White. Deni Ellis Bechard

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      PASTOR THOMAS OMÉGA

      In the minutes before landing, I fell into a dream. Descending a stairwell, I came upon my father sitting, stroking a big calico cat that lazed on his lap.

      The wheels bumped the runway, and I woke. The antimalarial I’d taken, Pentus, was new on the market, and I’d read that it could induce Technicolor dreams or visions but that the effect mellowed in the days after each weekly dose.

      Sola looked at me quizzically, maybe shyly, as I stood up to take down my backpack. I must have appeared groggy and tried to smile. I gave her my card, and she said she would e-mail me. Then we were corralled off the plane while saying goodbye, which proved unnecessary, as we ended up walking through the airport and having breakfast together.

      By the time we boarded our connection, she’d given me her e-mail and Congo number, and though I briefly considered finding a way to sit with her, I’d booked today’s flight for a reason and had work to do. She was seated not far behind me, in the company of a tall man with a handsome profile who struck up a conversation, smiling and gesticulating, and I noticed that three rows ahead of me, the seat next to Pastor Thomas Oméga was empty. He hadn’t appeared to have noticed me, even though we’d spoken at a conference a week before and he’d told me which day he would be flying back to the Congo. He’d encouraged me to take the same flight so he could facilitate my investigation into the practices of conservation organizations—which was how I’d presented my work, not mentioning the individual who was my focus.

      As the fuselage resonated with the thud of the closing cabin door, I stood, stepped quickly up the aisle, and sat.

      “Ah,” he said, “je savais que tu allais me trouver”—I knew you would find me.

      Round was the word that came to mind each time I saw him. He wasn’t fat at all but possessed a defining roundness that seemed almost muscular; it was apparent in his face and carriage, and in the accentuation of his cheekbones as he smiled. An older white woman sat to his right, engrossed in Le Monde, and I was looking forward to hours of his undivided attention.

      “So how was the conference?” I asked in French.

      “The usual,” he said and laughed with pleasure, as if the usual were remarkable. “Everyone was making bigger and bigger promises and declaring all we would accomplish together, so that by the time it was over, we left feeling that we had made peace in Africa and saved its forests and animals.”

      “Sounds like a conference,” I said.

      “Yes. The food was delicious. And the young women environmentalists are so in love with Africans that it was hard to say no.”

      “But of course you did.” I elbowed him and he laughed again.

      “Do you know that this was my first time in America? It was better than I expected, though stressful. For years, I have read the news online, and every day a Jean-Pierre Bemba is shooting up malls, cinemas, and schools. But I survived!”

      He wore a pastel blue shirt with large mother-of-pearl buttons, and he touched one at his throat, tracing a fingertip over its surface.

      “I also went to Chicago to raise money for a new church, since my congregation is growing. While I was there, a pastor took me to see the door of the Church of Satan. No such thing could exist in the Congo. The people would rise up. We would burn it. We wouldn’t accept that evil exist so openly.”

      He was looking at me expectantly, and I said, “I think most Americans don’t really believe in that stuff, so we just ignore it.”

      “But some Americans believe in it enough to build satanic churches.”

      “I suppose, but they aren’t common.”

      “You sound like a man who hasn’t experienced the spirit of God speaking through him, so maybe you simply cannot see the invisible power of evil as I can.”

      I was tempted to say something about visible evil—the corrupt elite who ran Kinshasa, who let their countrymen starve while liquidating the Congo’s minerals to Europe, China, and America. I wanted to ask why people didn’t rise up and destroy them. But he was tight with that crowd and besides, religion had always distracted people from real evil. Though I needed to steer the conversation back to the conference, I feared appearing opportunistic. So I told him about the girl and the white demon, considering that his insights might nourish what I wrote about her.

      He listened intently and said, “Yes, this is a problem in the Congo. There are many street children. It used to be that the only witches were old people. You knew they were sorcerers from their ancient faces and stayed far enough away that their demons couldn’t jump into you. But when the demons got the idea of hiding in children, many people were infected, since children are hard to avoid.”

      “But aren’t they just children that nobody wants?”

      His look became wary in a way I knew from my years overseas: he was deciding whether to explain a belief that I was certain to discount.

      “Yes,” he said, “most of them aren’t demons. They’re from poor families, and a stepmother or stepfather accuses them so that there will be one fewer mouth to feed. But sometimes there are children inhabited by demons. I’m a pastor. I’ve done this work. The demon will speak through the child to name the people it has killed.”

      “Isn’t it likely that the children have come to believe in superstition?”

      “Absolutely not. It is real. You will see. I will take you to see.”

      “But maybe the child is sick in some way or mentally ill …”

      “I have seen them cough up human flesh. I have seen the demon rise out of them when they are cured. You mundele like your science. You explain how disease works, its mechanisms, and of course it’s all true, but you cannot explain why.”

      “Why someone gets sick?”

      “Why that person gets sick in that moment. This is the work of a spirit. Yes, we all know about bacteria and viruses. But the spirit is what causes them to affect one person and not the other. It is the reason that we watch. A demon enters a family and money is lost. A demon goes into a business or military unit, and people turn against each other.”

      “I would call such things misfortune or just natural conflict.”

      “What would be the point of God creating a world where chance rules? Do you not pray?”

      “Personally, no, but—”

      “Have you never looked to the sky and asked why, or closed your eyes and demanded СКАЧАТЬ