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Underground eXperts United File 580
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Underground eXperts United
Presents...
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[ Charlie's Exile Blues ] [ By Simon Moleke-Njie ]
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CHARLIE'S EXILE BLUES
Simon Mol
Suspended in mid-air and invisible, I followed a game of death and survival
played out in the periphery of a humid and dense African jungle.
Grey gunship helicopters hovering under the cover of darkness, tracked
down faint glows of light far below that betrayed where their quarries were
hiding. Though they would take painstaking measures to cover their hideout
with branches and leaves, still, rays often penetrated the thick grooves to
leak out their where about.
This would almost immediately attract a fresh spray of bullets from
hovering helicopters, prompting casualties and leaving tracks of
gore-covered fields, without a single soul to mourn or bury its dead.
The valleys and mountains echoed protests to no avail.
The ruthless man-hunters, safe in the air on-board metal-hawks of death,
took sadistic pleasure in closing in always when the haunted thought they
were safe. Armed only with knives, cutlasses and batons, they were mincemeat
for the death-squad.
A courageous one however, decided to dare the devil. Somehow, he
penetrated the fortress of the bloodthirsty-squad, deep in the forest,
sneaking into their office, with his little boy. Galvanised by his quest for
justice, he cornered the commanding officer who was sitting behind his desk
and managed to snatch his gun from his drawer, shooting him in the head at
point-blank range.
Before dying, the officer pressed the alarm to seal all entrances. But
not fast enough for the avenger who just managed in time to speed out, jump
the fence and take to the jungle with his little boy who had only a shirt
on. Knowing the forest better than the ferocious man-hunters, he managed to
gain a comfortable lead in an opposite direction.
Pent up with frustration, his little boy started to cry. He had witnessed
death, and his spirit rebelled against the flow of blood... even if it was
that of the enemy.
As they increased steps, the child became more furious. He asked his dad
to take off his shirt, which his dad did, and then the child blatantly
refused to continue the journey of escaping.
He had had enough.
His cry became louder, and in a final outburst of frustration, he told
his dad to go away and leave him alone!
He meant it.
His father, seeing his determination and haunted by the fact that the
man-hunters could not be outwitted for long, rebelled against all paternal
sentiments and left the child to his fate. The five-year old took to the
opposite direction... crying still, though he felt better for an
inexplicable reason. On his own, he headed for the unknown....
As I return from the trip in the inner world, I felt moved by the brave
little boy... on his way to becoming a refugee, i.e., if he survived the
jungle. Contemplating the odds against him while still lying in bed, gazing
at the ceiling... I found myself weaving words for a poem dedicated to him:
CRY OF COUNTER-FURY
What is survival without defiance?
It is the only truth in a game that rules out meekness
as an unwarranted sacrifice.
For the cockroach, ending up in the belly of a cock
isn't defeat at all!... it is one of the rules too,
which could be summed in a portrait
on the wall of those who carry the game furiously further.
Victory for the cockroach is-
'How long its 'will' to survive lasted?',
before being crushed by the cock.
This is its only chance, if it hopes to even with the cock someday.
If that child in my dream could cast off his shirt in the jungle,
preferring to meander in his pants, alone, telling his dad defiantly
'go to hell!'
above all, arresting the exploits of ambitious mosquitoes with a
wild cry of counter-fury... he has truly overcome,
even if he ends up in the belly of a beast.
Certainly, his sole weapon; 'that last cry of counter-fury',
shall blind the beast to the hunter's bullet too... someday.
It might even fool it into a dragnet, rob it of its instincts and
curse it to spend the rest of its days in torturing meekness
behind cages in a zoo.
Worst still, the child's 'last cry of counter-fury'
might invoke the wrath of Nature to descend
in the belly of the beast; for instance...
as 'the mad-cow disease'.
The above piece is an extract from my dream diary, "The Colour of My
Dreams." It is not a digression from the context of this story. The dream
depicts the genesis of exile, and how millions are left homeless to become
refugees.
