A grey sheet of clouds drifted above, stirring Luke to tinkle the meeting’s bell. 

Soon, the villagers grouped under a dark-green leave tree. 

Then, Chief Sam stepped out of a white 4x4 pickup, dressed in an orange three-piece suit. Limping beside Sam was Dietrich, cuddling a black briefcase. 

“Stand up,” said Sam. The chief pressed his crossed eyes at the box-shaped briefcase.

“Our guest has good news,” Sam yelled, as the men peeled up their floppy hats. 

“Good afternoon,” Dietrich said, thudding the carrycase on the handcrafted table.

“There’s 10 million Deutschmarks,” Sam said, stroking the hard-sided briefcase.  

“Ten what?” an elderly asked, nursing his brittle bones.

“Count the money,” said a man wearing a flat cap. 

“Please count,” said Luke.

“Let’s sign the papers,” Chief Sam said, banging the table. 

Then, he scattered piles of green banknotes on a three-legged table. Without warning, the blustery wind puffed the bills. Straightaway, the villagers galloped after the bills.

“Any question?” Dietrich asked, glancing at his silvery wristwatch.

“It’ll start raining,” Sam said, waving the notes. 

“How’ll we spend the money?” a grey-haired man asked.

“We’ll build black roads,” said Sam in a slurred speech.

“Just buy land,” said Dietrich.

“The money isn’t enough,” barked a dwarf man who stood up, but soon tumbled.

“Let’s buy grass,” said a whiskery bearded man, rubbing his beer-tummy.

“Let’s buy those humped ear-flapping white cows!” shouted a skeletal man, horsing on a squeaking chair.

“Let’s buy reddish cows,” Chief Sam said. 

The animated crowd plopped and planked their hands. 

“How many stars are there?” Dietrich asked riddling.

“We’ll count the stars,” said a lanky man, tipping his chapeau to one side.

“We’ve lost our language,” a native teacher butted in, straightening his wind-blown pink tie.

“Build nylon schools,” quipped Dietrich. 

“I’ll sign the deal,” Sam said. 

The numerate chief shuffled the notes but picked up a bundle of banknotes were missing. Dietrich passed him a folded paper. The captain squeezed a blue pen between his thumb and middle finger. 

Instantly, a beer-bellied man towered on his feet. “We don’t want half money,” he said. 

The crowd merged in a loud gossip.

“Let’s anoint another chief,” said a bendy-headgear man. 

Lastly, the mob appointed the literate Luke.

Instantly, frozen rain pelleted the soil and a wall of water build up around the evergreen tree.

* Ruben Kapimbi hails from Okangeama in Otjituuo. He is a fifth-generation offspring of the genocide. This story is historical fiction.