Page 9 of Soul on Fire
And then dropped to the deck, dead.
Fuck. He could have had a survivor for Captain Watkins.
* * *
Chapter Five
UN Refugee Camp outside Sake
The Congo
Ikolo hated this part,almost as much as he hated to see his patients die under his care. It was the same feeling of failure that suffocated him, the same shame that wrapped around his bones.
There were times he couldn’t save his patients and there were times he had to beg for money.
It was impossible to run a refugee hospital without money. Lots and lots of money.
A few months ago, amzunguphotographer from Goma came to the camp on a chukudu. He looked like every white man in Africa, all of them wearing those thin zip-off khaki trousers with a million pockets, a dirty white button-down shirt, and a khaki vest like he was a European explorer lost in time. A red bandana soaking up his sweat was wrapped around his neck, and he had a digital camera slung over his shoulder.
“I want to pay you to take photos of your hospital,” Peter, the photographer, had said, “and of what you’re doing here. This is amazing work.”
It clawed at him, scraped him raw inside every time themzunguswanted to photograph their tragedies. Take pictures of their lives and send them to the West, glorifying their agony and calling it art. Some of those photos won awards, the photographers earning thousands of dollars for the perfect, best shot. The shot that captured the most eloquent suffering, the best visceral gut-punch agonizing image of African suffering. Photos that the West looked at and moved on with no more than a sigh, or changed the channel. It wasn’t Western suffering.
After the photos were taken, all the photographers went home and left Ikolo and everyone else behind. Their lives were nothing but phantoms on film, insubstantial beyond apertures and shutter speeds.
None of those photographers had to live this life. No one who sighed at their anguish could step into the photo and smell the blood and the filth, the despair so thick in the air it was the only thing that could push the humidity away, or feel the exhaustion that tried to shred his arms and legs from his body. No one had to live beyond the edges of the photos except for them: Africans.
“I’ll pay you five thousand every time I come and take photos.”
He’d be an idiot to turn that kind of money down.
He’d accepted, and he knew there would be photos of him and his people in the West, their pain, their ravaged agony, their suffering and exhaustion. The hospital he’d built by hand would be calledshabbyand there would be endless comments about how primitive their care was. How they worked with so little. Someone would scoff at his careful washing and reusing of his gloves. Would Peter win an award for what he showed?
He took the money and let Peter take what he wanted.
And now Peter was back for the third time, but he wanted to see more. And Ikolo just didn’t have the time.
“Please, come back another day. It’s not good right now. You shouldn’t be here—”
“Ebola is showing up in all the camps. Every hospital here has picked up cases these last few days. The Red Cross, Doctors Without Borders, the UN. They’re scrambling. But you’ve already got tents set up. You knew what to do right away.”
“It’s not my first time facing an outbreak. The Congo sees lots of Ebola. Every year, in fact. News of our sickness never seems to make it to America.” He tried to push past Peter.
Peter followed him, a dog chasing scraps of food. “The villagers, those ones who were first hit. If they got sick, they knew to come here, didn’t they?”
Ikolo hesitated. He nodded.
“How many patients have you treated?”
“That information is for the World Health Organization. If you have questions, they are who you need to ask.”
“Doctor Ngondu—”
“I am very busy, as you can see!” Behind Ikolo, his hospital swarmed with refugees, the courtyard filled with the wounded, everyone quietly and patiently waiting to go to one of the tents for treatment. “I don’t havetimefor you today.Pleasecome back later.”
Peter grabbed his arm as he tried to pass. “Please, Doctor Ngondu. Please. Just let me follow you when you go in the tents.”
“How will you take photos? Everything that goes in must be sterilized. You’ll ruin your camera.”