This too is how some find their way to Poland in their bid of finding a
safe-haven.
Of course there are different categories of refugees. There are political
refugees, war refugees, religious refugees, and the least and most
troublesome on the list is economic refugees. The last ones have no place
under the refugee protection law, and as quickly as possible as soon as they
are identified, they are whisked back to their countries with the very next
available flight.
I made a recent discovery to add to the list! This one is a novel
dimension that deserves serious consideration. A professor-friend told me of
his brother (an artist), who went for a painting exhibition in Sweden and
never returned. In the course of the exhibition he became too Romeo, fell in
love and got married in record time.
When interviewed and asked if he considered himself to be a political
refugee, his answer, artistically given with a fine blend of sincerity,
colour and humour, made one journalist to fall over, trampling his camera:
"I am an erotical refugee," he said.
For Cameroonian born Ntiege Charles who has applied for asylum in Poland,
the experience of being a refugee has tested his patience with ruthless
suspense, which is still ongoing.
I knew Charlie back in the town of Buea, at the foot of mount Cameroon.
We played soccer together and I often put the ball between his giant legs.
We would later drive to the coastal town of Victoria to take a swim in the
Atlantic Ocean, eating 'sawyer' on our way.
Life separated us.
Almost a decade later, I had been living at the refugee centre of Debak
for over two weeks when I came across Charlie. He didn't recognise me. I
fished him out.
Charlie is a man-mountain of a man... over 1/87m, with a built like a
boxer. His most outstanding feature is his voice, reminiscent of a military
officer barking a command. He is black... there is no difference between him
and night. His shoe size is 46, and his palms are as big as Polish pancakes.
I noticed that Charlie's eyes had become red. Not out of alcohol, but
because of what he has seen... which is quite a lot!
Those who don't know him, get the impression that he is rude, or is a
bully. But no! Behind this mask, lurks a 'heart', in the African sense, that
feels.
Charlie is one of the most jovial persons I ever met... and the most
reliable in terms of community loyalty. Today he is the longest resident of
Debak, living there now for over three years! Many have come and left,
leaving him behind.
I met him too and left him there. He is part of the identity of the place
now.
When asked, "Charlie why are you wasting your time in Poland? Why don't
you cross to the west?"
His answer is always the same, "Do what there? 'I have planted a coconut
tree here'... I love Poland," he would reply with a Cameroonian metaphor,
describing someone who has no intention of leaving a place.
Charlie has a penchant for collecting used items. In his room are large
cartoons full of mechanical paraphernalia... nuts, bolts, screws, pins,
needles, spooks, nails, valves, pliers, hammers, diodes, knobs, you name it,
Charlie's got it!
He also has a large bottle full of all shapes and sizes of coat, shirt
and trousers buttons.
"Why are you keeping these rubbish?" I asked him.
"Call it rubbish now... someday you will come here when in need," came
his response. And true to his words, I rushed through his cartoons once,
looking for a button, when a refugee kid I was playing with swallowed one of
my coat buttons!
Most refugees at Debak would come knocking at his door for technical
assistance, and he is always open to help. Charlie single-handedly painted
an entire block in Debak, and led a construction of a Children's Park for
refugee kids.
When engrossed in a task, a cigarette could be seen dangling dangerously
at the right corner of his dark lips, with smoke forming a spiral round his
black broad face. Sometimes the cigarette would burn itself out, roasting
his lips a little, when he is over concentrated.
From October 1999 to February 2001, Charlie who is a trained civil
engineer, worked as a volunteer at the "Stowarzyszenie Rodzico'w i
Przyjaciok Dziece Niewidomych i S3abowidz1cych"; a home for handicapped
children in Warsaw. He worked with a Somali refugee, who got his status a
few months later, and left, leaving Charlie to carry on alone.
Charlie became attached to the Children's home; "I felt so attached to
the place... seeing some of the handicapped children at play gave me peace
of mind... it made me to forget my problems," he told me.
