Jean-Pierre approached the reception
desk at the Military Headquarters in Bafoussam with pursed lips. The brunette
secretary in military fatigue behind the desk did not get up from her seat as
she looked up at him and smiled. “Whom are you here to see, Monsieur?”
“I am Dr. Jean-Pierre Ribery from Banganté,” he said
and flashed his card just long enough for her to see his name, “And I am here
to see Lieutenant-Colonel René Roccard.”
“Are you here for an
appointment with him?”
“No. It is urgent, and it
is a family matter. Tell him so.”
The young woman bent her
head, her face contorted in deep thought. Then she looked up with wide eyes and
relief flushed through her face. Jean-Pierre turned around to find René about
fifteen yards away, approaching him with quick strides and an expression on his
face that only a medical professional could see was sickly.
“Jean-Pierre, I see you
are here to see me,” he said as he closed the distance separating them.
“Oui, Mon Colonel! He arrived a few minutes ago and insisted on seeing you right away. I was about
to come over and tell you about it.”
“It is okay, Meryl. I am
going home now, and he is coming with me,” René said, shook Clement’s hand and
then beckoned him over.
“We need to talk, René,”
Jean-Pierre hissed as he trailed his childhood friend.
“We have all day. You
came at the right time. I need your medical opinion on some problems.”
“I am not here to talk
about medicine.”
“We will talk about
whatever you have in mind at my home. I am famished; I am feeling unwell, and I feel like banging my head against
the wall. Spare me further worries for now. Drive after me,” René said, got
into his jeep, and gave the signal for his chauffeur to drive off.
Jean-Pierre hesitated for
a moment before he got into his car and went after the jeep. A lot was on his
mind as he narrowed the half-mile distance to René’s abode. He thought René’s
personality had changed a lot since he returned to the land almost four years
ago. His childhood friend’s first foray into the palace of the king of Banganté
led to the deaths of so many civilians, and the traumatic treatment that Gavin
and Clement suffered in his hands had troubled him enormously. But that event
paled in comparison with his behavior in reaction to Rachel’s death. His
supposed good friend had shown up at the
funeral all right, but all he got from the military man was a nod, which was his
twisted way of expressing his condolence. Even so, the action that finally tipped
off the scale was his recent foray into Banganté while he was away, a foray
that resulted in the death of Joseph Njike’s first son. And now, the
indications that René was sick seemed to be confirming some of his fears.
It is my duty if not as a friend, then as a doctor, to let
him know that this must end, Jean-Pierre thought as he pulled his car to a stop in front of René’s
living quarters.
Jean-Pierre watched René
for a moment as he jumped off the jeep and approached his car. Then he stopped
midway for no apparent reason, raised his hands in the air and waved them
repeatedly. Jean-Pierre got his intention. René wanted him to hurry up. He
hesitated for a moment, his natural reaction towards being rushed around, but then
opened the driver’s door just as René turned around and started walking towards
the house.
Food was already on the table and René sat
down in his chair hardly a minute after they got there. “Sit with me,
Jean-Pierre. I have no time to waste,” he said, indicating a chair, in front of
which was a table mat on the table with a plate, a glass, and cutlery on it.
“Thank you,” Jean-Pierre
said and sat down.
“Make yourself at home.”
Jean-Pierre did not
reply. And he barely took a few mouthfuls, as he spent most of the time
watching René eat instead. At length, the soldier emptied his glass of wine and
looked up at his guest.
“I am done. Do I wait for
you, or do we talk now?”
“Here?”
“No! In the room over
there,” René said, pointing at an opened door, behind which stood a work desk, chairs,
and a cupboard full of books.
A timid knock on the door
interrupted their conversation, taking their attention away from one another to
the source of the sound. Just then, the chauffeur stepped slowly into the
sitting room. He looked unsure of himself and was about to say something when
René got up from his chair suddenly.
“What do you want,
Sergeant?”
“You asked me to come in
after you are done with your lunch.”
“Yes, I did. Go to
Benoit’s and pick up the items I ordered. Stop after that at DeSaulnier’s shop
and pick up the brandy and wine too.”
“What about…” the
chauffeur drawled.
“I am fine. He is like
one of the family.”
An awkward moment of
silence reigned between René and Jean-Pierre as they watched the young man
disappear behind the door. It stayed unbroken for about a minute or more before
Jean-Pierre said in a monotone. “We can talk now.”
“Let’s go,” René said and
walked away.
Jean-Pierre took a quick
look around the room the moment he got inside. René shut the door behind them,
walked behind the desk, unbuckled his holster, and threw it carelessly on the
desk. Then he settled into the chair behind it.”
“I used this place to
write, but I have not been doing so lately. My doctor said I could be suffering
from brain inflammation.”
“You are having
difficulties writing, you said. Any usual tiredness?”
“Yes.”
“Poor memory too?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“I feel down. It has only
been recently though. And I don’t like the frequency of the feeling. Could it
be that I am sliding downhill into a depression? And I also have pains. I get
up in the morning with them and can’t survive the day without painkillers.”
“Have you had an
infection lately?”
“Yes. Several times. I
took some antibiotics. They were prescribed by my doctors.”
“How long has this been
going on?”
“On and off for more than
a year now.”
“Go on.”
Jean-Pierre was silent as
René talked and talked for more than ten minutes, moving his hands in the air,
gesturing to the right and to the left with his head, and holding his head from
time to time with both hands like someone with a severe headache. Then he
stopped abruptly and looked at the doctor with a lost look on his face. “What
do you think?” he stuttered finally.
