Belonging (Part 4)

“Boy.”

Startled, he glanced up.

The voice took form—the American now leaning beneath the shade of the clinic porch called out to him again. “Come here, boy.”

Still sullen in spirit, the boy had no more reserves to oppose the request. He shuffled his feet, eyes glued to the ground watching the dust fly up from his steps. He spoke not a word.

The boy stood before him, the man peering down at him. Kneeling to the boy’s level, he placed his hand gently on the boy’s chin, lifting his head. Though tender, his hand was rough and calloused.

“Why are you upset, boy?” His voice was surprisingly kind.

When the boy spoke no response, the American stood up and placed his arm around the boy’s back and ushered him inside. “Let’s go get a drink, shall we?” The boy did not resist.

A rush of cool air greeted him at the entrance. The boy took in his surroundings. In front him lay on a rough wooden table two glasses filled with water, breathing condensation—an inviting refreshment from the heat. He spotted the source of the cool air—a noisy rotating fan resting on the floor next to the table. Tiny black ants spotted the kitchen counter, trailing the scent of a browning apple core in the sink. Rays of sunbeams poured through the window above the sink, unveiling clouds of dust particles waltzing about gently in the air.

The boy found himself sitting in the chair, the glass of water in his hands. The American grinned knowingly as the boy gulped his drink, refreshing to his dry, burning throat.

He kicked his feet back and forth underneath the table as he drank. Outside, a goshawk sang out the hour of the day.

When the boy had finished his drink, he stood to leave, but the American placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders and sat him down again. The boy turned his head away from the peering eyes of the gentleman to look at the wall where a fly rested from its flight.

“What’s your name, boy?”

He did not look up. After a few moments, he mumbled, “Gyamfi.”

The American nodded. “War-like.” He paused. “Is your father one of the warriors?”

The boy glanced up, surprised by the American’s interest. His mind trailed back to three nights ago when his father had snuck out of the village quietly with the other warriors. Gyamfi recalled his last words as he departed: “The panther never hunts in the daylight.”

Gyamfi nodded shyly.

“The men have not yet returned.” The gentleman observed.

Gyamfi found in himself a sudden burst of pride for his father. He gazed into the American’s eyes. “Apa is invincible. He will defeat the enemy. The gods have given him favor.”

The man’s response was kind, but tainted with subtle disbelief. “I’m sure he will.”

Squirming for a moment in his chair, Gyamfi had no interest in debating this man. He did not know the way of the warrior.

“Have you ever gone to battle?” Gyamfi pried.

The American smiled knowingly. “No.” He paused. “I have been spared that in my lifetime.”

“Deprived is more like it.” Gyamfi whispered under his breath.

“Where were you headed today, Gyamfi?”

Gyamfi said nothing. Why did the American always have to press for information?

“Back into the jungle?” The man continued.

“Taking a walk.” He spit out in irritation.

The gentleman knelt to his level and questioned, “Would you like to show me where you were going?”

At that instance, an echoing clamor of ringing gongs interrupted their conversation.

The boy, taking advantage of the opportunity to avoid the man’s questions, jumped out of his seat and ran out the door, yelling behind him, “Thank you for the maji.”
The entire village was gathering in the center of the town, with loud cheers and excitement.

A cloud of dust appeared on the horizon, the wind whipping the dust in broad, curly strokes of brown in the air, several feet off the ground. The village buzzed with anticipation. As people congregated, the musicians pulled out their drums, and a uniform beat initiated order in the chaos. The ground shook as feet stomped, and hands clapped in harmony with the drums. Bodies swayed to and fro, like the tide of the ocean as heads turned round and round in circles. Everyone seemed to be lost in the moment of the dance.

The boy stood in the center of the crowd, nearly overwhelmed by the sheer number of people. The American had followed the boy and stood off to the side of the assembly, keenly observing the celebration.

“Victors! Victors!” The throng cried.

The dust cloud drew nearer, the voices grew louder, the drum beat increasing in volume and momentum. Anticipation filled the air.

Suddenly a voice called out. “The waganga! They need the waganga!”

The American lurched into action. As the dust cloud began to dissipate, it became apparent the village celebration would be short-lived. The warriors were exerting every last effort to keep their heads up and to march strong. Yet at the sight of the village gathered to greet them, a few crumpled to the ground, their weakness overtaking their pride.

The village surrounded the small band of survivors and as news spread of those who had perished, the piercing wailing of the women supplanted the sound of the drums. Chaos invaded the scene.

The American looked up from his place on the ground next to a wounded warrior, his hands colored red with blood not his own. “Gyamfi! Come quickly! I need your help!”

The boy rushed to his side without hesitation. Instinct had kicked in.

“Gyamfi, go, get the nurses—quickly! Run with every ounce of speed you can muster.” The American leaned on the warrior, putting his full body’s weight of pressure on the gashing wound.

Gyamfi took off towards the clinic, his mind clouded by all the confusion of the moment. Within minutes, he burst through the door of the clinic, yelling, “The waganga needs you. Hurry!”

A woman appeared in the kitchen entrance, gowned in a flour-dusted apron, her white-blond hair bundled atop her head in a messy bun. “Boy, what it is?”

Gyamfi leaned over, resting his hands on his knees, and tried to catch his breath. “The waganga. He needs you.” He took a breath. “The warriors are injured.”

The nurse disappeared for a moment, and returned with a bag at her side. “Boy, go into the next room and make space for the wounded. Then take this bucket—“she handed him a pail—“and fill it with that warm water, there, on the stove, and bring it to me. Do not spill it when you come.”

And before Gyamfi could take another breath, the woman was gone.

He stood still for a moment in the empty room, trying to get his bearings. The fan beside the table moved gently to and fro, blowing refreshingly cool air toward him, and then away. It whispered as it moved. The water on the stove was static. He moved the bucket beneath the sink, whipped away the crawling ants, and walked into the next room.

Standing at the entrance, he took stock of the situation. A couch lay barren, with a table next to it. In the corner was a cot, bound up, and resting against the wall. He moved to the side a small table that was in front of the couch and began to set up the cot in its place. By the time he finished, the pot of water began to whistle and he promptly rushed to its side and poured the water into the bucket. Steam began rising to the ceiling. He picked up the bucket and stepped out the door.

The waganga was coming towards him, carrying a blood bathed man in his arms, with a trail of warriors and village people following him, some limping, others bearing the wounded on bamboo stretchers.

The boy turned, and pointed toward the clinic. “There is space for him, inside. I made it for him.”

The waganga nodded gratefully, and rushed past him inside, setting the man gently on the cot. Gyamfi followed behind, setting the steaming bucket beside him and then moving to the side to watch and wait instructions. As the room became crowded with the wounded and mourners, the air grew stifled, and voices were muffled as the village wondered how the man would fare.

Suddenly, the waganga spoke. “Everyone out. Please! This man is gravely wounded, and I must have space to work on him.”

As Gyamfi was shuffled outside with the mass of people, he turned just in time to recognize the face of the injured warrior. He eagerly tried to push his way back in, but the crowd overpowered him.

“Apa! Apa!” His voice faded away, lost in the noise of the crowd. Black faces peered in at every window of the clinic. There was no room for the little boy to see what was happening, despite how he pushed and shoved to get to the front.

Unexpectedly, the nurse appeared at the door. Her voice was gentle and calming. “Gyamfi, come inside please.”

The crowd began to part as he proudly pushed his way forward. Soon, he was standing by his father’s side.