Pencil Truths

Early evening

A room. Tightly plaited banana leaves in the roof hide the last waning rays of sunlight, leaving it illuminated solely by a single bare bulb. The light reveals a single wooden chair tucked under a matching desk, that throws eerie shadows along cracks in the walls.

A man. In his hands is a small, black notebook, slightly scuffed in the way that only objects which have been used carefully for many months can be. Inside, the book is covered in cramped pencil scrawl. The man frequently erases entire pages, carefully brushing away the scraps left behind. He is doing so now.

A sigh. It is the loudest sound that the room has heard in over an hour. The man looks up for the first time since taking his seat, frowns, and looks down at the notebook. The page in front of him is blank once more.

Earlier that morning

Moses Birungi emerged from the compound, glancing briefly over one shoulder. His speed was practised - brisk enough to be difficult to keep pace with, but not so fast as to draw suspicion. Plumes of dust thrown up by passing armed convoys clouded his sellotaped glasses. He rubbed them vigorously with his sleeve as he walked, welcoming any excuse to avoid eye contact with the soldiers. The art of feigning complete disinterest had proven a useful skill to cultivate - there was always the risk that one would recognise him, no matter how dishevelled his appearance had become. He carefully ignored the signature black, chauffeured cars of the government which sped past ferrying political officials, trying to forget that until several months ago those same tinted windows had separated his daily commute from the tumultuous traffic outside. He picked his way expertly between the hopeful beggars and stray dogs of Masikini street toward his favourite coffee shop. Leaping from the path of a speeding motorcycle, his hand instinctively moved to his right pocket to protect his notebook. Continuing on his way, he meticulously averted his eyes from the main square where the gallows had taken residence since the new regime entered power. Though they had hung empty for several weeks, they were a constant reminder of just how much had changed.

“Moses, brother! The usual?”

He nodded warmly to the owner and placed himself at the counter on his usual perch, from which he could see every inhabitant of the coffee shop. The only customers today were one elderly woman, sipping her coffee with the clear intent to make it last all morning, and two men in expensive suits huddled over a card game. One of them shot Moses a glance as he pulled out his chair, but quickly turned back to the game. The shop owner approached Moses bearing a tray of black coffee.

“Drink up.”

The words were said casually, their tone belying nothing out of the ordinary. His eyes, however, bored into Moses’ and widened as he removed the tray. Moses smiled his thanks and picked up the cup. He swirled the spoon delicately, his body betraying no reaction. Beneath the cup lay a receipt, ringed with a circular stain. Hastily scribbled across it was a note:

‘2 men here for you. Gun in bag. Exit back door. Be ready.’

Moses sipped his coffee, which did nothing to wash away the lump of panic rising in his throat. His eyes flitted to the back door next to the men’s table. He glimpsed a rucksack at their feet, and suddenly had difficulty swallowing. One of the men stood up and left without looking in Moses’ direction. The other remained seated, lazily gesturing for a refill. The owner hurried over, brushing Moses’ shoulder lightly as he passed. Moses put down his coffee cup slowly, shifting in his chair to hide the fact that every muscle in his body was taut.

Suddenly, the shop owner stumbled, blocking Moses’ view of the man and spilling coffee over the cards lying on the table. With a startled shout the man leapt up, overturning his chair. Whilst the owner was still blocking him from view, Moses sprang to his feet and ducked towards the exit. He grabbed the bag and threw himself through the back door, fingers fumbling frantically for a bolt behind him. A backward glimpse revealed the stranger’s face contorted with rage, mouth widening in a shout just before Moses managed to slide the bolt. He heard a dull thud, and a cry of pain. Cursing himself, and saying a silent prayer for the shop owner, he slipped an arm through the strap of the rucksack and ran.

Noon

A man walks casually up the wide path of a neat, yellow house. His left arm swings gently at his side. His right hand rests in his trouser pocket. A diligent observer might take note of the sheen of perspiration on his forehead that is slightly too thick to be explained by the midday heat. The man glances around for such observers and, seeing none, slips into the shadows at the side of the house.

A woman on the first floor of the house combs through a stack of official papers scattered across a large, mahogany desk. She rolls her neck and shoulders, each of which emit subtle pops from lack of recent use. She scrapes her chair back to stretch out cramped hamstrings, the sound masking the subtle click of a latch downstairs.

Afternoon

“You should not have come here.”

The woman staring at Moses was the embodiment of controlled fury. Her voice was pitched as if discussing the weather, but Moses knew her far too well to be deceived. Her hands were holding the kitchen table between them tightly to prevent them from curling into fists.