“Let me make this clear
to you, René. You are sick. You are developing cognitive impairment,
depression, fatigue, and chronic pain, all triggered by inflammation that has
persisted for quite some time now, creating a pathology of its own. It messed
up your autoimmune system and it is degenerative. You need treatment that you
cannot get here in Cameroon. I need to take a better look at you in my clinic.
Now, I understand what has been going on. All the same, I need your
cooperation.”
“Cooperation on what.”
“Quit this war.”
“You are crazy. They need
me here.”
“Not when Max Briand and
Lamberton are hovering around with special plans of their own. Not with the
thousands of our boys from Algeria and Indochina beefing up our army and
Ahidjo’s boys here. Not when our military has increased its gadgets several
times over. You have done your job, whatever it was. Yes, René! You played a
major role in stopping the partisans from taking over before we gave the
country to Ahidjo to manage. Don’t hang around with the war criminals who are
planning a genocide here.”
“I am still useful here.”
“You are sick, René. And
it is degenerative. Go home.”
“Marc.”
“His killer is dead. My
friend told me who it was and why he killed your brother. Your brother killed
his brother. Bartholomew, the Anglo is dead; you know that. Besides, you killed
his cousin and your men raped and tortured his son.”
“I must stay. You don’t
understand.”
“Then take a sick leave
and I will send you to the best doctors that treat neuro-inflammation in
France.”
“No, I am staying here.
All I need is for you to prescribe me the treatment.”
Jean-Pierre got up and
locked the door, then turned around and faced René again. “Listen to me and
listen to me well. I didn’t come here to talk to you about your health, but I
am doing so now because I am a doctor. I am also doing so because I am a loyal friend,
and you are not yet someone to turn away from. The real reason I am here is to
talk to you about your recent actions in Banganté that went out of hand. Your
men caused my good friend extreme grief. Joseph Njike has lost his oldest son
and his beloved son is traumatized too from your actions and the death of his
brother. But I know you are sick: I know your continuous stay here will only
make matters worse. Get this straight: the longer you stay here, the greater
the chances become that I may end up losing you as a friend. You may take this as my sentimental weakness
for you, but who cares. I will tell you all the same: You are not like the
others. You and I grew up together in Cameroun. You have a girlfriend who is
expecting your child, a child that is going to be a Cameroonian and a French,
albeit a French child that the right-wingers would never accept as an equal.
And something else. You are not a homosexual or a bisexual. You don’t have sex
with men, and you detest those who have sex with men just to control them.”
“Stop, Jean-Pierre.”
“I won’t, René. Something
else I know about you that you probably thought I didn’t. You have made
fortunes here. You have stashed away enough gold, diamonds, valuable artifacts,
and other items worth a great deal of money. Put together, all of these items
you have taken from this land will make you rich for the rest of your life.”
“I said, stop,” René
growled, held his head with both hands and shook it repeatedly.
“Non, Mon Frère! I
won’t. I want you to turn away from the damnation of your soul; I want you to
take your girlfriend home with you. She would be by your side as you get the
treatment, and she would even nurse you until you are well again. Help her get
an education, nurture the new family you are about to have and be human again.”
“You don’t understand,”
René said, still holding his head, but with his elbows perched on his desk.
“What is there to
understand?”
“They will regret it if I
am not around.”
“I remember I told you
the story of Marcel shooting Bruno to save him from getting himself killed at
the Battle of Bir Hakeim. I remember doing so at the party for Marcel’s son at
my Yaoundé home.”
René sat up suddenly and
was shocked to find out that his own gun was aimed at him. But then the
expression on his face relaxed and he started laughing. “Jean-Pierre,
Jean-Pierre! You never fail to amaze me. What are you doing now? What do you
think you are doing?”
“I am tempted to do the same thing to you, but
I can’t bring myself to do it. Perhaps I am a coward, or perhaps it is because
I don’t love you enough anymore after finding out that a substantial part of
you has been corrupted. Go home, René; leave the management of this war to
those who have already crossed the line of madness and evil. Go home before
this war transforms you into a monster like them.”
“Give me the gun, Mon Frère,” René said as he got up from
his seat behind the desk.
“Stay where you are.”
“I want my gun back, Mon Frère,” René persisted with an edge
to his voice and then started taking
steps towards Jean-Pierre.
It must have been after
the fifth step that the gun went off and René fell to the floor, followed
immediately by cartridges dropping on the floor. Silence reigned in the room
for a moment, then there was a burst of laughter. René held his leg, blood
oozing out of his thigh, creating a widening stain on his pants. “What do you
think you are doing?” he asked, still laughing.
“I did it for your sake, Mon Frère. Go home. The war is over for
you.”
“You are just as crazy.”
René had hardly finished
his sentence when they heard pounding on the door, followed by the voices of
the chauffeur and the cook asking if they were all right.
“I am fine. My gun went
off and I got a scratch,” René shouted, “Give me the gun, Doctor. Then go
ahead, open the door, come back, and tend to my wound. You never had anything
to do with this, Mon Frère; do you
hear me?” he said to Jean-Pierre in a whisper.
Jean-Pierre nodded and
handed René the gun, their eyes locked together in a long second of eternal
trust. Then with an expressionless face, Jean-Pierre turned around, walked to
the door, and opened it.
By Janvier Chouteu-Chando, author of Flash of the Sun amazon.com/Flash-Sun-Comp
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