obsequiousness in this almost theatrical protocol that would have made me smile if Hans hadn’t just collapsed in front of me. Joma pulled him to his feet and held him upright.
The officer reviewed his troops, without paying any attention to Hans or me, listening distractedly to the report that Moussa delivered to him in a local language. He didn’t seem very interested in what his subordinate was saying. He was very dark-skinned and as solid as a rock, his shaven skull screwed to his shoulders with no neck and no chin. His face was almost featureless, just a dented sphere with dilated nostrils and protruding eyes that flashed like lightning. He wore a tunic open over his belly and an American army belt around his neck. He at last deigned to look at us. Chief Moussa handed him our passports, took a few steps back and lined up with his men.The captain leafed through our documents, looked from our photographs to our faces, wiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb then came and examined us closely.
‘I’m Captain Gerima,’ he announced. ‘And this is my kingdom. I have the power of life and death. I just have to give the order … It’s fate that brought us together. You have nobody to blame but yourselves. When a fly is trapped in a web, it can’t blame the spider. That’s how life is. The world has always functioned like that, since the dawn of time. Actually, since the dawn of time, it’s always been night. The dawn of humanity isn’t quite ready to rise yet …’
Impressed with his own rhetoric, he made sure his men were too, then continued, ‘I don’t know how long you’re going to stay with us. I must warn you that nobody escapes from here. If you keep your heads down, you’ll be well treated. If you don’t, well, I won’t go into details.’
He came to a sudden stop, as if he had run out of ideas, or maybe he’d lost the thread of his speech, which he must have fine-tuned the previous night specially for us.
He turned on his freshly polished boots and disappeared back into his lair.
Two men pushed us into the hovel with the wire netting around it opposite the command post, untied us and withdrew, leaving the door open. Hans shuffled over to a mat that had been laid on the bare ground and tried to take off his shirt, but without success. I tried to help him and noticed that, in drying, the wound had closed over part of the cloth.
‘Put water on it,’ a voice suggested. ‘It’ll soften the scab.’
A white man we hadn’t noticed emerged from beneath a mosquito net in the corner. A beam of light revealed hishermit-like face: he was a man in his fifties, thin, with long grey hair tumbling over his shoulders. He had a frayed beard and was bare-chested, with prominent ribs and a sunken belly. His eyes shone like a sick man’s.
‘French?’
‘German.’
He looked pityingly at Hans. ‘Is he hurt?’
‘A sabre blow. He’s burning up.’
‘Put water on the wound. It’ll make him feel better.’
‘I’m a doctor,’ I said, making it clear to him that I could look after my friend without anyone’s help.
He took a metal flask from a heap of miscellaneous objects and came up to us. ‘This is my water ration,’ he said. ‘Everything’s rationed here, even prayers … Your friend’s in a bad way.’
Without waiting for my permission, he trickled small quantities of water on Hans’s wound, made sure the material and the scar absorbed it, then pressed delicately on the wound with his finger.
‘Journalists or aid workers?’
‘We were just passing. These pirates hijacked us out at sea … And you?’
‘Anthropologist … at least, I think so.’
‘Have you been here long?’
‘Forty years … In Africa, I mean. I love Africa …’
Hans submitted to his care. The water was doing him good. In places, the scab over the wound was coming away and starting to release a few threads of the cloth.
‘Don’t move,’ the stranger advised, ‘or it’ll start to bleed …’ He
The officer reviewed his troops, without paying any attention to Hans or me, listening distractedly to the report that Moussa delivered to him in a local language. He didn’t seem very interested in what his subordinate was saying. He was very dark-skinned and as solid as a rock, his shaven skull screwed to his shoulders with no neck and no chin. His face was almost featureless, just a dented sphere with dilated nostrils and protruding eyes that flashed like lightning. He wore a tunic open over his belly and an American army belt around his neck. He at last deigned to look at us. Chief Moussa handed him our passports, took a few steps back and lined up with his men.The captain leafed through our documents, looked from our photographs to our faces, wiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb then came and examined us closely.
‘I’m Captain Gerima,’ he announced. ‘And this is my kingdom. I have the power of life and death. I just have to give the order … It’s fate that brought us together. You have nobody to blame but yourselves. When a fly is trapped in a web, it can’t blame the spider. That’s how life is. The world has always functioned like that, since the dawn of time. Actually, since the dawn of time, it’s always been night. The dawn of humanity isn’t quite ready to rise yet …’
Impressed with his own rhetoric, he made sure his men were too, then continued, ‘I don’t know how long you’re going to stay with us. I must warn you that nobody escapes from here. If you keep your heads down, you’ll be well treated. If you don’t, well, I won’t go into details.’
He came to a sudden stop, as if he had run out of ideas, or maybe he’d lost the thread of his speech, which he must have fine-tuned the previous night specially for us.
He turned on his freshly polished boots and disappeared back into his lair.
Two men pushed us into the hovel with the wire netting around it opposite the command post, untied us and withdrew, leaving the door open. Hans shuffled over to a mat that had been laid on the bare ground and tried to take off his shirt, but without success. I tried to help him and noticed that, in drying, the wound had closed over part of the cloth.
‘Put water on it,’ a voice suggested. ‘It’ll soften the scab.’
A white man we hadn’t noticed emerged from beneath a mosquito net in the corner. A beam of light revealed hishermit-like face: he was a man in his fifties, thin, with long grey hair tumbling over his shoulders. He had a frayed beard and was bare-chested, with prominent ribs and a sunken belly. His eyes shone like a sick man’s.
‘French?’
‘German.’
He looked pityingly at Hans. ‘Is he hurt?’
‘A sabre blow. He’s burning up.’
‘Put water on the wound. It’ll make him feel better.’
‘I’m a doctor,’ I said, making it clear to him that I could look after my friend without anyone’s help.
He took a metal flask from a heap of miscellaneous objects and came up to us. ‘This is my water ration,’ he said. ‘Everything’s rationed here, even prayers … Your friend’s in a bad way.’
Without waiting for my permission, he trickled small quantities of water on Hans’s wound, made sure the material and the scar absorbed it, then pressed delicately on the wound with his finger.
‘Journalists or aid workers?’
‘We were just passing. These pirates hijacked us out at sea … And you?’
‘Anthropologist … at least, I think so.’
‘Have you been here long?’
‘Forty years … In Africa, I mean. I love Africa …’
Hans submitted to his care. The water was doing him good. In places, the scab over the wound was coming away and starting to release a few threads of the cloth.
‘Don’t move,’ the stranger advised, ‘or it’ll start to bleed …’ He
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