“I knew you’d say that, Ritah.”

There was no point denying it or making excuses. Moses had pictured this conversation over and over on his journey to her house. Knowing it would irritate her, but enjoying it nonetheless, he picked at a groove in the table, grimacing at the memories it evoked of past fights and thrown kitchenware.

“You broke into my house!” Ritah’s voice became progressively less calm as the full extent of the danger she was in dawned on her. “This won’t just get me fired, Moses! If anyone sees you here, they’ll think…” She stopped speaking and took a long, steadying breath. His eyebrows twitched slightly in surprise at this uncharacteristic show of restraint. When she spoke again, it was in her earlier, controlled tone. “Get out. You have five minutes before I call them.”

Moses made no attempt to rise, instead unzipping the rucksack he held on his lap. Ritah’s eyes widened as Moses reached in and pulled out the pistol. Checking the safety catch, he laid it gently upon the table, the insides clicking as it came to rest. Moses slid the gun towards where Ritah stood rigid. They looked at one another only after the sound of the black metal scraping against the tabletop had ceased.

Her lips trembled, but no sound emerged. Moses lifted up the entire rucksack and emptied the rest of its contents onto the table. Neatly bound piles of money spread over the surface, some falling to the floor. It had to be at least $20,000 in hard cash. Ritah ignored it and reached out a trembling hand to pick up the final item, which had floated from the bag to rest gently next to the gun. A picture of Moses stared back at her, with the same intense expression as the Moses in front of her held now.

“They found you then?”

“I doubt they ever lost me, Ritah.” Moses chuckled, with a ghost of his old, dry humour. “I think they just hadn’t made the decision yet.”

“What changed?”

“I rather think you already know the answer to that.” The humour drained from Moses’ face as quickly as it had appeared. When she remained silent, he continued. “I’m not here to ask you why, Ritah. I can guess.” His eyes flickered pointedly to a framed picture on the countertop of Ritah laughing, holding an equally gleeful toddler in her arms. She made a move as if to speak but checked herself at the last moment. Moses nodded. “I thought so.” He pushed the gun aside, pulled the notebook from his pocket, and laid it reverently in front of her.

“What is that?” Ritah’s voice was strained, and she grasped at the table’s edge as if requiring its full support to stay on her feet.

“I guess you could say it’s the reason I’m in this mess. Well, one of the reasons anyway.” His eyes briefly met hers, but his expression was unreadable. He opened the notebook up before her but she continued to stare at him, refusing to look at the writing. “You can guess what’s in here. It’s not everything I found out about them, but it’s most of it. I don’t know if I will have time to write the rest down, but I’m going to try. Just in case. I want you to have it.” He pushed the open notebook slightly towards her, but she continued to ignore it.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Moses’ mouth quirked into a wry smile. “Peculiar isn’t it, that you are the only person I would trust with this?”

“I can’t take it.” Ritah tossed the notebook back towards Moses, as if the very act of touching it was dangerous. “I can’t use it.”

“You don’t need to use it now, Ritah. Not yet. Keep it hidden for as long as you need.” Moses reached forward but instead of picking up the notebook, took Ritah’s hand before she could pull away. “I just need to know that it will still exist. I might not live to see it, but one day everyone will know what they’ve done.”

Moses stood abruptly, pulling his hand from Ritah’s grasp. She swayed at the movement, only then realising how tightly she had been holding on to him. He picked up the notebook and tucked it back into his pocket. “I’m going to our old meeting place tonight. I will finish writing it there. If for any reason I need to leave, I’ll hide this book in the usual place. Will you come?”

Ritah did not answer. She stood up straight and wiped her cheek quickly with the cuff of her dress. She walked around the table to where he stood, took his face in her hands, and kissed his cheek.

Moses extricated himself from her gently and gestured to the table. “Do what you want with the money, Ritah.” He strode to the door, turning back to face the room as he grasped the handle. “I’ll see you later.”

The door was shut before she had time to answer.

Late evening

A room. A single bare bulb illuminates the otherwise pitch black, windowless space.

A man. He rubs his right hand absentmindedly, stretching out each finger with a sharp crack. A small, black notebook, slightly scuffed in the way that only objects which have been used carefully for many months can be, lies open on the table in front of him. It is full, with every page covered in the same cramped handwriting.

A sound. The man stands, picking up the notebook, and walks to the furthest wall from the door. Kneeling, he dislodges a brick at the base, and pushes the notebook as far as it will go into the darkness of the cavity. He replaces the brick carefully and returns to his seat at the table. He leans back in his chair, closes his eyes, and continues to ignore the pounding at the door.