by Majok Tulba
She walks over to the medicine cupboard and pulls out one of the little orange bottles. ‘This is Mercurochrome,’ she says. ‘We use it to help prevent infection. So now if I ask you to fetch it for me, you’ll know what it looks like. We use other things too of course, and I’ll teach you about those as time goes on, but this is one of the most important.’
I am overcome with the desire to do well here, to make Joanna glad she’s trusted me.
‘But for now,’ she goes on, ‘go back to your tent and rest that hand. You can come back in three days and I’ll see if it’s healed enough for you to start work.’
I can barely get through those days but I do my best to avoid using my right hand. After three days I’m back at the clinic first thing, before any line has formed. Joanna checks my hand and agrees to let me begin work.
‘Your first job,’ she tells me, ‘is to scrub your clothes clean. Put fresh water in the basin in the little room and use this.’ She hands me a scrubbing brush with stiff yellow bristles. ‘Put a little soap on it and scrub, but not so hard that you tear the fabric. You can hang them out the back – you’ll find a line strung across branches. Once you’ve finished that, report back to me and I’ll give you your next job.’ She hands me a fresh shirt and trousers to wear in the meantime.
I set about my task and have just returned from hanging up my clothes when a woman comes into the clinic. She has a round-faced little girl with her who sags listlessly against her mother, eyes dull.
‘She’s burning up,’ Joanna says, feeling her. ‘Help me get her to the cot,’ she says to the mother.
But as they do, the girl collapses. Her mother catches her and with Joanna carries her to the cot. The girl’s breathing is laboured and her eyes have rolled back in her head. Joanna calls out for the other nurses and two hurry in. The girl’s skinny arms and legs have gone limp. Joanna feels for a pulse, then shakes her head.
Tears well in the mother’s eyes but she doesn’t wail or throw herself on the ground like women usually do when their children die. The nurses step back and the mother kneels by her daughter, leans down and kisses her. She prays.
Only a minute or two has passed before two men come in, wrap the girl in a white sheet and remove the body. Even though I’ve seen people die before, I’m shocked that this death has happened so quickly. One moment the little girl was here and the next she was not. My throat closes like a fist. My excitement about the job vanishes, and when Joanna assigns me further tasks I do them numbly.
When it’s time to go I put my clean clothes back on and ask Joanna what time she would like me there the following day.
‘How about eight o’clock?’
‘Sure.’
‘This isn’t an easy job,’ she says, eyeing me. ‘You’ll see many things you wish you hadn’t. But you did very well today, Juba. Thank you.’
I nod and go to leave.
‘Wait,’ she says. ‘You’re forgetting something. Close the door a minute, please.’
I do so, even though I don’t know what she’s talking about. She opens her desk, pulls something out and hands it to me. It’s a ration card. My stomach jumps, as if it’s already sensing the food to come.
‘Guard this carefully,’ she says, as my fingers close around it. ‘Don’t tell anyone where you got it from. Another worker gave it to you, if someone asks. You take this to the food tent tonight and get some food for your family, okay?’
‘Thank you,’ I whisper. ‘For everything.’
My mood lifted, I run back to the tent, thinking of the look on Mama and Nyanbuot’s faces when I show them the card.
I call them outside and we crouch behind the tent. Mama thinks I’m being silly until I pull the card out of my pocket. Her eyes widen in disbelief and Nyanbuot jumps up and down.
‘Let’s go to get the food right now,’ she says, wriggling with joy.
We do, and we eat, trying to pace ourselves so we don’t get sick. From now on, we will each get seventeen pounds of grain every month and nearly a pint of cooking oil, also four pounds of dried beans or lentils. This seems unbelievable after going so long without enough food.
I tell Mama about what I do at the clinic but I don’t tell her about the dead girl.
‘My clever young man,’ Mama whispers, touching my arm. ‘Look at you. I am so proud of you.’ The only other time I’ve seen such light in Mama’s eyes is when she talks about my father. She would speak about him all day if someone was there to listen.
