Testament of a Woman Refugee

Thomas Jing

Description

Logan, a young Canadian priest, finds himself in Jangaland, an African country in the throes of post-independence violence. His friendly relationship with the family of a rebel leader does not endear him to the ruling administration. He is thrown out of the country. Even before he leaves, the leader and his wife are killed. The rebel's daughter, Zinga, miraculously survives the extermination plot and ends up in an orphanage where his true identity is concealed. When she comes of age, she bears a stunning resemblance to her mother. With her life in danger, and aided by family friends who reveal her true identity, she escapes from the country. Now a refugee, her tribulations are just beginning. She is exploited by an immigration official, reduced into a sex slave by a rebel force. She survives and is eventually joined by her husband who was in Jangaland. Plans to make a fresh start are botched. Drug dealers kill her husband. She is despondent but a miracle occurs. Logan traces her whereabouts and it is in Canada that she recounts her story to a psychiatrist.

Sujets

• World Literature
• África
• General officer
• General
• Africa
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Langaa RPCIG
• Date de parution: 03 mars 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9789956552078
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 4 Mo

Extrait

Logan, a young Canadian priest, finds himself in Jangaland, an African country in the throes of post-independence violence. His friendly relationship with the family of a rebel leader does not endear him to the ruling administration and he is thrown out of the country. However before he leaves, the leader and his wife are killed. The rebel’s daughter, Zinga, miraculously survives the extermination plot and ends up in an orphanage where her true identity is concealed. When she comes of age, she bears a stunning resemblance to her mother, now with her life in danger, and aided by family friends who reveal her true identity, she escapes from the country. Now a refugee, her tribulations are just beginning. She is exploited by an immigration official, reduced into a sex slave by a rebel force. She survives and is eventually joined by her husband from Jangaland. Plans to make a fresh start are botched. Drug dealers kill her husband. She is despondent but a miracle occurs. Logan traces her whereabouts and it is in Canada that she recounts her story to a psychiatrist.

THOMAS JING is an African writer based in Regina, Canada. He holds a PhD in Education and has been very active in promoting African culture, especially folkdances which he sees as a reliable framework that could be used by the diaspora to build community and promote scholarship.

TESTAMENT OF A WOMAN REFUGEE

T HOMAS J ING

Testament of a Woman Refugee Thomas Jing

L a ng a a R esea rch & P u blishing CIG Mankon, Bamenda

Publisher: LangaaRPCIG Langaa Research & Publishing Common Initiative Group P.O. Box 902 Mankon Bamenda North West Region Cameroon [e-mail] www.langaa-rpcig.net Distributed in and outside N. America by African Books Collective [e-mail] www.africanbookscollective.com

ISBN-10: 9956-552-18-6 ISBN-13:978-9956-552-18-4

©Thomas Jing 2022

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying and recording, or be stored in any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher

Dedication Without the generous funding of the Canadian Council for the Arts, this book might not have been completed. The work is dedicated to the UNHCR, the Jesuit Refugee Services, and to all refugees whose untold suffering must be the business of us all. Christ, the Prophet Mohammed, and Einstein had all been refugees!

Chapter One he month was January in the year 1963. The day was Thursday, the tenth day of that month. This day shall be T remembered throughout the history of the West African nation of Jangaland. The sun had just risen in Sahara, its far-flung northern “Department,” as the French colonizers once referred to such a large administrative unit. Still resplendent in the morning hours, the sun’s rays draped the thirsty landscape, transforming its fine brown sand into something golden. Overhead, crows floated in the wind as they unleashed their forlorn and melancholic cries into the horizon. Little clusters of trees were scattered sporadically across the vast, dry wilderness upon which many giant vultures perched and dangled as they waited patiently. Dotted here and there, the baobabs, kings of the Sahel, did not look regal. Standing stark naked and pitched against a clear blue sky, these trees struck a lonely and doleful pose as their skeletal branches rose heavenward, beseechingly. As part of this requiem, swarms of bloated green flies buzzed furiously around in symphony, attracted by the heat and the redolence of decomposition. The smell of death lingered everywhere and its ambassadors had turned out in full force to deliver the woeful news. This development was certainly sad but not news to Mustapha, the Prefect of the Department of Sahara. Rumblings of the looming tragedy had long reached him when a group of shepherds began to complain. Some months earlier, he had written to Patrice d’Olivier, the president of the country. In the letter, he had appealed to the government to set up a taskforce that would deal with an impending drought effectively. There were telltale signs that had already been a harbinger of the ghastly harvest to come. The sun had increased in intensity. Under the relentless assault of its scorching rays, big rivers and streams could simply take it no more and had now thinned down to mere trickles. Vegetation, always sparse in this part of the world, had become even sparser as it suffocated in the steaming

