Brima and Bullock

“I say, Brima, where the devil is Alie?” John Bullock huffed and inquired in Oxford tones. Alie was head cook.

The West African mining camp was far into the bush where the climate was enervating and tempers were on edge. In the dining room, the clacking ceiling fans did little to cool the stifling heat. Screening on the outside veranda, where the linen covered table was set up, kept out bugs but trapped the stagnate heat inside. At camp meals, Bullock often appeared to suffer from heat strokes. He sighed often, and looked as if fermented lemons exclusively constituted his diet.

“He’s not here, suh,”

Brima, the round Mende server and cook responded with nervous, broken English. Even Brima must have noticed the heat. He’d removed his floor length gown and the hat that looked like an inverted cereal bowl. He wore an American-made T-shirt and shorts. He filled Bullock’s teacup.

“Precisely, Brima. That is, of course, what prompted the question at hand? So, Brima, you must be serving up chop, tonight?”

Bullock examined a teacup with stern concentration.

“Yes suh, and I cooked.”

“Brima, am I correct in assuming that you also set the table for the gentlemen? Eh?”

“No suh, I stand all day and cook. I just set at break like Mr. Foday says and never set on the table.” Brima grinned.

“In Uganda, we dealt with house boys with firm direction,” Bullock told the other diners. “Before Idi Amin disbanded the agricultural mission, I, as Chief Scientist was provided a full cadre of household help. I must say, however, with Margaret away in England attending to the boys schooling and her doctoring, four houseboys are a bit tiresome.”

Margaret Bullock had left the camp the previous week with a vague medical concern. Peter Oates, an engineer, speculated it might be related to living with Bullock.

Brima continued pouring coffee for a German insurance agent at the mine site to adjust an accident claim. Two of the company’s three mining scrapers had collided that week, effectively shutting down the mine. They were the world’s largest and two of the three in Africa at that time had run into each other.

“Brima, did you bring this tea cup,” Bullock asked.

He pinched his nostrils in Brima’s direction.

Brima said, “Yes suh.”

“Brima! This fine china cup is cracked. Cracked china is particularly disgusting.” Bullock raised the cup between his thumb and index finger. Extending the remaining three fingers to the heavens, he dropped the cup to the blue-painted concrete floor.

“I say, Brima. I must have dropped the cup, for it has shattered. Not to worry. Cracked china is obnoxious and unsanitary.” When irritated, Bullock used the word “obnoxious” to clear clogged nasal passages.

“The cup broke, sir, ”Brima said and scurried to retrieve china fragments.

“Indubitably.” Bullock often used this word.

Peter Oats said, “Ah, the great white hunter again strikes fear to the savage black heart. Their sole recourse is to wreck Caterpillar scrapers and thus indirectly vomit out colonialism.”
The Royal School of Mines had failed to rid Peter of a Cockney accent. In Bullock’s company, somehow, he sounded more upper class. He said, “It was extraordinarily hot today. I ducked myself in the stream near the wrecked scrapers.”

Bullock said, “The Mende wash their clothes and piss in that stream, Mate. Have you heard of Bilharzia?”

Without pausing for a reply, Bullock taught his company.

“Bilharzia is a parasitic disease found in tropical climates. It is contracted through the skin from host snails found in unsafe drinking water or by wading or swimming in urine and feces contaminated water. The parasite courses its way through one’s intestines and eventually attacks the liver resulting in bloody urine and stool. Nigerian boys are said to have passed the rite of manhood when blood appears in their urine. A quite unsavory stench and lifestyle, I must say. I opt for something more civilized. Prostate surgery given the choice, of course.”

Bullock flared his nostrils.

At that moment, however, coursing its way through the ample intestines of Robert Faverty, was Alie’s noon meal of corned beef, cabbage, potatoes and Star Beer. Star Beer was a Sierra Leone brand tasting like swamp water. The three hundred-pound geologist from Nebraska had joined the mining company after six years in the Peace Corps among the Temne. He enjoyed mealtime and any unclaimed morsel found itself in those intestines. He gulped his third bottle of mineral water in four noisy swallows.

His faced puckered, Bullock said, “My, Robert. You must be very thirsty.”

“Yep. Hot. Three pits dug today.”

Having completed its journey through Faverty’s intestines, Alie’s meal and the beer asserted themselves. The extended relief resonated against the metal chair and echoed throughout the room.

Peter Oates quoted Shakespeare. “All the perfumes of Arabia….”

John Bullock sniffed. Immediately, he redirected the conversation to another pressing, local medical issue.

“Lassa Fever is also troublesome, particularly in these contemptible parts of the planet. Fortunately, the disease has finally been traced to rodents under homes or huts, if you will. Many natives and missionaries have died. Like rats, I might add.”

Peter supplied additional information. “Sister Anne, the doctor from the Catholic mission, indicated that rodent urine contaminates water and food.”

Robert Faverty now comfortable said, “Boy, speaking of piss, I was in deep shit Monday. I was in a dense clump of trees and undergrowth. There were a million monkeys in those trees. Colybus. They get mean! They started throwing leaves and twigs and fruit. Man! Anything. They were screeching and then it started raining piss. Millions of gallons of monkey piss. I had to beat it out of there. Barrels of piss. ”

Bullock flinched. Brima served him sliced roast beef.

“This meat was obviously procured from a Fula man,” Bullock said. “They move through the countryside with a small herd of cattle. A cow is often seen with an egret or two on its back, ridding the poor animal of insects. Fair exchange, I would say, for the transport.” Bullock clanked his fork down on the plate and removed the partly chewed meat in his mouth with the linen napkin.

Peter asked, “Aren’t the Fula men considered wealthy?”

“Precisely. They alone can afford both cattle and wives. The market for a young wife is four cows. An old starving wife can be purchased for one. Brima, did you sell your old wife for this cow?”

Bullock blew his nose.

“No sir. My old wife is not for sale,” Brima said.

“Brima, my point is, this meat is terrible. Is it rubber?”

“Mr. Bullock, I did not cook rubber all day while standing.”

“Brima, the meat is tough. It tastes like boot leather.” Bullock raised his jungle boot. “Do you eat boots, Brima?”

“No sir. I did not eat your boot. I polished your boots and they are in your closet.”

“Brima, marinate the meat in wine or steak sauce,” Bullock said. “Soak it many, many minutes. Then take knife. With dull side, pound the steak. Then cook.”

“Yes sir. Cut the meat to one pound with a dull knife.” Brima stood, attentive and with his hands folded behind his back as Foday taught him.

“No, Brima! Hit the steak with the knife. Chop, Chop, Chop.”

Bullock made karate chops on the table.

“The chops chew the meat first. As a young wife chews for her baby. Eh? Makes it easy for the baby to eat. Eh?”

“Yes sir. For all chop, hit with dull knife. Then chew steak.”

Bullock’s face turned red and he started to speak. Before he spoke, Brima said, “Sir, I must go spit. It is Ramadan and I must not swallow until sundown.”

Bullock yelled, “Brima, always beat the meat.”

Silence prevailed. Bullock left the table. Faverty ate Bullock’s portion of the Fula man’s cow.

“Africa retches colonialism once more,” Peter said. “Poor Brima. As he was resetting bowling pins last night, I didn’t see his legs in the dark pit of the alley. I nearly bowled him over.” It was the only bowling alley in West Africa.

That evening, Peter noted Brima’s young daughter and second wife balancing loaves of bread on their heads. They walked toward Gbangbama, their village half a mile away. Responsible for the accounting of food, Peter neglected to report the theft.

In Gbangbama, Brima, an elder, was considered wealthy.