Read Online Scribbling the Cat: Travels With an African Soldier by Alexandra Fuller - Free Book Online
Authors: Alexandra Fuller
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pulled her down, then what the hell do I do? And how was I going to shoot the flattie and miss the nanny? So I start yelling, man! I’m just screaming at Him, ‘Father! Help me! Help me!’ And I am running down to the river as fast as I can, picking up rocks and grabbing branches, and I bloody nearly fell into the river myself.”
K was African in his storytelling, reliving the incident with dramatic gestures and loud shouting. The veins in his neck were standing out and he was sweating. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and then he went on more quietly. “And wouldn’t you know, just as I get down there, the damn thing let her go. She was pretty shredded, though.” K let this sink in for a moment before adding, “So I go wading in there, and my fucking hair must have been standing straight up, because the whole time I’m thinking there’s a pissed-off flattie swimming around in here and he still wants his nosh. But what the hell am I going to do? The nanny was drowning. I had to go after her. I told the Lord, ‘You keep that flattie away from me or I will scribble one of your own creatures.’ And then I am in the current and I am just swimming. . . . I grab the nanny and she’s just like”—K raked his nails up and down his arms—“it was like she had been chewed and digested and shat back into the water. I couldn’t even tell if she was alive, but I hold on to her chin and I pull her to shore and there’s blood everywhere. There’s blood on the nanny and blood on me and blood in the water, and I’m sure every croc from here to Wasa Basa was on his way up to check it out.
“Anyway, I pick up the nanny and I run!” K laughed. “I must have made it from the riverbank to the pickup in about thirty seconds and the whole time I’m telling God, ‘Don’t let her die now. Please, God, don’t let her die now.’ But for all I know, she was already dead, because she was as gray as a bloody sheet. And I drove to the mission like a . . . what now? Bee-ba! Bee-ba,” said K, laughing and imitating a siren. “Anyway, sure enough, she lived. When I brought her back from the mission—all stitched up from head to toe—I told them, ‘You must thank the Father for giving you back your sister.’ I said, ‘Next time He might not be so kind.’ ”
As if in response to K’s story, the river burped with barely submerged life and there was a sudden splash. The air hummed with insects and with the anticipation of more rain, and as we sat there, the drops began to fall, silver beads that speckled the river and drew a curtain of wet around us. The dogs slunk onto the veranda and the cat streaked for the kitchen. We could hear the workers shouting to one another as they ran for shelter. The rain intensified and we joined the dogs, pulling up chairs until our knees pressed together in the tight patch of dry afforded by the shallow breadth of roof. Our sense of isolation was complete.
I tried to picture K elsewhere and failed. Like the African earth itself, he seemed organic and supernatural all at the same time, romantic and brutish, a man who was both savior and murderously dangerous. And he was much, much more complicated than the stereotypes it was so tempting to use to describe him. Seeing him on this farm, I couldn’t decide if the man had shaped the land or the other way around.
“How did you find this place?” I asked.
K stroked one of the dogs and said nothing for a long time and then, when he did speak, his voice was almost unbearable to hear. His resigned sadness, as real and tangible as humidity, wrapped itself around my shoulders, and I felt ruined with pity. “It’s lekker, isn’t it?” he said.
“Beautiful,” I agreed.
“Sometimes,” said K, “when I am lying in bed at night and thinking about how I got here, I can only say that it must have been God’s plan from the start. Every step of my life has been one step closer to this.” K shrugged, as if he was helpless to prevent
K was African in his storytelling, reliving the incident with dramatic gestures and loud shouting. The veins in his neck were standing out and he was sweating. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and then he went on more quietly. “And wouldn’t you know, just as I get down there, the damn thing let her go. She was pretty shredded, though.” K let this sink in for a moment before adding, “So I go wading in there, and my fucking hair must have been standing straight up, because the whole time I’m thinking there’s a pissed-off flattie swimming around in here and he still wants his nosh. But what the hell am I going to do? The nanny was drowning. I had to go after her. I told the Lord, ‘You keep that flattie away from me or I will scribble one of your own creatures.’ And then I am in the current and I am just swimming. . . . I grab the nanny and she’s just like”—K raked his nails up and down his arms—“it was like she had been chewed and digested and shat back into the water. I couldn’t even tell if she was alive, but I hold on to her chin and I pull her to shore and there’s blood everywhere. There’s blood on the nanny and blood on me and blood in the water, and I’m sure every croc from here to Wasa Basa was on his way up to check it out.
“Anyway, I pick up the nanny and I run!” K laughed. “I must have made it from the riverbank to the pickup in about thirty seconds and the whole time I’m telling God, ‘Don’t let her die now. Please, God, don’t let her die now.’ But for all I know, she was already dead, because she was as gray as a bloody sheet. And I drove to the mission like a . . . what now? Bee-ba! Bee-ba,” said K, laughing and imitating a siren. “Anyway, sure enough, she lived. When I brought her back from the mission—all stitched up from head to toe—I told them, ‘You must thank the Father for giving you back your sister.’ I said, ‘Next time He might not be so kind.’ ”
As if in response to K’s story, the river burped with barely submerged life and there was a sudden splash. The air hummed with insects and with the anticipation of more rain, and as we sat there, the drops began to fall, silver beads that speckled the river and drew a curtain of wet around us. The dogs slunk onto the veranda and the cat streaked for the kitchen. We could hear the workers shouting to one another as they ran for shelter. The rain intensified and we joined the dogs, pulling up chairs until our knees pressed together in the tight patch of dry afforded by the shallow breadth of roof. Our sense of isolation was complete.
I tried to picture K elsewhere and failed. Like the African earth itself, he seemed organic and supernatural all at the same time, romantic and brutish, a man who was both savior and murderously dangerous. And he was much, much more complicated than the stereotypes it was so tempting to use to describe him. Seeing him on this farm, I couldn’t decide if the man had shaped the land or the other way around.
“How did you find this place?” I asked.
K stroked one of the dogs and said nothing for a long time and then, when he did speak, his voice was almost unbearable to hear. His resigned sadness, as real and tangible as humidity, wrapped itself around my shoulders, and I felt ruined with pity. “It’s lekker, isn’t it?” he said.
“Beautiful,” I agreed.
“Sometimes,” said K, “when I am lying in bed at night and thinking about how I got here, I can only say that it must have been God’s plan from the start. Every step of my life has been one step closer to this.” K shrugged, as if he was helpless to prevent
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