THE GOOD BROTHER

"Forty days work!" shouted Vitesse. "Forty days work taken from my own chapped hands! I want them dead!" He dipped his finger into a wooden mug of wine, scooped up a fly spinning on the surface, and flicked it hard against his wall.

Vitesse toiled as a palm oil merchant in the village of Kitengo, just north of the Angolan border, in the country known as The Congo. He'd made it all the way to 38 years old, had five children, and lived in a clean, three-room hut he had built himself. Viteese had always been thought of as a happy man.

"Cutting, chopping, boiling, pressing three hundred kilos of palm nuts," he growled, jamming the back of his hand tight against his jaw. "Ten, thirty-liter barrels of oil. I had a raft. At this moment, I am supposed to be traveling the Kwilu River. To the market at Kilunga. I could have sold those barrels for 10,000 Francs each. I could have lived on that money for six months. I could have bought new notebooks for my children, new clay pots for my wife, a new short-wave radio for myself so we could all listen to the football matches every Sunday, from that station based in Cameroon. But is any of that going to happen? No! And why? Because last night some fat toads stole every one of those ten barrels I just spent forty long, backbreaking days to make! They had a truck. The tracks were still fresh when I found them this morning."

His cousin Foster, a thick-necked man who Vitesse had the misfortune of having as his partner, sat next to him and munched on kola nuts. Also in the hut, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was Mutamba, the elder of Vitesse's clan. A thin, old man with a long beard and eyes glazed blue from cataracts, Mutamba was blind now, but for years he had been known as a man with exceptional powers of magic. His talent created such fear, that twice before he had been forced to leave the village of Kitengo. Each time he had been allowed to return only after taking an oath forgoing all of his curses and clairvoyance, and with the somber condition that if he ever did use his powers, for whatever purpose, his punishment would be the death of one of his children. The first time Mutamba came back, he didn't believe them. Not long after, he found his eldest daughter tied to a large mound of fire ants. She had been six months pregnant, and all that was left of her were her own bones, and the thin bones of her unborn child. When Mutamba returned from exile the second time, he signed an agreement using his own blood as ink.

"My Uncle, I know about your situation," Vitesse said to Mutamba. "You will take one of my own children in the place of yours if we are found out. But I have had enough! I will not allow myself to be cheated in such a way."

It was nighttime in the village and without a moon. Outside his hut, the wind blew hard and lightning flashed silently along the horizon of the savanna. Most of the people had long ago shut their homes to prepare for the coming storm, so it had been easy for Vitesse to shuttle Mutamba to his home without anyone seeing him. A single candle danced and flickered on his table and threw long shadows on the mud walls. Vitesse sipped his palm wine and stared at Mutamba, waiting for him to respond.

"Did you hear what I told you?" asked Vitesse. "Forty days work! Ten barrels of oil. I could have bought food for months. I asked you here for vengeance. We are family. You still have power left, I know that you do. I want you to lift yourself into the air and find out who these people are and then a curse upon them! May they be eaten by their swine!"

"Yes, yes," said Foster. "Eaten by their swine."

"Or may their hearts turn brown and collapse."

"Yes, yes," said Foster. "Brown hearts."

"Or my God, just give them something!"

"Yes," said Foster. "Something."

The old man didn't move. He sat with his back straight against the wall, and his useless blue eyes shut tight. The first groan of thunder rumbled outside.

"Well?" said Vitesse, his voice cracking.

A fly settled on Mutamba's nose, but he didn't twitch. He took a deep breath and a smile crept across his dry lips. "It was on a night like this that the rebellion started," he finally said.

Vitesse and Foster glanced at each other. "The rebellion?" asked Foster.

"Mutalla," said the old man. "Pierre Mutalla."

Vitesse rolled his eyes. "Look, I know all about --"

"He came with all his people, and his machetes and guns. He burned this whole village to the ground," continued the old man. "He told us we were to join him or be killed by him. Half of us fled to the forest. I lived there while here in the savanna Mutalla and his men went to each village and burned them all. Our country was young then. We had just gotten rid of the Belgians and no one had claimed it for our own. Every thug with a crowd at his control felt he had the right to lead us. Mutalla," said the old man, and shook his head.

"He killed my father you know. Split his head in two and fed him to the crocodiles. So at thirteen, I hid in the forest with my mother and my father's wives and my brothers and sisters, and I, being the oldest, I took control. One day I went out to check the traps. It had been so long since we had meat. As I walked along the path I came across two of Mutalla's men. They saw me and raised their machetes to the sky and I was certain I would be split in two. Fear I tasted in my throat. But they stopped. They lowered their arms and one of them asked me: 'Who are you?'