"This is fantastic cooking!" exclaimed one of the guests who came for the
Polish/African mini summit organised by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and
presided over by the honourable minister on June 21, 2000, at Folksal
street. Charlie had offered a hand, suggesting one of his favourite dishes,
potopoto-potato and egusi soup, cooked the African way. People ate, praised
him and left, forgetting him.
Today Charlie has joined the ranks of those selling at the stadium free
market in a bid to raise money: "If I should get a positive decision, my
next plan is to wed immediately. I have to prepare for this," he told me
once.
It's difficult to catch Charlie in town during weekends. He is always off
to Katowitce where the woman of his dream, Marta lives with her parents.
"Men! how come? there are many girls in Warsaw, yet your heart settled in
far-off Katowice," I asked.
"My brother, leave me alone... woman palaver na wa," he heaved.
Last November, I accompanied him to Banaha, where he wanted to buy a
present for Marta... a 22-carrat gold-plated lady's ring. He hadn't enough
money then, but advanced 20%, promising to pay the rest at the end of the
month. It was his Xmas present to her... which sealed their promise to
become husband and wife should things work well for him. Charlie is working
hard, and Marta is praying for him.
Should he get his papers, he will join the ranks of those who are pending
the implementation of the "Integration Programme", a spiralling paper-
project, which at this point leaves refugees to fend for themselves. Many
refugees who got the status, had to turn to the 'Polish Humanitarian Action'
for assistance. Lucky ones got accommodation, and an elementary Polish
Language Course scholarship. But the list of applicants is growing
alarmingly, and even the fortunate few are forced to face cuts in the little
help they get.
"I was starving," a Chechen refugee was telling me, "I called a friend
who lives across town and he invited me over for dinner. But I had a second
problem... no money to buy a bus ticket. But the pangs of hunger pushed me
to take a risk. I got in a bus without any ticket. A few stops away the
ticket controller caught up with me. He made me descend, asking for my
address to write a default, which would mean paying a penalty of 120 zlotis.
I gave him the address of the department that is responsible for the
integration program... Rakowieska 21."
"And what did he do?" I asked.
"What could he do? He looked at me for long, concluded that I was mad,
and simply walked away!" he said, biting his words.
For others, the problem is the possibility of studying the host language:
"When you go into an office and express yourself in Polish, people
respect you. Believe me, I am making history by studying Polish!" Mr. Aghmed
told me once after our Polish classes.
The atmosphere often generated in the classroom, left our teachers,
Renata and Anna, satisfied. It was an occasion we looked up to daily,
because of the stress-releasing atmosphere. Mr. Aghmed would sometimes bring
a specially prepared dish of Pakistani cousin expertly cooked by his wife,
for the class to share: "To jest bardzo ostre, na prawda, i jest zdrowy," he
would say. We would eat, laugh and chart informally. The teacher-student
relationship would pale into insignificance, making learning even more
appealing.
Unfortunately the course was brutally terminated because of rising cost,
leaving Mr. Aghmed's aspiration precariously dangling in mid-air. That was a
few weeks ago.
Talk of luck!
Today is April 20, 2001. It is 12:25 p.m. now. I had just finished the
above paragraph, when my phone rang. It was a call from Mr. Andrzej
Czajkowski of the Polish Humanitarian Action.
He had news for me: "If you want to continue studying Polish, you can
join a group at IKO, without paying," he said.
"Why free?" I asked. It's difficult getting things for free so I had to
be sure. "We asked them for help," he replied. I guess I should end the
story here, hoping that perhaps, I would meet Mr. Aghmed again... and that
Charlie too... would run into some luck!
STOP PRESS!
Take a message to our folks- fast forward, southward moving clouds...
not of words.
Descend as dew...
dissolve and fertilise the land,
merge with the village spring.
As they eat and drink
to quench their hunger and thirst,
invade their thoughts and dreams...
with glimpses of what we going through in exile!
(Poem inspired by the back street of Praga....
Warsaw, April 12, 2001; 2:00 a.m.)
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