he left it in one of his countrymen. I frog-marched him out the back and handed him over to a couple of Rwandan MPs with a quick report. Rutherford released his captive back into the wilds of the mosh pit, and I resumed my place in the wings. The crowd was going nuts as ‘Peep Show’ came to its conclusion, Leila lying exhausted and prostrate on the floor, her heavy, sated breathing booming through the sound system.
Then Twenny Fo jumped into the picture, pulled Leila to her feet, and the two sang an upbeat number followed by a saccharine duet that made me want to reach for a bag. Leila waved to the audience and blew everyone kisses as she walked offstage, the crowd applauding, wolf-whistling, and calling out lewd propositions.
The rapper diverted their attention with a change of pace, a song recalling neighborhoods in the Bronx, wrapped in a beat that made as much sense to my ears as French. But the black audience responded, moving and swaying, hands in the air, lost in the music. Twenny Fo performed about fifteen or so songs and the crowd was functioning as one organism, the music its lifeblood, its oxygen. And then Fo was gone. Initially stunned, the crowd refused to believe that the concert was over and demanded more, chanting and stomping and clapping. Something was missing. He hadn’t performed his signature tune. The audience knew it and wouldn’t let him go.
I scanned the crowd for more threats but couldn’t see any. It was a sea of expectant, enthusiastic black faces out there. I continued scoping the area and saw that Colonel Firestone was enjoying the concert from the second-story balcony of the base HQ overlooking the stage. Five men were with him – Biruta, Ntahobali, Lockhart, and the two men I had seen getting out of the Mercedes. There was no room up there for the bodyguards.
‘You were slow getting to those guys,’ said a voice behind me as I caught the scent of mountain flowers on a warm spring day. It was Leila. She was toweling off her wet hair, having just come from taking a shower. Without makeup, her beauty was almost freakish, the type that could launch a thousand ships. Unfortunately, the personality that went along with it would happily see them all dashed onto the rocks, the passengers and crew drowned. But maybe I was doing her an injustice.
‘Do you like your job, soldier?’
What was I supposed to say?
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘I’m in the Air Force, ma’am, which makes me an airman,’ I said.
‘Well, whether you like it or not, airman , one word from me, and you won’t be doing it no longer.’
Her attack took me by surprise as much as the guy with the knife had. If I’d been expecting anything from her – and I wasn’t – maybe it was just a plain, ordinary thank you.
She turned and walked off, still toweling her hair. I signaled West to stay with her while I imagined how she’d react to being thrown over my knee. I glanced at my watch. In another thirteen hours or so, we’d be back at Kigali airport, and this detail would slip from the uncomfortable present into the happily forgotten past.
Then a familiar tune brought my attention back to the stage. It was
‘Fighter’, Twenny Fo’s mega hit. He had re-appeared and the audience began singing along with the familiar lyrics from the chorus: There ain’t got no force righter than a US Army fighter. I wondered what the Marines and the Navy had to say about that.
‘Hey,’ said Travis, appearing beside me. ‘Great concert.’
‘Great,’ I echoed.
‘Nice take down, by the way. And good of Leila to come over and thank you,’ he said.
‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ I said.
Smoke machines swamped the stage with a white mist. Twenny Fo was two-thirds of the way through his big number. The song was building, getting louder, harder. Then some familiar sounds made me finch involuntarily: small arms fire, helicopters, rocket-propelled grenades. Explosions boomed through the speakers, seemingly getting
Then Twenny Fo jumped into the picture, pulled Leila to her feet, and the two sang an upbeat number followed by a saccharine duet that made me want to reach for a bag. Leila waved to the audience and blew everyone kisses as she walked offstage, the crowd applauding, wolf-whistling, and calling out lewd propositions.
The rapper diverted their attention with a change of pace, a song recalling neighborhoods in the Bronx, wrapped in a beat that made as much sense to my ears as French. But the black audience responded, moving and swaying, hands in the air, lost in the music. Twenny Fo performed about fifteen or so songs and the crowd was functioning as one organism, the music its lifeblood, its oxygen. And then Fo was gone. Initially stunned, the crowd refused to believe that the concert was over and demanded more, chanting and stomping and clapping. Something was missing. He hadn’t performed his signature tune. The audience knew it and wouldn’t let him go.
I scanned the crowd for more threats but couldn’t see any. It was a sea of expectant, enthusiastic black faces out there. I continued scoping the area and saw that Colonel Firestone was enjoying the concert from the second-story balcony of the base HQ overlooking the stage. Five men were with him – Biruta, Ntahobali, Lockhart, and the two men I had seen getting out of the Mercedes. There was no room up there for the bodyguards.
‘You were slow getting to those guys,’ said a voice behind me as I caught the scent of mountain flowers on a warm spring day. It was Leila. She was toweling off her wet hair, having just come from taking a shower. Without makeup, her beauty was almost freakish, the type that could launch a thousand ships. Unfortunately, the personality that went along with it would happily see them all dashed onto the rocks, the passengers and crew drowned. But maybe I was doing her an injustice.
‘Do you like your job, soldier?’
What was I supposed to say?
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘I’m in the Air Force, ma’am, which makes me an airman,’ I said.
‘Well, whether you like it or not, airman , one word from me, and you won’t be doing it no longer.’
Her attack took me by surprise as much as the guy with the knife had. If I’d been expecting anything from her – and I wasn’t – maybe it was just a plain, ordinary thank you.
She turned and walked off, still toweling her hair. I signaled West to stay with her while I imagined how she’d react to being thrown over my knee. I glanced at my watch. In another thirteen hours or so, we’d be back at Kigali airport, and this detail would slip from the uncomfortable present into the happily forgotten past.
Then a familiar tune brought my attention back to the stage. It was
‘Fighter’, Twenny Fo’s mega hit. He had re-appeared and the audience began singing along with the familiar lyrics from the chorus: There ain’t got no force righter than a US Army fighter. I wondered what the Marines and the Navy had to say about that.
‘Hey,’ said Travis, appearing beside me. ‘Great concert.’
‘Great,’ I echoed.
‘Nice take down, by the way. And good of Leila to come over and thank you,’ he said.
‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ I said.
Smoke machines swamped the stage with a white mist. Twenny Fo was two-thirds of the way through his big number. The song was building, getting louder, harder. Then some familiar sounds made me finch involuntarily: small arms fire, helicopters, rocket-propelled grenades. Explosions boomed through the speakers, seemingly getting
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