"I told them I was the son of Bamba. And they said: 'We killed Bamba.' I said I knew, and they said: 'We can kill you too' and I said that I knew that as well. But they said they wouldn't. They said they were tired and they had not eaten in days, so they let me pass.

"As soon as I was out of their sight, I fell to my knees to vomit. I then gathered my courage and walked to my traps where, to my surprise, I found a large boar. On my way back to our hiding place, I passed the two soldiers. I stopped and gave each of them a leg of the boar. They took it and thanked me.

"Later that night they came to our camp, this time with more men. They took my mother, my father's wives, my brothers and sisters, and led them to the river where they bound and gagged them and one by one they pushed them in the water. I watched them all drown, one by one. The crocodiles had a good meal. The soldiers told me to run and hide. They let me live, only because I had given them food."

The old man began to laugh.

"What is so funny?" Vitesse demanded. "How can you laugh?"

"Brothers killing brothers..." said Mutamba. "It's funnier than a singer who forgets his song."

"Have you completely lost your head?" asked Vitesse.

"How many barrels were taken?" asked Mutamba.

"Ten!" said Vitesse. "Last night!"

"So what happened next?" asked Foster, spittles of kola nut dripping from his mouth. Vitesse glared at Foster. "The story," explained Foster meekly. "I was just wondering what happened next."

"The white men came and killed Mutalla. They stopped the war."

"Oh," said Foster.

Vitesse squirmed in his seat. "Listen, old man, about my--"

"How much did you say those barrels would fetch you?"

"10,000 each. 100,000 total."

"Mmm," said Mutamba. "By the way, have you heard the story about the Belgian priest in the convent?"

"What are you talking about!"

Mutamba continued: "This happened at Totshi Mission, just an hour from here."

"Really?" asked Foster and settled in for another tale. He felt Vitesse's eyes burning on the back of his head, and Foster turned and shrugged his shoulders. "What?"

"Oh forget it!" snorted Vitesse, and drank his wine.

"So there was this priest," Mutamba began. "Brother Pierre was his name, who was in love with one of the Sisters at Totshi. He used to travel there twice a week to deliver the mail for the convent, and eventually he and Sister Margo began a dance with their eyes. This went on for some time until one day, the head gardener of Totshi, old Kango -- you remember him?"

"Yes, yes! I remember him!" said Foster.

Vitesse slapped his forehead with his hand. He shook his head back and forth.

"Well, old Kango passed away, and the priests had a coffin built and sent to the convent. Sister Margo chose to dress the box and had it delivered to her room. Ah, but Sister Rose was there with her as well, for as the head of the mission, it was her job to sign the delivery papers. Well, Sister Margo tried all she could to get Rose to leave; for unknown to all but herself, in the box was her love struck priest, waiting for the moment they could at last be alone! But poor Sister Margo. It was not meant to be. For just as Sister Rose began to walk away, she turned one final time to give Margo instructions on how to dress the box, and it was then that she noticed a gray tuft of hair sticking out from the lid of the coffin. The priest had caught a lock of his hair! Sister Rose threw open the coffin and proceeded to beat the poor man senseless. He ran out from the convent all the way back to his monastery, and he and Sister Margo were both sent packing immediately back to their country!"

"No!" exclaimed Foster, in pure delight. "Really?"

"Yes!" said the old man. "Wonderful story isn't it?"

Vitesse slammed his fist upon the table. "Old man! I once feared you, but now I want to spank you like a little child. I asked you here to help me, and all I get are stories! Has the sun finally got to your head?!"

Silence in the hut. Foster covered his eyes, not wanting to witness the disaster about to happen. Certainly the old man would turn Vitesse into a snail.

"Vitesse," began the old man slowly. "Forty days and 100,000 Francs is a lot to lose. But it is also a lot for someone else to gain. How full have your traps been lately?"

"Empty," said Vitesse.

"Well perhaps some day soon they will be full. Perhaps one day an antelope will leap from another's trap and fall into yours."

"I don't want your words," screamed Vitesse. "I want these people dead!"

Just then a knock began at his door. It was a quiet knock at first. But soon it got louder.

All three froze. If the Chief of the village knew Mutamba had been summoned there and for what purpose, someone's child would die. The wind picked up outside and slapped against Vitesse's tin roof. The knock continued at Vitesse's door.

