“What will you do to us after we’ve given you the names you want?” the Round One asked Lusaka when he went to them with our request.
“We’ll give you your car key and wish you a safe journey home,” Lusaka replied.
The Leader scoffed.
“We will,” Lusaka said.
“Liar,” the Leader growled. “Where are the beds you said you’d have for us? Where are the graves of your dead sons? Do you even have dead sons?”
“I wish I had no dead sons.”
“The moment we give you any names, you’ll kill us,” the Sick One said.
“We don’t kill other humans,” Lusaka replied. “That’s what you do, not us.”
“You won’t get away with this, I promise you,” the Leader said. “Your punishment will be severe.”
“If you swear not to kill us, I’ll tell you what you want to know,” the Sick One mumbled.
“Shut up,” his superior said.
“Don’t be afraid of him,” Lusaka said. “Tell me.”
“The car,” the driver said. “Please, don’t let anything happen to it.”
“We took your car to a safe place a couple of days ago, somewhere the children cannot touch it,” Lusaka said. “I have the key, right here in my pocket. I swear by every one of my ancestors that when you give me the names we need I’ll lead you to the car, hand you the key, and wish you a safe journey to Bézam.”
The Leader burst out laughing. “So you think after you send us on our way all will be forgotten? ‘Goodbye. Travel well. Wasn’t it wonderful for us, keeping you prisoner in our village?’？”
“All will be forgotten,” Lusaka said, then turned and walked out of the room.
* * *
—
There was no point telling the men how all would be forgotten. No reason to inform them that, upon leaving Lusaka’s hut after providing us with the information we need, and just before re-entering their car to return to the capital, they will spend an hour or so in Jakani and Sakani’s hut. We will lead them to meet the twins blindfolded and they’ll remain with the twins until their memory, from the time they arrived in Kosawa for the meeting to the time they enter their car to return home, is wiped away. So thoroughly washed off that when their families and friends ask them about their travels—what they’d said and done in Kosawa, why their trip had been longer than expected—they’ll respond that they’d had car troubles which needed time to resolve; otherwise, it had been the usual trip—they’d said this, done that, nothing special, they were now just glad to be home.
Their families and friends might not know how to interpret the men’s insouciance. They would confer with each other, asking how it could be possible that all four men were offering such scant details. Or maybe those who love them will ask each other no questions. Ultimately, no one will know what to think, and even if they contemplated it, nothing would be traceable to us—not one human will know what happened to them except the people of Kosawa. And if, for reasons now unbeknownst to us, Pexton and the government decided to send soldiers to ask us why the men had no recollection of the days when they were missing, we’d once again assemble in the square and express shock about how strange and inconceivable it was that the men had vanished after departing our village meeting; how unfathomable the times in which we were living.
But all that will come later, after we’ve made it to the next step of our plan.
For now, what matters is keeping the men alive and getting the names.
* * *
—
I tell Lusaka and Manga and Pondo I need to step out for air while I ponder what to do about the Sick One. I sit on a bench and consider what Malabo would do if he were here.
“Take me to the men,” I say to Lusaka when I re-enter his hut.
At the back of the hut, outside the kitchen, Lusaka’s wife and his sole surviving son sit in the twilight. The boy is drying his eyes as he listens to whatever his mother is saying in a soothing voice. Lusaka, ignoring them, unfastens the rope keeping shut the back room door. I enter the room with him and Manga and Pondo.
As my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness, I see the Pexton men and their driver sitting in separate corners of the empty room.
I haven’t seen them since the night of the village meeting. The Leader is sitting with his back against the wall, shirtless. His head is down; his hands and feet are bound in front of him. The plate of food beside him is uneaten. Across the room, I see their urine bucket. I’d been concerned about how they would be able to eat and urinate and scratch itchy spots with their hands bound, but Lusaka had assured me that they would do it just fine, that as prisoners they weren’t entitled to maximum comfort. Every morning, Lusaka gets two male neighbors to help him walk the hostages, one after another, to the toilet. Once they’re within the palm-frond walls, he unbinds them and gives them as many minutes as they need. The Round One and the Sick One make good use of their time in the toilet. The driver, however, never fails to complain that his feces is shy and won’t come out unless he’s left alone. To this, Lusaka responds that if the driver doesn’t go during his turn he’ll have to hold it, because Lusaka is going hunting, in which case the driver will have to clench his buttocks till evening. Every morning, upon hearing this, the man grunts and grinds his teeth and pushes until he can do so no more.