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heat. Grass and shrubs withered as they turned brown and died. Then gradually, they started to vanish completely as the earth was subjected to the merciless and constant lashing of sand- laden winds. Even before the prefect could react to the alarm, some wise cattle herdsmen had hastily gathered their few belongings and their livestock, and headed farther south to find fresh water and green pastures. Others were not so sure and chose instead to gamble with the weather by electing to stay. They had hoped, as it had sometimes happened in the past, that the weather would soon return to normal. Unfortunately, they lost the hand this time. It was too late for them to migrate when their crops succumbed to the harsh weather and their animals started dying of hunger and thirst. The wrath of nature was just starting. Worse things were still to come. The dreaded cattle plague struck. It began in neighbouring Gobir and, with livestock constantly shuttling back and forth across national borders in search of pasture and livestock owners crisscrossing borders in search of lucrative markets, it soon reached Sahara. Animals spared by the ravages of the drought, took ill rapidly and began to die as well. With their livestock almost wiped out, many helpless herdsmen had only the government to turn to for assistance. The prefect, Mustapha, was born and raised in this region. During his lifetime, he had experienced locusts, sandstorms, droughts, and many other catastrophes that nature could hurl at humans. He knew what hope meant and was conversant with how to harness hope to keep faith alive in the face of despondency. In this instance, he mustered the little courage he had left, assembled his folks in distress and reminded them that he had already written to the President of the Republic. He was certain that help was on the way. Meanwhile, after surmounting every conceivable administrative hurdle that African governments are wont to erect, Mustapha’s letter finally landed on the president’s desk at a time when the disaster was at its peak. President Patrice d’Olivier had already caught glimpses of the terrible Sahara

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drama in a Roman Catholic gazette and the official newspaper. He knew what to expect as he picked up the prefect’s letter. Without even bothering to open it, let alone read its content, he dropped it into a folder marked “Not Urgent.” One thing, and only one thing, was urgent to him at that moment. His most formidable opponent and some of his lieutenants were still being held at Criscris, a maximum security prison. Patrice had learned from his father, a local chieftain who had betrayed his own subjects by handing over tribal lands to foreign companies, that the best way of killing a snake was by cutting off its head. The head of the snake that was threatening his power was still moving about. It was a sign that the snake was still alive.

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Chapter Two riscris was an imposing brick structure set at the peak of a mountain. Its imperious location did not shield it from C the ravages of nature unfolding all around. Isolated in the midst of a barren wilderness and exposed to howling winds, the prison was receiving its fair share of heat and dust. Benedict twisted and turned in response to the drama caused by the extreme change in climate. He was stripped down to his undergarments as he lay stretched out on his hard wooden bed. Having been awakened early in the morning from sleep by heat, mosquitoes and the morning’s upheavals, he gazed at the rafters high above in his cell as his mind wandered. Not very far from his window, he could hear the familiar sound of some birds of the Sahel twittering away gaily in celebration of dawn. He would occasionally lapse into a very brief slumber when his mind steadied on what seemed the most pressing matter to him. His trusted friend at the prison had secretly informed him that he would be receiving an early morning knock on his door any time. It would come, he had been told, earlier than the one for the breakfast that could well be the very last one at that prison facility. Even though he seemed anxious, the revelation was really not news to him. At a meeting about a week ago with Fr. Logan, the Canadian cleric who had been dispatched to come and administer his last sacrament, he knew the authorities would come and fetch him. He just was not sure about the day and hour. However, deep down Benedict suspected the moment was near. The suspense created by the seemingly endless wait was at the root of his anxiety. While his mind danced back and forth on this fateful morning, wondering whether the final moment had come, gradually and unconsciously he began to sink into a profound reverie as the morning upheavals of the prison yard began in earnest. Outside the prison, a military truck backed up and came to a halt as the huge metal doors of the main entrance to the facility

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