Zakes Mda - Cion

I feel very sorry for Beth Eddy. She looks fragile and all the confidence I’d seen earlier has disappeared. She confesses that she feels partly responsible for what happened. She went down to the basement to provoke the ghost. I can see her anguish and this makes me mad at Obed. I am no longer interested in persuading her to withdraw the case, and I tell her so. She must not be scared of publicity, I now argue, because she is the victim here. The press will be sympathetic to her and will expose Obed for the scoundrel he is. Yes, Ruth will find out about it and will be unhappy with me for not letting her know in the first place. But really Obed does need to learn a lesson. I am sick of his attitude: his lack of appreciation for the trouble I took to set this up and for Beth’s readiness to forgive.

It is Beth’s turn to talk me out of the case. There was a rape in Athens a few weeks ago, she tells me. It was in the papers every day and the case dragged on and on, with lawyers questioning the reputation of the victim. She doesn’t want to go through that. She fears that her reputation will be tainted by the revelation that the girls enjoy playing naughty games with the real Nicodemus. Lawyers always manage to dig up such scandals. She can do without the publicity. After all, she was not actually raped. The scoundrel merely touched her breasts in the manner that Nicodemus had touched them before…to her pleasure. Yes, the mediation should continue.

“Okay, but if that boy continues with his silly stunts I’ll insist that you do not withdraw the charges,” I tell Beth. And I mean it. “I think it’s high time our breast fondler learned a lesson.”

After this the mediation continues without further incident. I notice that the mediators listen very attentively. After each side has given its story they summarize the key points, all the while complimenting both parties for trying to work out their differences. Obed’s story is a very simple one. Yes, indeed, he went to the sorority in the spirit of the day. He had heard of the ghost of Nicodemus, who had died at the sorority house more than a hundred and fifty years ago, when it was one of the stations of the Underground Railroad. He decided to appropriate Nicodemus’s identity because there were rumours circulating that he haunted the sorority house and the girls enjoyed his company. He thought he would share in the ghost’s good fortune because in any event Nicodemus was his relative who was mercilessly murdered by slave catchers. He really did not have any intention of committing a crime. All he wanted was to scare the girls, and then proceed to the Court Street parades to enjoy the evening.

After Beth Eddy has expressed her own feelings about the incident — how she felt soiled and violated by it and how she thought her life was in danger — the mediators ask the parties what they think the solution should be. To my surprise Obed expresses his remorse and asks to be forgiven for his foolish and thoughtless behavior. He vows that never again will he play such dirty tricks on anyone as long as he lives, and he is willing to put that in writing, provided Beth puts it in writing that she will withdraw all the charges she has laid against him at the police station. Beth is ready to forgive him unconditionally when I butt in. Surely the young man must not get off so lightly. I remind Beth: “When I spoke with you yesterday you said there should be some restitution before you withdraw the case.”

“He has shown remorse,” says Beth.

“Obed and I think that is not enough,” I insist, looking at Obed for confirmation. “We think there should be some kind of restitution.”

“We don’t think no such thing,” says an indignant Obed.

“Oh, yes, we do!” I stand my ground.

“Hey, you ain’t even supposed to be here,” he screams at me.

“Perhaps he can paint your sorority house,” I suggest. “Why don’t you discuss it with your sisters? I’ll help him if he needs an assistant.”

The woman mediator does not think it’s a good idea to let Obed loose anywhere near the sorority house. Who will guarantee the girls’ safety?

Once again Beth surprises me.

“I think it is a good idea,” she says. “I’ll call you after talking with my housemates.”

The mediators incorporate that in the agreement and both parties sign. The mediators are happy. Especially the man. The mediation has been a great success. We all shake hands. Beth and the female mediator are the first to leave while the man asks me about my origins and what I think of their beautiful city and the fine weather that was quite foggy in the morning. As we walk out of the office Obed glares at me and mutters: “I thought you was my friend, man. I thought you was my freakin’ friend.”

“I think I am your freaking friend, Obed,” I say, chuckling to myself.

The man stands at the door and calls after Obed: “Hope you’ve learned your lesson, Mr. Quigley.”

“I sure have. No more playing with them girls’ breasts.”

“And no more dumping bottles at Kroger,” says the man, wagging his finger at him.

Obed is slightly taken aback. He didn’t think the man had recognized him. He didn’t imagine he remembered after all these years.

“Come on, man,” he says. “I was only a kid.”

Out on Court Street it is after midday and the sun has become the sun again. Yet its rays do not reflect any joy on the people’s faces. Men and women are walking in a daze, shoulders drooping and faces crestfallen. Their gait is that of mourners. Ohio has once again given America to George W. Bush and Athens’s world has come crashing down. Athens, the only county in the state to give John Kerry a landslide vote. And now, on this beautiful November 3, Kerry has conceded defeat and gloom has fallen on the Athenians’ lives. Ruth must be celebrating back in Kilvert.

Crowds have gathered on the steps of the courthouse, spilling to the sidewalks. Some are milling across the street in front of the bank. There are those who cannot contain their emotions and are weeping openly, while others are resorting to group hugs as some form of consolation.

It beats me how a rally has been organized so fast. The elections were only yesterday. The Democratic Party candidate conceded only a few hours ago. Yet here we have multitudes gathered and equipped so well for the mourning of their hero’s defeat. This has turned into an anti-war demonstration judging from the slogans on the posters and banners, none of which even mention Kerry’s name. Some read in red: Vengeance Is Not Justice ; while others are printed in bold black: A Call for Humane Treatment of All Detainees. I can see the group of young women I first spotted at the parade of creatures, the Billionaires for Bush. They are the only people who are all dressed up in fur coats and extravagant-looking — but obviously fake — jewelery. They are not chanting slogans as they did at the parade, but are quietly listening to a speaker who is leaning against the pillar on the topmost step making a speech. Only the banner they are holding above their heads speaks for them: How did our oil get under their sand?

One agitated person after another climbs the podium, grabs the megaphone and makes a speech. They all berate Bush in measured tones and pained voices. It is like we are on the set of a tragic play, which is completed by a big backdrop with photographs of American soldiers who perished in the war and bold black letters that read: 1,110 Soldiers Dead, 8,030 Wounded, 100,00 °Civilian Iraqis Dead — Support Our Troops, Bring Them Back Home .

As we walk away to the city parking garage behind the bank I can hear the demonstrators sing Holly Near’s “We Are a Gentle Angry People” in sad and subdued voices.