That night, lying on my mat with a full stomach for the first time in many months, I can’t stop thinking of my father. The war had been going on for a long time when he was murdered, but to me, to my family, that was the first day of the war.
And when Thon-Gool was killed, the war crept even closer. How well I remember that day too.
I had been working in the garden, with my dog nearby, when Grandpa called me to come and help prepare a fish for supper. I ran to make sure the fire was ready while Grandpa cut down a fish. Whenever Grandpa caught a fish, he would dry it in the sun and then hang it up to cure. He liked to cure his fish for a long time, which meant they developed a pungent scent and started to rot. Eventually the flies stopped landing on them and the maggots stopped curling through their flesh. The fish made a great soup after this.
That day, Thon-Gool, after a wagging, prancing greeting, flopped down by Grandpa’s four-legged stool.
‘Grandpa, did you know I can run faster than Chieng or Majok or any other boy in the village?’ I said as I prodded the coals.
Grandpa was refining the edge of his spear at the grindstone. He turned his head to give me his sideways smile, half amused, half stern. ‘The boasting man shows conceit over wisdom, Juba.’
Thon-Gool raised his ears and cocked his head as if listening to us.
‘But it’s not a boast, Grandpa,’ I said. ‘It’s the truth.’
Grandpa chuckled. ‘A man who neither lies nor boasts has the wisdom to take pride in his achievements without pointing them out to those around him.’
When I heard movement outside a few minutes later I thought it must be Mama, Thon and Nyanbuot back from fetching water. I was still mulling over what Grandpa had said as I stepped to the door to greet them, but it flew open before I reached it and a man with a gun came in. He was followed by two others.
I had never seen men like these up close before. They scanned the hut with eyes like wild animals. Grandpa told me later they were Sudan People’s Liberation Army rebels.
Grandpa’s grindstone screeched to a halt. Thon-Gool barked and leapt forward, baring his teeth, and Grandpa restrained him, putting his arm around him and scratching his back. The dog stayed quiet for a moment, until the rebels started throwing things around, searching through the groceries. Thon-Gool growled and one of the men lifted his rifle to Thon-Gool’s face and fired.
A deafening noise filled the hut and a strangled yelp escaped from Thon-Gool. Something hot and sloppy sprayed over my face and arms.
Then it was my own scream hammering in my ears. I went to throw myself at the rebel, yelling like a tortured child, but Grandpa, his speed belying his years, leapt between us and knocked me down, sending me sprawling onto my backside.
In front of me, my dog’s blood streamed onto the floor from his nose and head. His beautiful brown eyes were dimming. His feet clawed the air in a last movement as his life drained away.
How could Thon-Gool die? He was my best friend.
The rebel’s eyes lit up. He grinned, showing ragged yellow teeth. The other two shouted and pounded on the walls of the hut with the butts of their guns. Hyenas would not yap like that over a kill. A red haze of anger floated before my eyes.
The man who’d killed Thon-Gool shook his rifle at me. ‘Get up!’ he ordered. ‘Get up now, boy!’
I rose onto my elbows and he pushed Grandpa aside to shove me in the chest with the stock of his gun. I fell back breathless with pain.
‘Come on then, get up!’
�
�Leave him alone,’ Grandpa said, fear making the tendons in his neck stand out. ‘He’s only a boy.’
‘Shut up, old man,’ the rebel ordered. He grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet as if I weighed nothing. ‘Stand up straight!’ He cuffed me across the ear and I saw stars. ‘I said stand up!’
I managed to struggle to my feet and a cold ripple of horror passed through me as the rebel squatted down.
‘You think you’re brave, do you?’ He ran his thumb along my spine, like a doctor searching for a disease, commanding me to stand taller, then he pulled my face around by my chin. The stink of him and the blood of my dog mixed in a nauseating odour. I fought the need to be sick.
‘Lucky you’re short,’ he snarled. ‘But you’ll be taller and stronger soon, boy. And when you are you’ll join us. We’ll destroy the corrupt Sudanese government together and free our country.’
I swallowed, trying to control my fear. ‘I . . . I don’t want to be a soldier,’ I said, the words sticking in my throat.