Vitesse slumped low in his chair, and pressed his fingers against his eyelids. "Come in," he said.

The door swung open aided by a burst of wind. A long pair of legs inched inside. They were covered by frayed, old pants, and connected to the tall body of a frightened looking youth. The youth carried a small sack thrown over his shoulder. Neither Vitesse nor Foster had ever seen him before.

Another rush of air entered his hut and threatened to blow out his candle. "Well hurry in!" Vitesse yelled at the youth. "Shut the door! I've got no more matches if this candle goes out!"

Their visitor shut the door, and turned to face the three men. He stepped into the hut, ducking his head to keep from hitting the crossbeam that ran across the ceiling. His appearance aroused no sense of alarm in any of them. If anything, the youth's face seemed twisted in awkward display of fear.

"Well? Who are you?" asked Vitesse.

"Yes. Who are you?" asked Foster.

"Pardon me brothers," the youth began quietly. "I saw your light from the road. I'm lost, I fear. I'm searching for the village of Matondo."

"Matondo!" exclaimed Vitesse. "You passed the road already. Didn't you cross through Kappa?"

"Yes," said the youth.

"And did you not see where the road split?"

"Yes."

Vitesse laughed. "Well, you took the wrong road! The other one leads to Matondo. This one here."

"Oh," said the youth in a whsiper.

Vitesse leaned forward in his chair and squinted his eyes. "What tribe are you from?" he asked.

"Kuba," said the youth.

"Mmm. So I gathered by your height. And big nose. We don't see much of you here. Which is fine by me. Miners. Thieves is what you are."

The youth remained quiet.

"You don't happen to know anything about some palm oil recently disappearing, do you?" continued Vitesse, looking him over.

The youth glanced around the room, and settled on Mutamba. The old man's eyes remained closed and a thin smile stretched across his lips.

"No I don't. I'm sorry," said the youth. "I'm no thief, brother. Honest. I'm just lost."

"Well, find your way then," said Vitesse.

"Yes... I guess I should." The corner of his mouth quivered. "You say I must return to Kappa?" asked the youth.

Foster turned to Vitesse. "Cousin—" he stared to plead.

Vitesse ignored him. "Return to Kappa," he told the stranger.

"Oh my," said the youth, speaking mostly to himself. "That is two hours away. And at this time of night. And with the storm coming..."

"That's right," said Vitesse. "Two hours away."

"Yes, but --" began Foster.

Vitesse raised his hand and stopped him. "Let him go," said Vitesse. "You may go," he said to the youth.

The youth quietly nodded and turned to leave, when suddenly he struck his head on the crossbeam in the hut. He stood dazed a moment and dropped his sack to the ground. A basket of fruit tumbled out.

No one spoke. Vitesse carefully watched as the youth turned around, his face twisted up with pain, and stooped down to gather his things. The youth came to the last item that had tumbled to the floor, a large pineapple, and he brushed it off, and threw his sack over his shoulder. He then placed the pineapple on the table before Vitesse.

"I'm sorry to have bothered you," he said, and once again turned to leave and once again struck his head on the beam. The youth stopped still in his tracks, frozen by the embarrassment of what he had just done.

The pineapple glistened at Vitesse: large, robust, fully ripe. It was unexpected, like seeing a flash of gold in a poor woman's mouth. Vitesse glanced at the old man. Mutamba still had his eyes closed, with that dry smile still upon his lips.

Vitesse's furrowed brow started to melt. He sighed. "Wait... Don't go out there."

The youth held his hand to the growing knot on his head. "Are you certain?" he asked.

Vitesse ran his hands over his face. "I guess so. A storm is on the way... You can stay here if you want. Rest, but then be on your way in the morning."

A wide smile spread across the youth's face. "Thank you brother," he said.

"You're welcome," grunted Vitesse. "Have a seat."

"Yes brother," said Foster. "Have a seat."

The youth put down his sack and Vitesse took a knife to the pineapple. He sliced it open and the sweet juice ran over his hand. Outside, rain drops popped on the sand of his yard and crackled deep upon his tin roof.

And in the corner of the hut, very softly, under the growing din of rain, the old man snored in his sleep. Long ago his soul had left Kitengo and was now gliding through the air, traveling to each of his children's villages, making sure they were all safe inside their homes. As he flew across the savanna, ready to return to his body and settle in for the evening, Mutamba saw an antelope dancing across the open plain. It rushed away from the coming storm, leaping into the air with each flash of lightning...

The next morning, when Vitesse went into the forest, he found an antelope waiting for him in one of his traps.

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