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Due to my status as a refugee, and because of my knowledge of French and English and, of course, my ability to operate computers, I felt I was more than qualified for the job. And I got it. It was now time to make travel arrangements.
I always carried my most important documents with me when I lived back home, and I was having them when I escaped and became a refugee. This made it possible for the local administration to issue me with travel documents.
Unfortunately, Temeka was not so lucky. He had no identification papers and so he couldn't travel with me. I had to leave him behind, but not before I handed him some of my savings in hard currency.
The last evening I spent at the camp, I invited my friends and we had dinner together. Later, we had drinks that I had bought for the occasion. I knew I would miss them. I would especially miss Temeka, because I felt responsible for him; and Sapara, because he saved my life.
I left early the next morning. Twenty four hours later, I was at my new workstation raring to begin work. I might still have been a refugee, technically, but I was now fully employed. I could even start making lofty future plans.
Nobody in the Mayukwayukwa UNHCR camp would have guessed that I had also fled my country under circumstances almost similar to theirs. Although I was only a data entry clerk, I was, in their eyes, the epitome of success. I lived in a nearby town and my seniors and I always arrived in a big four-wheel drive car. But the big car was an absolute necessity due to the bumpy road leading to the camp.
The refugees generally conversed in their various home dialects and a little Portuguese. But nobody who worked in our office understood any of those local tongues. Even the four Zambians working with us could only speak English and a smattering of Portuguese. But most often gestures were sufficient to communicate.
Naturally, the very few refugees who spoke English acted as a bridge between the two sides. And we were able to distribute everything to a generally orderly crowd; as orderly as fifteen thousand tired, desperate people could be expected to be.
One of the few refugees who spoke English well was a tall, lean man called Hulelo. He taught mathematics at a makeshift secondary school established in the camp. And like hundreds of other refugees from his country, he had one limb missing - the left arm. He always wore dark glasses, even in class, and I later discovered that the left eye was missing too.
Hulelo is one of the most innately intelligent and likeable men I have ever met. We soon became friends, and sometimes we'd spend an evening outside his tent talking.
He told me that he was in his final year at a technical college in Central Angola when they were caught in a crossfire between UNITA and government troops. Unlike in my country where small guns and axes were the weapons of choice, in Hulelo's country, both sides were fighting with heavy artillery. And he never knew what hit him. With a wicked smile, he informed me that he would never know which of the warring parties disabled him.
In spite of my own country's devastation under an almost similar state of affairs, I still sympathised with Hulelo and his fellow countrymen. My country had just had a regime change, and order and stability were being restored; the bad elements were known, and they were being hunted down.
But according to Hulelo, in their country it was not a war of good versus evil. I recall asking him, " Between UNITA and the government, which side is fighting for the good Angolan people?"
And, as was usual with him when he had to figure something out critically, he took his time as he pulled out a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit a match in his unique style. He held the matchbox firmly between the knees, and with his one hand, pulled out a matchstick and lit it. He inhaled deeply and breathed out a cloud of smoke. I quickly pulled my stool away from the direction the wind was blowing. Hulelo was now ready to answer my question.
" Let me put it this way: Suppose we were back in 1978 and also suppose that Zaire and Uganda were one country divided between Mobutu on the Zaire side and Idi Amin on the Uganda side. If they were fighting for the control of the whole country, who would you support?"
I thought this statement over, but I wasn't sure I was getting the message, so I pressed on, " Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting?"
" Precisely." Both sides get a lot of money from the sale of minerals; directly or through shady middlemen. And there is no accountability whatsoever. Where UNITA has conquered, there is no evidence of programs directed at the general public- hospitals, schools etc..
I've been to Luanda, the capital. On one side of the city you'd think you are in Cape Town or London; and on the other side, hundreds of thousands of people live in absolute squalor - no schools, no hospitals, and no toilets, either."
" So, which side is fighting the moral war? .... My dear Paul, let me tell you this: If you take the top ten elite's on the government side, and the top ten elite's on the UNITA side, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that, between them, they have a cool ten billion dollars stashed away in foreign banks."
I was shocked by this revelation. So what would bring peace and democracy to their country? I wondered.
As if reading my mind, Hulelo went on, " My hypothesis is that if the two sides could somehow simulate a mock war in a way that everybody inside and outside Angola would think it was real, they would do it. They are all gaining so much from the war. But ordinary people are suffering and losing limbs; and foot soldiers are dying, because the stakes are too high. "
" Local and foreign interests are adamant that their turf must be protected and expanded.... Fate has dealt us a wicked hand. And we are waiting for fate to deal us the fair hand. Peace will one day return to our country, but none of the present crop of top politicians on either side can allow democracy to thrive. Not with billions of dollars of public money illegally deposited in personal bank accounts abroad."
