Expect a Miracle

“Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s coming attraction,” Albert Einstein.

From breathtaking sunsets, sunrises, rainbows and thunderclouds, to enchanting full moons and highways of stars–Zuwarah is a replica of the magical African Skies. Byamungu Zongwe and I nostalgically gazed at the greatest wonder of the world; the horizon. We were reliving the words of Bern Williams, on the impossibility of watching the sunset and not dreaming. Zuwarah is a Berber town forty miles from the Tunisian border and offers the most scenic beach view. With an invitation from Byamungu, I expected the greatest festival in the town, commonly known as the Awassu Festival. It comprises swimming races, sailing and traditional dances on the beaches. The common adage illustrates the shine behind the dark clouds. To Byamungu clouds came floating into his life, no longer carrying rain or ushering a storm, but adding color to his sunset sky. He was the son of Amunazale and Mpata Zongwe, born and raised in a family of six as the last born, within the Congo Basin. A region endowed with abundant resources such as timber, diamonds, petroleum and unique species. His father was a prominent business owner and owned acres of land in East Congo, where activities such as agriculture and mining took place. Byamungu dreamt of receiving a quality education and joining his siblings to support his father’s business. His dream was unfortunately cut short with the breakout of a civil war that saw the country he solely loved devastated. The conflict drew African forces such as Rwandan, Ugandan, Burundian, Angolan, Zimbabwean, Sudanese and Namibian armies to the Congo soils. At five he experienced the highs and lows of life. He saw his father lose every piece of land and possessions. He witnessed the brutal atrocities of the war and worst of it witnessed the death of his parents and siblings. He wanted to die, but fate had a different path for him. He knew the images and flashbacks of the unfortunate events would haunt him for the remaining bit of his life, even though he was only five. He knew his efforts to escape would be futile and his life hanged in the mercy of the armies. But he still hoped he would survive and create a whole new world. He cursed the wars, the international systems that watch out for peace, because they all went silent, while over three million people were bound to lose their lives by the time the war was ending. He wished the sun never rose again because darkness ruled the day. He was only five with indefinite memories of his family, broken and starving awaiting death. He had accepted his fate and was ready to join the living dead. On that eventful day, his forest was dark, the trees were sad, and all butterflies had broken wings. The situation was hopeless. Sweat stung his eyes like tiny vipers, tears rolled his eyes, all dripping down from a gore sprayed face. Around him was nothing but a whirlwind of disorder and violence, a blur color of vicious motions. His parched, panting tongue collected the dust-choked air which intermixed with the bitterness of iron. The sound was barely enough to obscure the cries of men, the screams of injured animals, and the thunder of steel striking steel. Above the lower scent of sweat was the acidic smell of all-pervasive fear, carried aloft from clashing bodies that howled amidst a sea of scarlet liquid which drained from family and foe alike, to soak a once vibrant field of yellow flowers. Lost in the scene, a Chadian soldier who was helping the Congolese government reawakened him. A convicting thrill resonating from ardent love and care compelled him to rescue the young boy. He somehow helped him cross the borders of a country he barely knew. The soldier reminded him he was born a child of the light, wonderful secrets, therefore he must return to the beauty he had always been. These words were imprinted in his heart and recited them every single day as he watched the sunrise and sunset, a reminder of his unseen scars.

The twists and turns of life led him to an Arabic country where he recreated his story. He secured a dish cleaning job in one of the most prestigious restaurants within the Libyan coastlines. The pay was minimal and he hoped one day to relive and reignite his childhood dreams and grant his children the one thing that the system and life denied him. He went through the expatriate stages and soon enough, he could speak the Berber language and was acquainted with their culture.

He owned a restaurant in Zuwarah where he served exquisite seafood among other delicacies. As we watched, the skies break like an egg into full sunset and the water catching fire, Byumungu held my hand and said, “A transcendent being can be any miracle. When I lost my family, I lost it all. I wandered within the Sahara region expecting a miracle. I can attest to you that if the grace of God miraculously operates, it probably operates through subliminal doors. Today I am proof that miracles do happen. There is a time in life where impossible situations can become possible miracles, and if you are a believer like me, you will agree with Williamson when he said, ‘What we are left with then is the present, the only time where miracles happen. We place the past and the future as well into the hands of God. The biblical statement that "time shall be no more" means that we will one day live fully in the present, without obsessing about the past or future’. We are all on the battlefield. By expecting miracles, we will create miracles”. I gazed at him as the skies grew dimmer and the earth’s natural satellite graced the sky. With the fading song of the Africa Sun, beside me stood a true Africa son.