The Vehicle Of The Living, Part One

1. The Object

It had been raining for three days in the capital of Tanganyika, as mainland Tanzania used to be called. The nice weather precedes the rains there. My only hope was to be able to return to my country and rejoin my family. For the first time in two years, I had the opportunity to reunite with my father and my two younger brothers. Soon after the death of my mother, I'd left my country, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, for Tanzania, with the goal of pursuing my university studies under conditions that were acceptable in the eyes of my father, who alone bore the entire burden of my studies abroad. That was thirteen years ago. I am thirty-three years old now, and my name is Liza.

When my mother died, I was appointed to collect her personal belongings and deliver them to her family members: my aunts, uncles, and maternal grandparents, as tradition required. All her things were stored in my parents' bedroom. There wasn't anything valuable, though. Her entire jewelry collection fit in my small hands, serving as a reminder of the deceased's understated personality, and just two old suitcases were enough to hold all her clothes.

There were some documents in a third, smaller suitcase, which I'd brought down from the top of the wardrobe. Her school diplomas were in there, but also photos, postcards, and in particular, an envelope that was deformed by its obviously hard, compact contents. Taking the envelope, I wondered about the use of such inadequate packaging for this thing that would have been better off in a box.

I opened the envelope and took out a solid object, which I placed on the bed. Wanting to be certain of the physical integrity of the envelope before putting the object back inside, I inspected it and discovered some writing in it, in French. It was my mother's handwriting. Since my father wasn't home, I decided to wait for him before putting the small suitcase away. Most importantly, this gave me time to take a closer look at the object, which was especially fascinating to me. When my father returned, after dinner, I handed him the object and the envelope separately.

"I don't know what it is yet, but there's a message on the inside of the envelope," I told my father.

"You can keep the object for yourself. The envelope is worthless."

"How can you be sure it's meant for me and not someone else?"

"Let's say it is yours because you found it."

"Does it belong to you?"

"No."

"The writing in the envelope, it's about you, isn't it?" I asked, showing him the inside of the envelope.

"I have chosen you to guide me. No, it's about a woman," he said, noticing the feminine form used in the French spelling of the word chosen. "I think it has to do with the legend of the Shamas. Have you ever heard of it?" he asked me.

"Yes, but very vaguely. An ancient clan of assassins, or something like that," I replied.

"Where did you learn about it?"

"I heard it somewhere, on TV, maybe. But what do you know of it?" I asked him.

"Practically nothing. Your mother did seem to know something about it. Too bad..."

"Did Mama have some sort of connection with the Shamas?" I asked, curious.

"I don't know, Liza. She knew the origin of this object, which I'm guessing is linked to the legend of the Shamas. But she and I had thought it best never to talk about it."

"Why?" I asked, more and more intrigued.

"All I ask of you is to keep it safe and sound, and to be discreet about it. This object is a powerful good luck charm when you keep it hidden. Your mother never showed it off, because she thought it would attract people's curiosity and arouse their greed. But above all, you know how discreet a woman she was."

"Thank you, Papa, I like it very much. I have the feeling you're giving it to me to prevent Mama's family from getting it. But why do you think it has a connection with the Shamas?"

"Believe me, Liza, even your mother would have agreed that we should give it to you. In actual fact, I don't know anything about this object. Your mother first showed it to me a few days before you were born, telling me that we should watch over it as if it were the child we were about to have. I also remember that we received a visit from some strangers the day you were born. At first, they seemed like they were lost, and only after they left did it become clear to us that they were there for you. It was very strange. I never could explain it."

That night, I sensed something inside me starting to change. I felt like I was becoming more aware of the world around me. This mysterious object was now part of my life, and I had no idea of the effect it had already had on me, from the moment I'd first touched it. There was nothing like it, and not a day went by that I didn't gaze at it.

According to a hazy folk legend, a few centuries ago there lived a clan of killers who called themselves the Shamas. They inspired fear in anyone who crossed their path, and they were particularly hostile towards the Arab invaders, slave traders. They had the eyes of the panther, people said. The story also went that whoever saw the face of a Shama was doomed to die within minutes, unless he killed the Shama first. This echoed another legend, which claimed that the Shamas were simply a race of huge, ferocious leopards, now extinct. Indeed, often when a hunter encountered a leopard alone, there was only one survivor of that interaction. It is extremely rare for people to speak of the Shamas. That name is usually associated with horror. It probably derives from "Kashama," which means "leopard" or "panther", which are the same animal.

Shortly after my mother's funeral, our daily lives resumed, although it became increasingly clear that the pain caused by her disappearance would never end. Then, I left my family to be able to study in better conditions than those my country offered. It was only at the beginning of summer vacation before my third year of university that, for the first time, I was able to return to my country and see my family again.

In Tanzania, I only spoke about the object to my friend Dendu. When he asked me about it, I just told him that it belonged to my late mother, who had never explained to me what it was. I never lost it; it always found its way back to me. My father seemed to know what a powerful bad luck charm this object would be for anyone who tried to steal it.

One day, during my second year at the University of Tanganyika, my dorm room was broken into and the object was taken, despite the fact that it was well hidden. But later, at the end of the day, my building's receptionist informed me that a package had been left for me. The object was inside. No one had seen who'd dropped off the package, and only my name was on it. It was certainly one of the strangest events of my life, but I decided not to tell anyone about it. I felt compelled, with each passing day, to solve the mystery that surrounded this object.

After two years, my fascination with and interest in it had reached its peak. My return home was going to be the perfect opportunity to go in search of the truth about the object. Since my mother had probably inherited it from her mother, I told myself that the only place where I could find answers was undoubtedly Babowa, the area where my maternal grandmother's native village was located. So, I resolved to go there, even though I knew nothing about that place, which was far from Kinshasa, my country's capital, where my father and brothers lived.

My return flight was delayed due to the bad weather conditions in Tanganyika, but fortunately, itwas not canceled. I was quite eager to start my quest. All the same, my biggest fear was that things would go wrong in those remote, unsafe places, which certain villages in my country are. But my determination wouldn't let me give up.