He crushed the cigarette filter a bit roughly, and then we were silent for a while.
He later went on, " Don't get me wrong. I've not lost hope for my country.... I predict that in ten years time from now, the guns will have been silent for years. The war will have been long over. And new democratic leaders will be ruling Angola from Luanda, and they will be searching Swiss banks for the hidden billions."
This was a handicapped man, barely surviving in a refugee camp, with his only valuable possession being a radio. But when we talked about the trouble with Africa, I readily admit, the guy's arguments were more intellectually stimulating than mine.
The climate in the region was generally very hot, and most refugees preferred to spend their evenings outside, and just went into their huts to sleep when it was cooler. Once, during the month of July, the weather was rather cold, and everyone preferred to stay indoors and warm themselves from log fires, whose smoke emerged from every hut.
I came to visit Hulelo as usual, but this time he was inside drinking black tea beside the log fire in the centre of his modest hut. It was my first time to enter his hut, but it was just as I expected it to be:
An old bed at one corner, a table beside it, and three stools, completed the entire furniture of Hulelo's home. His radio and a few books lay on top of the table, side by side with a few utensils. It was a spartan room, just like all the other tents in the camp. The stools were arranged in a sort of semicircle, facing the table and the bed.
Hulelo had been sitting on one stool, but when I knocked and entered, he quickly stood up, shook my hand, and hugged me happily; and he didn't release my hand until he had led me to the stool at the far end of the table and made me to sit down. He then served me tea, then went over and sat down on his stool. We then began talking about the abnormal weather that had sent everyone indoors.
I noticed that Hulelo had some papers lying on his side of the table; papers he seemed to have been working on.
Knowing Hulelo's intelligence, and his proclivity towards scientific research, I was curious to see what he had been working on. I stood up and pulled the stool next to him with the sole intention of looking more closely at his work. But something very strange happened just then.
He pushed me forcefully, away from the stool, his eyes looking wildly at me with extreme rage, or fury, or fear - I couldn't tell which. I was shocked by this uncharacteristically rash and unfriendly action. I assumed there was something in those papers he didn't want me to see, but I was still taken aback, nevertheless, because I always thought he thought of me as a close friend, despite our different personal situations.
Was I seeing another wild or evil side to my good friend Hulelo? Was he suspicious of me for some reason? I looked at him curiously, both of us standing, his furious eyes now glaring down at me.
" Never do that to me, Paul", he shouted at me. " A friend is what I thought you were, but now I have great reservations about that. Do you want to destroy what remains of my tortuous life? Answer me Paul. Now!" He snapped at me. It sounded like an order, or a threat, or both. I was extremely stunned by this sudden change in him.
I didn't say anything. I just couldn't say anything. All I had done was to come closer to him, something that was not odd at all. Hadn't he even hugged me when I walked in?
He still stared at me, his eyes blazing with extreme agitation. It was clearly evident that he was totally out of control. . " Now Hulelo, what is wrong? What have I done to make you so angry? Tell me what it is so that I can at least understand what is going on and make amends", I pleaded with him.
" Don't say you don't know what you have done! I thought you were my friend, too, until now! How can you even make an attempt to sit on Mocha's stool? Are you Mocha himself? Answer me Paul! Are you Mocha, the one who demanded to be granted undisturbed welcome in my hut, whether I liked it or not?"
" Are you the Mocha who vowed he would never let me have a single night's peace? The Mocha who desecrated my humble existence? Are you the one who ordered me never to let anyone else ever to sit on that stool apart from you? Tell me now!" He was now totally out of control, clearly ready to become violent.
I didn't understand what he was talking about but I knew it was absolutely necessary that I cooled him down, if only I could know how to go about it. " Please Hulelo, you know me....surely, how can you even suggest that I am your enemy, the one you call Mocha, someone I have never even met? Please let us talk this out in a gentlemanly way..."
" Ha! Gentlemanly way!" he mocked me. " Listen very carefully," he thundered, " Now I want you to choose where you want to sit before I make my final decision about what to do with you".
I was still amazed and wondered what was wrong with Hulelo. But I obeyed his order and walked back to my original stool and sat down. He was still standing, his angry eyes watching my every move; until he seemed somehow satisfied that something had turned out the way he wanted it to. He now seemed to have relaxed a bit. He then slowly walked back to the chair he had been sitting on, on the far side of the table, and also sat down.
