The Mount Mer u
Chicka and Ga-Gorib bring offerings to the slopes of the Mount Meru. A basket full of fruits, spices and vegetables. The green and yellow atoms of mchicha, pilao, ndizi.
Chicka is wearing a traditional dress, a purple cotton kanga. Between the folds of the fabric, windswept, some segments of a Kiswahili sentence are animated.
Wala na sitasahau sitalipiza . I don't take revenge, but I don't forget.
In Tanzania, all the dresses can speak.
Ga-Gorib is eleven, Chicka no longer bears her son on her back, wrapped in kanga. Memories now seem lighter. The child follows his mother hurting his feet. The volcanic rocks tear the flesh without being noticed. Ga-Gorib immediately forgets this pain. He has other things on his mind, and is wearing the silver armor of youth. He has new sparkling pistons, a new engine that just wants to run. The blue fringes of a supernova that reverberate between his jumps, his discoveries.
Everything is magical and bright, the tricks of the planet Earth enchant the senses. Eyes without memory and buckets filled to the brim that never return, Chicka is thinking.
The brown back of Mount Meru clutters the horizon. The journey is almost finished. The crater of the volcano shakes the boilers, signals its position even from far away. The fire rooms are working tirelessly, cones and chimneys are frying. The legend tells that the magnificent Meru, from the sides of the pyramid, marks the center of the universe. The soft paradise of Indra is up there, along with the North Star, which, every night, is shot away into the space.
The sun is about to go down, Chicka and Ga-Gorib must hurry to arrive on time at the foot of the volcano. Leopards will begin their hunt in an hour. The clouds with legs, as Ga-Gorib calls those animals. Chicka has stars on the ceiling of her skull. She closes her eyes to find the road. She has a compass of lights and cartilage, attached to the fibers of the senses. On the right side of that imaginary curved space, Chicka sees the vertical shine that descends from the Mount Meru, and then all the way around. Ga-Gorib follows the impulses of the sonar of his mother, he doesn't move too far away from her.
Behind her back, about thirty miles away, the woman feels the presence of Kilimanjaro, the three volcanic cones sprouting on her visions. Large white shadows, the belly of the glacier scorched by magma. Kilimanjaro's skin is frozen but it has the boiling blood, just like Chicka. A woman without a husband, with snow on her shoulders and the melancholy words on her kanga.
The sound of teeth, roads, chopped rickety words. A clutch that screams.
A one eye van approaches the woman and the kid. The car light dangles outside its seat. A four wheeled pile of iron that can't see very well. Four men on board, Tanzanians.
Chicka observes the faces, light and shade behind the windows. White unsheathed teeth, sunglasses with silver lenses. Weapons hidden under the seats, between bare feet. Two AK74 machine guns with their loader always having an erection. They are predators, they hunt for tourists. They have fun killing people, even without a reason. Chicka increases the pace, dragging Ga-Gorib by the arm. The van follows the two for a few minutes, side by side, then moves diagonally to stop in an open space, a little more forward. Symphony of doors, the four men are descending from the car. One of them throws a beer bottle against Chicka, grazing her head. The woman continues to walk towards the Mount Meru without even looking back.
The biggest man loses his patience; he feels insulted by that bitch.
Wala na sitasahau sitalipiza . I don't take revenge, but I don't forget. He easily translates that phrase sewn on the purple kanga: that woman is alone, her husband must have been killed. No one will come to help her. Maybe her cunt is closed as if it was brand new, and she brings stuff to eat as well. The hunt for tourists can wait. The man scratches his balls, making a sign to
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley