One or two of the guests began to weep. Wakings were intense because everyone watching experienced a measure of the action. That is why young boys and girls were chased away. Every guest, for a minute, felt the passion and desire of the distant past. Katulo’s gaze focused on one couple. The woman was wearing an elaborate headdress that denoted her as a storyteller, and the young man with her had a proud, regal face and a thick moustache. It was strange to see the younger version of himself. No matter how many times he performed Wakings, it was the hardest part to get used to. His younger self was smirking with self-confidence. Owuro looked so young and so beautiful. Katulo wished he could step forwards and touch her. She looked so real.
And then, in a breath, she and the rest of the spectres were gone.
The father of the bride was the first to snap out of the silent awe that enshrouded everyone in the grove. He bowed deeply. “Thank you, Waker.”
4
Katulo did not stay for the rest of the reception. He wanted to get to Bujumbura by nightfall. He said his good-byes and summoned Eyo. If the boy was disappointed at having to leave the festivities, it did not show. He obeyed immediately and a little nervously. He seemed frightened. At first Katulo was sure he was imagining it but, as they walked, Eyo continued to glance at him from time to time. He would look away whenever Katulo looked back. At first Katulo ignored it but, after they had been walking for an hour, he lost his patience. “I am the same person I was yesterday?”
“I know,” was the timid reply.
“You are looking at me like I am not human.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not angry with you, Eyo. What is on your mind?”
“Nothing”
Nothing? This from the boy who usually asked “why” with irritating consistency after every statement Katulo made. “If the Waking is bothering you, you can ask me about it.”
Eyo hesitated. Katulo did not insist. He waited.
“Th… Those were g…ghosts?”
“Yes,” Katulo replied. “But they were not ghosts of dead people. They were ghosts of past moments. Everything is changed by the passage of time. When a river passes over rocks it wears them down in a unique pattern. A man who knows how to look can tell you many things about the river and the rocks because the mark they leave is unique. It is the same for actions. Everything we do changes the land. When we sang at the wedding, when we danced, even now as we walk, our steps are changing the earth. The land remembers.”
“So they were not real ghosts?”
“They were echoes of the past.”
“It was amazing.”
Katulo smiled and then felt a tide of sadness. “Yes it was. But I may be the last Waker in Burundi.”
“How can that be?”
“Waking is not a skill that is easy to pass on. A person can only be taught to bring the past back to life if they can already feel the echoes left in the land.”
“How did you learn?”
“I learnt in secret, back in the days of the white outsiders. Worse than the things they did to our governments were the things they did to our beliefs. They forced our people to worship their God and learn their ceremonies. They called our ways devilry and superstition. My father was a spirit speaker. There had once been many like him, but the white outsiders killed many of them. My father kept the old ways alive by hiding, and people would travel far to ask him for advice or to see him when they were sick. He taught me how to Wake and begged me to pass on the skill.”
Shame threaded through Katulo. He and Owuro had never been able to have children and he had not remarried after she’d died. The failure of every apprentice he’d tried to teach Waking to, made him suspect that sensitivity to the land was hereditary. His determination not to betray Owuro’s memory might have doomed the ancient skill. So much of the old knowledge was already gone. Most of the medicines Katulo used were European, taken out of glass bottles and plastic vials instead of the earth and trees. They were purchased in what little trade still occurred between Burundi and Europe. The white outsiders no longer had concrete interests in Africa. They were too busy rebuilding to care about much else.
Whatever nostalgia Katulo might have, he had to admit the medicines they sent worked better than the saps and herbs his father had taught him to use. His father had considered it a betrayal when he chose to learn white medicine, but he had needed to make a living. The only way to get a job at hospitals in Bujumbura had been with a degree in Western medicine. His father had raged and called him a disgrace. Long ago, Katulo had promised himself that when he had children, he would be more understanding but the closest he had ever had to children were his apprentices.
5
They arrived in Bujumbura in the early evening. It was still hot but winds from the north brought temporary relief. The city streets were full of filth and litter. Broken glass, crumpled papers, rotting food and empty plastic bottles clogged the drainpipes. Every time Katulo visited the city it looked worse. Eyo and Katulo passed many rickety beggars and malnourished prostitutes.
Why do people want to live here?
Katulo pondered. The answer was bright in Eyo’s eyes. The boy was staring at the buildings with delight. In his mind, he was surely concocting a fantasy life in the city. The city had large stores with diverse wares and water that sprang from taps at the turn of a knob—much more enticing than dreary village life.
It had been a long time since Katulo had last seen Kalé. They had become friends when Katulo had lived in the city, working for a private clinic. Back then, the wounds Burundi had suffered at the turn of the century seemed to have healed. Things had progressed to the point that a friendship between a Hutu and a Tutsi was no big thing. How had the old resentments come back? Was it because they were left alone and not consciously minded?
The central city was almost entirely populated by Hutus. The Tutsis lived in outlying ghettos. It had not always been that way. The Tutsis had once been the majority. Katulo still remembered the way to Kalé’s home. They walked from the poor to the rich district. The buildings looked just as decayed and the streets were just as squalid. In some of the windows though, electric lights were on. They passed one house in which music was playing. To be able to use electricity for entertainment was an indicator of great wealth.
When they reached Kalé’s home, a security guard told them, “The Minister is not here. He is at a party.” The guard refused to give them directions but Katulo remembered the house that had been playing music. He backtracked with Eyo until they reached it. The door was open. They walked upstairs. The house was crammed with people. A servant handed them both bottles of beer. Eyo looked from the bottle in his hand to Katulo.
“It’s all right. I won’t tell anybody.” Eyo smiled and took a big gulp. His face contorted at the bad taste.
“It gets better,” Katulo assured him.
He looked around the room. It would be hard to find Kalé. He wove through the tightly packed group. At the end of the room he saw two young men who were seated at a table that seemed to be the epicentre of the celebration. One of them had probably got married, or maybe they had both won some sport? Faces Katulo could recognise surrounded them. He had seen them in newspapers though he wasn’t sure of their names. Someone at that table would surely know where Kalé was. As he went to the table, Katulo realised he should probably congratulate the two youths being honoured. He stopped a staggering man with a pimpled nose. “What is this party for?” he asked.
The man laughed and Katulo inhaled the stench of beer. “You don’t know, Old Father? Yesterday, some of those Tutsi animals were making trouble. Those boys there beat them down good. Made them run like the cowards they are.”