His eyes never left me even for a second, but this time the hostility in them seemed to have gradually disappeared. I was totally perplexed by this strange behaviour, and I desperately wanted him to give me answers, though I couldn't do anything but wait till he was ready.
He must have trained his eyes on me for at least ten minutes, all this time his mind seemingly in deep thought. I watched his mood change gradually, becoming less aggressive, then friendly, until lastly, he smiled at me. I was now seeing the Hulelo I was used to. But I didn't smile back, because I couldn't.
I had watched his facial expression change slowly, and I knew my friend Hulelo had nothing personal against me. A cold chill ran down my spine when I realised what was going on. And he didn't waste any more time before confirming my suspicions.
He was now smiling at me, his affection for me undoubtedly genuine. He somehow felt compelled to explain his earlier action. " I am very sorry Paul, for confusing you with the elusive Mocha. I thought you were Mocha himself when you attempted to sit on that stool," he said, while pointing at the stool I had earlier pulled aside. " You see, that stool is reserved for him. He sneaks in and out and he always sits on it, always at night, tormenting with me with bitter words till dawn. But every time I open my eyes he is quick to take his leave...."
" I have never caught sight of him, but one day I will, and I will work on him with the dagger I always keep under my bed.... One day I know I'll catch him. One day. You just wait and see," he said confidently.
By now I was almost sure what this Mocha was, but taking advantage of Hulelo's apparently relaxed mood, I asked him, " Who is this Mocha? I think I might help you ensnare him if I also knew something about him, don't you agree? "
Hulelo laughed a deep hollow laugh for two or three seconds, and then his mood changed to one of deep depression. " Mocha has ruined my life completely. He has made my hut his alternate home. You Christians call him Lucifer.... I will never rest until I destroy him. And I mean to destroy him completely! I know one night he will make a false move.... I have no doubt that when I catch him, my troubles will be no more...." and he rambled on and on about the mythical Mocha who always communicated to him at night, while all the time sitting on the particular stool he had warned me not to touch.
I grieved for my friend. He had seen years come and go and his dreams had remained just that - mere illusions. His professional growth had long been arrested by events beyond his control. I realised that I was quite foolish to expect Hulelo to live such a monotonously depressing life for so long, and still remain unscathed inside.
We still continued with our friendship, though I now knew his inner scars were more debilitating than his external disabilities.
His was a great mind being slowly wasted at the Mayukwayukwa refugee camp. He was another casualty, just another statistic, in a continent that had seen it all - wars, poverty, hunger, and the devastating AIDS pandemic.
If I didn't know Hulelo so well, I would have been surprised when I learnt that he taught using his own original manuscript written in long hand. And I being quite familiar with mathematics, I knew it was a great work. If only he could get a publisher.
This is a promise I gave him and was determined to keep: If I ever went back to my country, I would pull all strings and make sure his work was published. I knew it would be a boost to any African country's secondary mathematics program.
But I hoped his country would gain stability quickly so that he could go back, get his academic certificates, and most poignantly, he could just be able to reclaim that part of his mind that he had lost.
Unfortunately, he didn't have any certificates with him, and therefore getting formal employment outside the camp was extremely unlikely. Hulelo was thirty when we met, and he had been a refugee for eight years. He was a bachelor like me. I, because my lovely Lona had been eternally and brutally taken away from me; Hulelo, because just staying alive was a major struggle, and everything else seemed like a far away dream - like chasing a monstrous mirage in the endless Sahara desert.
Time went by, and more and more refugees were still trekking into our camp. New refugee camps had been established and they were all overflowing with people whose lives had been suddenly disrupted and shattered.
The UNHCR services were required all over the world. After two years at the Mayukwayukwa camp in Zambia, I was informed that my services were required in another far much larger refugee camp. I was being transferred to the UNHCR camp in Lokichogio, Kenya. And I was being promoted from a clerk to the position of senior logistics officer.
After bidding goodbye to my many friends in the camp, I walked to the car that was waiting to take me to Lusaka for the flight to Nairobi, via Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. Hulelo had accompanied me to the camp's gate and we talked privately for some time. I repeated my promise, but he just smiled and told me he wished me well. He was a strong man, and yet I saw, like was happening to me, emotion was soon taking over. He quickly pulled out a cigarette and a matchbox. I snatched the matchbox from his hand and lit the cigarette for him. He inhaled deeply, his facial muscles relaxing as he did so. I returned the matchbox quickly and entered the car.
We were off in an instant. At a distance I looked back, and there he was with his one hand raised. I waved back. It was time to move on to another assignment.
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