation in mining in second division. He says the job market in central Africa can offer me a middle level executive post to supervise laborers in a mining or logging industry. This is how I come to work for a mining company on the border between Eastern Congo and Rwanda. From the day one we are destined to court silence and loneliness. The two natives, a maid and a security man, are all that we have for company. Six days-old news papers, delivered on Saturdays, are the only source of information about the outside world. All foreigners are struck by the extremes of Africa-—nature in her grand exuberance with stretches of forests and the resource-rich land being exploited by a few tribal leaders.

All of a sudden there is some flutter of activities in the hall. I notice two new men emerge from the room and walk towards me. I think my turn has come to be taken to the president. I stand up readying myself to follow them. They take no notice of me, brush past my shoulders and leave the hall. The lady, glum and tight-lipped as she is, again motions me to sit. This time I don’t fail to notice a sense of toughness in the way she raised her hand.

What has brought me here, I question myself. I look up at the ceiling for an answer. My eyes meet the man’s in the portrait. I feel I’m helpless and forgotten—-a little prey in dovecote watched by an eagle, flying above and ready to swoop down.

Now a new man enters the hall with a tattered brief case in hand. He walks straight towards the woman and salutes. The woman responds in a casual way. The man unzips the case and pulls out a thick paper cover and hands it over to the woman. Will it contain a dossier on me? The woman opens the cover looks into it, pulls out a slip and reads its contents for a few seconds and puts it back into the cover. I’m watching every move she makes.

The whole proceedings are fearfully awesome, exhibiting brute tribal power in the raw. Is waiting a punishment calculated to break my insides without touching me? Or am I asked to meet the president just to discuss some technical problem that I could solve? The atmosphere becomes suffocating beyond my endurance.

At last, she looks at me and her eyes command me to come to her desk. I’m undone. I start smelling my own sweat. My pants down to the socks and shoes get drenched. Immediately I get up and walk towards her desk. I have no time to gaze at or admire the thin silver cross on her neck, dangling on her partially white massive cleavage. Two new guards walk simultaneously towards her. She may hand me over to be taken to the president’s chamber. She gives the cover to the guards. Now, without looking at me she speaks for the first time, “Yes, you can go. Follow them”. Unceremoniously she waves off her hand and buries herself again into her work, her left hand toying with the pencil between her thick lips and the papers on the table.

Are they taking me to a gas chamber? I move towards the door over which the president hangs in picture. But the guards stop me and direct me to the door to the outside world. I look back in confusion. The lady, her face downcast, resumes her work shuffling the papers. No formal glances. No formal exchange of words. Things move in signs and gestures, but in mechanical accuracy.

Tired and worn out, I follow the guards. They take me to a waiting Land Rover. They help me to get in, and one of them speaks to the driver. As I sit properly and put the seat belt, he gives me the cover more courteously. The van revs up and takes speed.

With shivering hands I open the cover. Lo! There I see a couple of air tickets from Goma to New Delhi via Nairobi, and American dollars equivalent to a month’s salary and bonus. I check the date and time of the flight. I have another twelve hours at my disposal.

I see my wife standing at the steps clinging to a suit case and her hand bag. She is smart enough to read the situation.

“Quick, get in. We’re leaving for good. Come on”, I shouted. I look at her handbag enquiringly. She nods to mean that the passports are safely tucked in.

At Goma Airport we eat our last meals in Congo. We’re eight hours ahead of check-in time. My wife looks at her watch now and then and the illuminated flight timings scrolling on the board. Unlike the day we arrived, the airport looks mysteriously silent and less crowded. The security personnel are unusually brisk walking from one end to the other. I sense something is amiss.

We’re seated at the middle row in the Boeing bound for Nairobi. Next to me is an African of heavy built in smart three piece suit and a blue tie. He is wearing a broad black sun glass and begins to doze off. When the plane takes off I felt a sigh of relief.

As the plane rises up the man next to me takes off his dark glasses, looks at me and smiles as if I’m his a long lost friend. I remember I’ve seen him before. On the left side of his coat I see a crest showing a white bird—-a charming little dove. He smiles at me for a second time. It is meant to ask me, “Haven’t we met before”? Yes, we’ve met before, not face to face. I smiled back. The eagle now sits in a dove’s garb. He takes his mobile phone, punches some keys, an SMS perhaps to his confidant waiting for him. I’m sure tomorrow’s news paper will carry a story on the eagle’s flight to a new territory.