The Strength of Africa

Dedicated to Joanne Mackin

Daisy’s heart belonged to Africa.  Rayn had it on loan and was holding tight for the time being but deep down he knew her heart belonged to Africa.  Africa called to her, there was no love nor compassion, not in the way he felt love and compassion.  There was just a deep conviction that she had shared her body with a person of its land, had opened her mind to its rhythm  and therefore had claim to her heart.  Her body, her life, her love belonged to Africa and she was punished in her absence.

*

So much mist swirling around the mountainside, parting only to expose the mass of trees which clung confidently to the slopes.  Surely, with such conditions, there must be gorillas.  If not I am shocked and vow to travel to Africa and inform the hairy inhabitants of countries to the North with better economies and less disease.  They would have to bring their own bananas but small sacrifice, I would tell them, for the grandeur of an Alpine life.  I suppose I would have to first consult the cows I have seen grazing on the lower slopes.  I am sure they wouldn’t mind.

The cows contradict me, telling me I am foolish.  That I can offer all the benefits in the world, replicate the conditions to perfection and still it would never be Africa.

I fear they are right.

* 

It was raining heavily outside, the reason they had escaped to bed so early.  An Alpine thunderstorm, spectacular in its ferocity.  Africa had spared no time to claim her.

Africa only came when Daisy slept, or at least Africa only succeeded in taking her when she slept.  Defenceless in her dreams Africa would step forth and speak to Rayn.  She was strong and when awake she fought the continent, stubborn strength bore her through, but he could see the pain in her eyes, the effort it took her.  With geological patience Africa eroded the women within.  He loved her steel, to take a stand of independence against the continent, to love it and all its glory and yet not be claimed by its egoistical tyranny.  In many ways, he thought, Africa was like a spoilt child.  Even as she slept she fought, it was painful to watch, frightening even.  She lay and fitted in uneasy sleep, small elbows drawn in tight as she clawed the air with scrumpled hands, fingers bent and moving slowly, sporadically.  It called to mind the T-Rex named Stan they had seen in a museum only months before, laughable, tiny forearms.  It was the helpless actions of an animal in agony, but there was no metal teeth biting the stripped flesh of a dying zebra, nor a shattered pelvis as the panther lay trapped in its pit.  The evident pain as she convulsed and clutched her heart was born purely from Africa’s invasion of her mind.

Rayn lay in silent observation, no longer amused by Stans debility, Stans useless clawing against the foe.  He took resolve that Stan had other resources to call upon, other strengths to help him survive.  He waited for Africa.

The fitting moaning form settled.  Sometimes Daisy would drift into a gentler sleep, a temporary victory, some small reward for her pained resilience?  Rayn did not know.  He feared time had no meaning to the continent and supposed the Tigress that was Africa may simply prefer easier prey, a weaker form of amusement.  It would be arrogant to assume that she was Africa’s only obsession.  These attacks, attempted and failed, occurred with no pattern, no sequence.  Months of peace, blissful periods of love shared and developed between two romantics.  Time enough to develop the youthful hope that Africa had stopped its pursuit, had granted the independence she deserved.  It was foolish optimism, Africa always returned.  With renewed vigour or a flippant encounter, Africa always returned.  He had watched her for 3 nights now, it was getting worse.  Africa stepped forth.

“There’s a monkey in the tree”, her words were slurred, evidence that she still retained some control, that she still fought.  Beyond the slur was the childish plea of Africa.

Denial first, he thought, always start with denial, “Really? Are you sure? I haven’t seen any monkeys”, false belief laced his tone, it rarely worked.  Africa was not so easily placated.

He had never worked out why Africa stepped forth as a child, she spoke and could be reasoned with as one would speak to a young child.  What really worried him was that she, his love, would not return.  That the mental retardation which was forced upon her by the continent would someday be lasting.  He also had to be careful not to forget that this ‘child’ had a temper, once he had attempted to ignore Africa, a dangerous tactic.  Awaking to flailing fists and flying kicks he had leapt back in shock, smashing his head against the bedroom wall.  How do you fight a continent which is using the love of your life as its weapon? He chose to flee, and with partial concussion fell asleep curled tight on the couch.  That had been the night when she had cried for the Hippos, distressed that she could not look after them all, seeking his help, his protection.  He had felt sorry for Africa that night, such a burden he had thought.  Unusually sleep had claimed him before Africa had left her, he hadn’t fallen asleep on Africa again.

His silent thinking brought renewed insistence to her voice, “Its raining and there’s a monkey in the tree”, framed as a question, a toddlers assumption.

“I’ve no idea which tree the monkeys in, and anyway it’s a monkey, why would it mind the rain?”

“Its raining”, she persisted, almost whined, “You have to get him and bring him inside”.  A moments thought and, “He’ll get wet”, as if by way of explanation.

The worst thing about these conversations was the evident pain she experienced as Africa violated her mind and held these confrontations, her face scrumpled, she started clawing the seemingly viscous air which surrounded her.  He tried a new tact, “If he’s in a tree then he’s probably quite happy, in fact the leaves are probably keeping him dry”.

“You have to bring him in and give him a banana”, it was a demand, Africa was being difficult tonight.

And then Daisy’s eyes snapped open, unfocused but shining with shocked intensity.  She gasped air as if freshly dunked in a mountain stream, electric blues eyes stared unseeing at Rayn.  She looked around, startled, panicky.  Was this the aftermath of Africa leaving her alone once more, suddenly small, insignificant and lost?  Or a final stab of pain as the continent left, a departing, jolting promise of its return?  He reached over very slowly, with his fingers spread wide he massaged the front of her head, palm almost touching her nose as his fingers worked their way into her hair.  Her eyes closed slowly, head gently falling back down but at the same time craning towards his hand, as if her face were a sunflower and his hand the sun.  Her strands of hair rolled gently, grating under his fingertips, smoothing her frightened frown.  It was a practised skill.  All but once this approach had worked and she would slip into a deeper, peaceful sleep, Africa subdued.  Once however she had fled his hand in fear, another man she saw, a wicked one.  She breathed heavily, petrified in a corner of the tent, with no where to run she just curled up and shook in fear.  Had Africa seen the hand of a vengeful god, threatening to smite the childish land?  He had tried to reason with her, with Africa but the fear was set.  Eventually he had hid within his sleeping bag until she calmed and her breathing slowed then settled to an easy rhythm.  The continent was easily tricked that night.

For now Daisy slept easily, Rayn removed his hand and relaxed himself to sleep.  Quietly he settled himself, closing his eyes he wandered if this time, when she spoke of strange and colourful dreams, he would have the courage to voice his fears that Africa was quite mad and was stealing her mind.