The Vehicle Of The Living, Part One

2. Voyage to Bakunga

Seeing the three men who made up the closest family I had left was exceptionally delightful. But very soon, I approached my father about my intention to travel to my grandmother's village. He seemed bothered.

"You look skeptical," I told him.

"I'm mostly worried about your safety."

"I can always ask the boys to come with me, you know."

"It would get very expensive, then. Give me time to think about it."

"We have family members in the region: Uncle Ngunez and Uncle Mutis, for example. They can help me, at least," I suggested.

"I need to contact Mutis first and find out what he thinks. As for Ngunez, he is often away from the area."

"I'm so excited to start this adventure! And I promise you I'll be extremely careful," I said.

"Your uncle Mutis will certainly be able to put you up and take care of you, but be aware that hatred towards non-natives of the region remains quite pronounced in these areas. And since you don't look like the people there, you'll have to be constantly on your guard. Conceal the object well during your stay. They might recognize it and want to snatch it away from you. When do you think you can leave?" he asked me.

"I hope to get to the region before the end of this week and stay there for five days, at the most."

Two days later, I boarded a bus that took me to Bakunga, the capital of the Central Province. It was located sixty kilometers from Babowa, the destination that interested me.

At first glance, Bakunga had nothing exceptional to offer. This feeling may have stemmed from the fact that I was particularly irritated by twelve hours of travel on the very poorly maintained dirt roads of the backcountry.

Two people were waiting for me near the exit of the bus parking lot: my cousin Kabasele, or "Kaba," and a friend of his, who had come to pick me up with a huge four-by-four. Kaba was not much older than me. He had an imposing appearance, his small mustache neatly surrounding his mouth; he was tall, strong, and proud, a characteristic common to most young men in this part of the country. He was a cautious-looking boy. I hadn't seen him since the last time he and his sister had stayed with my parents, over ten years ago. We kept in touch over the internet, though, so I had no trouble recognizing him. After a brief exchange to mark our reunion, we left the enormous parking lot, with Kaba driving, and headed towards the residence of his father, Mutis.

During the rather short trip to the house, Kaba introduced me to his city. "I control everything in this town," he kept repeating to me, adding, "Always remember that this is your home." His friend spoke little but glanced at me often. When we got to the house, I saw, for the first time in several years, my uncle Mutombo Israel, known as "Mutis," my father's brother. He kissed me, hugged me, and said, "You look so much like your father! Just the way you walk is like your mother." A sincere warmth accompanied each of his remarks to me. He introduced me to his wife and three of his children, then invited me to follow one of his daughters so she could show me to the room where I was going to spend the night. Mutis had a total of eight children, seven of whom were girls. His home was very big. Business was going well for my uncle. I presented him with a bottle of wine from my father.

Embarrassed to explain that my coming to the region had no real familial motivation, I pretended, as my father had suggested, to have come to carry out a sociological study in Babowa. After the evening meal, my uncle invited me to join him by the pool, together with his wife.

"So, you want to go to Babowa, is that right?" he asked me. "That's where your mother's parents' village is located, but I don't think there are any members of her family still left there."

"I'll just ask questions of the people I find there. It shouldn't be a problem," I replied.

"The Babowans are poor in spirit, my girl. Back in the day, their territory was extremely coveted by many multinational corporations, due to the richness of its subsoil in precious crystals and copper. Intensive mining was carried out there for about ten years. Only, all of this in no way benefited the village or the region. All the village chiefs were corrupt."

"Weren't they also supposed to be the village's wise men?" I asked.

"Oh, no! The wise men do not become chiefs. Nor do the chiefs have wise men as aides. Do you plan to visit all four of Babowa's villages?" he asked me.

"I will try to collect as much data as possible in just two or three villages; that should suffice."

"Kaba will go with you. You will use my same car that picked you up when you arrived. Next time, you'll remind your father to send me a case of wine instead of just one bottle," he added playfully. "You should rest now. You'll probably leave before sunrise, as it's a long drive."

"Thank you for everything, Uncle Mutis. But would you happen to know the legend of the Shamas?"

"The Shamas, you mean the half-panther men, right?" he asked, surprised.

"I really don't know myself," I replied, confused.

"'Shama' was the name of a secret organization particularly hostile to the invasion of the East African kingdoms by the Arabs, as the story goes. Its members were called 'the Shamas.' But I think it must have been a kind of politico-military movement, at that time, rather than just some legend," he explained.

"But how were they half-panther?"

"I don't know... They were probably wearing leopard skins. Plus, it's said that they held their ceremonies in clearings, surrounded by leopards, so that no intruder could spy on them, even from a distance. Babowa, fittingly, was near an ancient forest known as 'Nkua Kashama,' which means 'the leopard's domain,' from which no one returned alive, unless they were a Shama. It was certainly difficult for the people back then to figure them out, which explains the total absence of accounts or detailed documentation about them, and justifies their mystification," he continued. "My niece, you must go rest now, if you want to have a chance of seeing Babowa tomorrow."