04/07/21

Day 185 - Applause

 APPLAUSE


Prompt - Applause : Write about giving someone a standing ovation


Musela forced a smile out and nodded his head a few times.  It was what they expected.  The tiered rows of smart suits, pressed pastel polos and discreetly floral dresses took to their feet and clapped and cheered and made him the centre of their universes for those seconds of approbative bonhomie.  He was theirs to admire.  But he knew well enough why he was the one chosen to deliver this gig.


Eight years had passed.  But he could be back there in a millisecond.  The right (or wrong?) noise, a sight of camouflage pattern, the smell of moist earth.  Or of sweat.  Or fear.  Or blood.

Back to that hut in that village.  Back to when he was just a boy, the instant before he ceased to be one.  Back to his own land and people, and a life he both missed and hated.  Back to when he was part of a family.

The Hola soldiers came without warning, shifting shadows in the trees mutating into stained fatigues, blades and bullets, deadly serious faces.  Men with only one purpose.  To kill Arubora.  The first shots were fired, the first screams reinforcing their intent.  Some ran, some tried to hide.  Some even tried to fight, but with what?  

His mother was one of those, pride, desperation and love drove her to stand up, to shield her daughters, protect her family.  Two machete blows brought a swift end to her defiance, and her life.  Musela had been in hiding, spying on his sisters, concealed within the pile of sacks and boxes that would be filled with the harvest and taken to market.  Would have been filled.  He watched, didn't want to watch, could do nothing but watch, as his sisters, were thrown to the floor, raped, raped again, and had their throats slit.  He sobbed.  Silently.  Heard the crackling of flames, the crash of buildings, and all the noises of death.  Knew that the flames would be seeking him out soon, that it was a choice between the fire and the men.  He soiled himself.

The men ran out in response to barks from their commanders, questions fired, answers given, and the sound of laughter.  Later, much later, it would be the laughter that would become his worst memory.  But then, in the moment, it was one more piece in the jigsaw of fear he'd become a part of.  

He heard more commands, boots assembling, boots marching, voices fading away behind the spitting and banging of blazing homes.  Lay petrified, frozen by shame and horror, trying to will himself back into the world.  Tried to think.  The fires still burned, and smoke made his eyes water, but his own hut didn't seem to be ablaze.  Outside there were no more shouts or cries, none of the sounds of life he was familiar with.  But that didn't mean they weren't still there, waiting to see if...

He slept, he waited as long as he could wait, but hunger and thirst proved stronger.  He came out into darkness, skulked around the remains.  Of the village, and villagers.  Most huts had burned down, his one of only four left uncharred.  There was nobody around.  Nobody alive that is.

He thought about burying the dead, started, stopped almost immediately, recognising the hopelessness of the task.  His mother would have said he had a duty to himself now.  And he had a story to tell.  He gathered what food he could carry and set off, heading for the school four kilometres away.  But before he arrived the smells and the smoke wips told him what he'd find.  He kept going.  Walked for three days until he gets to the town he's been to with his mother.  There are soldiers there, and he hides.  Before he can decide if they are Hola he is discovered, dragged from the bush, taken into the town.  Shaking, weak and fearful, he tells his story, convinces them he is Arubora.  Like them.  He is safer, but not safe.

Musela is alone, and one of the masses.  One dot in the snaking lines of refugees heading for the nearest border crossing, for the camps on the other side.  Escaping one scene of confusion for another, where despair and hope battle daily.  One of the doctors, a foreign white man, spots his potential, makes him a hospital assistant, praises his quickness of learning, educates the boy in the little spare time he finds.  A year passes, and another, the Hola every more dominant.  There is no going back, only forward.  With the doctor's help he gets a scholarship in Europe, and counselling to help deal with the images in his head, the nightmares, the fear.  The images remain, but fear is supplanted by anger, and a need to share his experiences with the world.  Musela becomes a spokesperson for the Arubora, for the dispossessed everywhere.


So here he is again, another city, another well dressed, well fed crowd..  He knows why they clap.  He is The Black Man they wanted to see - tall, slim, well formed, no visible scars.  They do not want to see his wounds, they come to hear a story, which they will leave behind at the bar.  

Musela holds up his hands, ushers the crowd to be silent, to sit again.  They are not expecting this.  He waits, until all are settled again.  Speaks.

"Your applause is well intended.  But it is not what I came here for.  You know now what has been happening, is still happening, to the Arubora, and others like them around the world.  But knowing does nothing.  Clapping does nothing.  I leave you with one question - what are YOU going to do about it?"  

Musela walks away from the silence.

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