The Great Agony & Pure Laughter of the Gods by Jamala Safari Read Free Book Online

contact with her. She also didn’t allow it to happen. If their eyes met, they both quickly looked aside and carried on walking.
    What is she going to think of me if I don’t talk to her? Isn’t she going to think that I am afraid of her? Risto argued with himself. He wanted to show Néné that he was strong, that he wasn’t shy. But what if she refused him? He would be miserable.
    But maybe she has the same feelings; maybe she loves me too, he thought.
    Risto looked at her again; their eyes met, and he felt relieved.

. Chapter 3 .
    Six months had passed since Ombeni and Frank had been killed and buried, and a new wind buffeted the whole town of Bukavu every day. It was a never-ending whirlwind in people’s minds, strong at night and weak during the daylight. Everyone was afraid.
    Bukavu’s peace had been broken by war and fear. Whenever a mother left her home for her daily job, or for the market, she left the responsibility for her children to the adults remaining in the neighbourhood. If anything happened, they had the right to make decisions about those children. The echo of heavy firearms banged in people’s eardrums. Even when it came from afar, it made life uneasy. Each day, the news filtered through and added to the uneasy air. Each night Bukavu slept uncertain of the morrow: tomorrow was an unborn ghost that haunted everyone’s sleep.
    At last, the news no one wished to hear blew into the hearts of the Bukavian people. The region had been invaded. The news travelled from lip to lip and house to house. Anything could happen at any time. Bullets lit the dark skies of Bukavu as they flew back and forth between Congo and Rwanda. It was terrifying. How could a bullet cross the Ruzizi River and reach a home in Bukavu? Or cross in the other direction until it reached a home in Rwanda?
    These things weighed heavily on Risto’s shoulders, becoming a shadow that took his appetite, his smile and laughter away. The question he always had in his mind was whether the next house to be hit would be theirs. Sometimes the exchange of bullets came as a rain-like sound, of hailstones on the roof; sometimes it was like two metals crashing and colliding. Risto lay among the banana trees, as the entire family had been advised to do by their father. He was afraid, hanging in an endless earthquake. The shooting echoed inside his head and left him feeling that his heart had been pulled from his chest. Now and again, he would put the palm of his hand on his chest, so that he could feel if he was still breathing. He had heard that one could die without knowing it, so he kept checking that he was still alive.
    At first, the noise of firearms made children afraid. Whenever it started, they cried and ran in all directions. Later, they grew used to it, and would shout, ‘Shoot another one!’ They did not cry anymore. The shooting, the deaths, had become a part of their daily lives. There was no longer any difference between greetings and shootings.
    The people’s prayers were not answered; the South Kivu region had been invaded. An official message came that people should evacuate. Soldiers arrived, setting up their posts in the streets. Their tanks were bigger than some of the houses in the neighbourhood; some of them walked on four feet like elephants. At first people opposed the evacuation, but one shot from a tank made a jam in the streets and paths. People fell with their bags on their necks; children’s cries burst towards the skies.
    Risto’s father was at work when the town caught alight. With their mother, Risto and his two sisters followed their neighbours, their eyes and ears turning behind, hoping to find their father. With tears falling from her eyes, Risto’s mother followed the steps of her friends, walking in a multitude of people like ants. Her friend followed another friend, who in turn followed a friend. Nobody knew where they were going. They travelled aimlessly, following the mountains around Bukavu town. No one