This was met with loud laughter by all three. The man in front of me gripped my arm and shook me like a dog shakes a squirrel. ‘You’ll change your mind when the Arabs come,’ he said. ‘When the Arabs pillage a pretty village like yours, what they leave behind will stay in your memory for the rest of your life. That is, if you live at all.’ He let go of me with a jerk.
Lying here in the tent, I think how that rebel was right. What the government soldiers did to Pacong will never leave me. But at least tonight I can fall sleep without hunger pains. Not even the snores of the other boys on my mat dampen that.
Every morning now I go to work at the clinic, and every day I learn something new. I had forgotten what it feels like to learn things, to use my mind for something other than worrying about where to find the next meal. And I’d forgotten how good it is to share food with people. We can do that now we have a ration card.
Soon I can roll bandages like a professional. There are so many people coming into the clinic, all day, every day. They have malaria, pneumonia or diarrhoea, they’ve been bitten by a snake or they’ve broken bones or sprained their ankle. They’re all malnourished.
But not everyone who comes in is actually sick. Two of our patients this morning were girls. One was carrying a young baby. They smiled shyly at Joanna as they told her they needed a certain type of help. I heard the words ‘birth control’. I knew that most South Sudanese women and girls don’t talk about this kind of thing in open places, and Joanna must have known this too because she took them into a back room. I wasn’t sure whether I was allowed to follow but I did anyway, and no one protested.
Joanna showed the girls the different products and explained how they work. The girls giggled and covered their faces when Joanna demonstrated a condom on her finger. They left happy, still giggling.
I’ve quickly learnt the routine here at the clinic. I start at 7.30, when the people who were on night shift go home to sleep. We treat the emergencies first, if there are any, then give priority to children.
After a month or so, Joanna tells me I’m a natural at this work, which makes me smile proudly. But I don’t smile when she calls me Nurse Juba.
‘I’m not a girl,’ I say. ‘Boys can’t be nurses.’
‘Is that so?’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘Who told you that?’
No one has told me that, but the only nurses I’ve ever known of have been women. ‘Are there nurses that are men?’ I ask.
‘There are.’
Really? I wonder, in that case, if I could be a nurse too.
A little later a man comes in with a wounded shoulder that needs stitching. It’s one of the many things Joanna does in the clinic that fascinate me. She can stitch someone’s skin as easily as Mama darns clothing. I want to be able to do that, I think as I watch her. When she’s finished, she puts ointment and a bandage over the stitches and the man gives her a toothless grin.
‘Do you think I could learn to stitch people like that?’ I ask when he’s left.
‘Absolutely you could,’ she says. ‘You’re a quick learner, Juba, and you have a good manner with the patients. I think maybe you could go to nursing school one day, when this is all over.’
Nursing school! I can’t believe she just said that.
‘Do you really mean it?’
She nods eagerly. ‘Like I said, you’ve got a natural aptitude for this work.’
‘I could be a nurse who also tells stories,’ I say.
‘Sometimes that’s the best medicine! Getting people to smile, helping them forget their problems. I think you’d be a very good nurse.’
It’s nearly the end of my shift, so I gather up stray bandages and put medicine bottles away. Having this job, being of some help to people, makes the camp almost bearable. Joanna is such a good, kind person, with a warmth that lights her eyes. When she smiles I can’t help smiling too.
When I’ve finished cleaning up I say goodbye and hurry back to our tent, eager to tell Mama and Nyanbuot that I’m going to learn how to do stitches. They’re both so happy for me that I decide to go and tell Thiko too. Because of the clinic I haven’t seen as much of her lately.
She’s not in her tent. I can’t find Chieng either, so I go in search of Majok. When I mention Thiko a curious look comes over his face.
‘So have you seen her?’ I ask.
Majok hesitates. ‘I’ve seen her with Chieng a lot these days.’
Something about the way he says this gives me a funny feeling. ‘So what?’ I say. ‘Thiko is allowed to hang out with who she wants.’
‘Do you get days off from your job?’ Majok asks. ‘Let’s all hang out next time you don’t have to work, okay? We haven’t played football in ages.’
I agree, even though I’m not sure when that might be. I head back to my tent, hoping that working at the clinic doesn’t mean I will lose Thiko.
I sleep badly and wake early. To shut off bad thoughts, I get up and head straight to the clinic. Joanna is already at her desk, sipping coffee.
‘Good morning,’ she says. ‘You’re here early. You worked so hard yesterday I figured you’d still be asleep.’
I mumble something about there being too much noise in the tent and Joanna says, ‘Do you like coffee?’
‘I’ve never had coffee. It smells good, though. I’ve smelt it before.’
‘Would you like to try some?’
Of course I would, and she goes over to the little kitchen area and pours me a cup.
‘I haven’t put any milk in it,’ she says as she sets it in front of me. ‘If you get used to drinking it black from the start, you’ll never know what you’re missing. I prefer my coffee black anyway.’
I take a tentative sip. It’s hot and bitter tasting, but at the same time delicious too. Once I’ve drunk it all, I can see why it’s the thing you’d want to start your morning with.
Joanna has been watching me. She gets up again and comes back with a yellow cardboard box, a bowl and a spoon, and sets them on her desk. I can tell it’s food by the picture on the box but I wonder what kind of food comes in a big yellow box.
She tips the box over the bowl and tiny brown objects in the shape of the letter O spill out. ‘Cheerios,’ she says. ‘Cereal. You do have to add milk to this, though.’ She returns to the kitchen area and puts two spoonfuls of powder into a mug, adds some water to it and stirs.
When she brings the mug out I stare at it. It’s watery and a little lumpy.
‘That doesn’t look like any milk I’ve had before,’ I say.
‘It’s not as good as fresh milk, it’s true. But it will make your cereal taste better.’ She pours the milk into my bowl. ‘Enjoy.’
The first couple of bites I take are crunchy, but the Cheerios soften in the milk. Even though it’s not milk from our goats, it’s the best breakfast I’ve had in a long time. And it came out of that yellow cardboard box!
At the end of the day I go in search of Chieng and find him sitting outside his tent, drawing in the d
irt with a stick. I remember how he used to do that all the time.
We talk a little awkwardly for a while and then he says, ‘I’ve been thinking. I don’t want to stay here anymore. Who does, right? I’m going back.’
I’m not sure what he means. ‘Going back where?’
‘To Pacong,’ he says.
I stare at him. ‘Pacong is gone, Chieng. There’s nowhere to go, that’s why we’re here. We’re refugees.’
He spits in the dirt. ‘I hate that word. Refugee.’
‘So? I don’t like it either. No one does. But that’s the truth you have to live with. You don’t have a home right now, except here.’
‘This will never be my home! It’s not yours either. Although maybe it is, since you have a job and everything.’ His eyes narrow. ‘Anyway, I’m going back. I’ll find a group of Sudan People’s Liberation Army soldiers and join them.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘You don’t mean that. You’re going to become a rebel?’
‘You don’t think I can?’
I try to stay calm. ‘Chieng, I think you can do anything if you put your mind to it,’ I say slowly. ‘But why would you want to join those people? They’re murderers.’
‘What else am I supposed to do? Sit here and starve? We’re wasting away. They’ve got us all rounded up in here and no one is doing anything. I want to do something. Somebody has to.’
I can’t imagine Chieng as a rebel. ‘But you don’t have to,’ I say.
He gives me a level look. ‘Who will then?’
‘I don’t know. Someone else.’
‘And that’s the problem. Everyone wants to leave it up to someone else and so nothing gets done. I heard the LRA rebels will come back. The Ugandans know there are young people here who can fight. I don’t want to get kidnapped and be forced to join them. I’d rather join the good guys, the South Sudan rebels, to fight for my country. For our freedom.’
‘But those guys are no good either,’ I say. ‘They’re just as much killers.’
Then Chieng says something that really knocks me. ‘Majok is going too. I’d ask you if you wanted to as well, but I think I already know your answer.’
