by Majok Tulba
His face is earnest. He looks like he means what he’s saying. I feel like I don’t know who he is anymore.
‘If you want to come with us, you can,’ he says. ‘It’s the right thing to do.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘Oh, so you think it’s fine that the Sudanese government is murdering our people? You think it’s okay that they’re bombing schools and burning villages? And we should all just stay out of their way and let them do what they want? We should run, not stand up and fight? Is that how you want to live?’
‘I don’t think that,’ I tell him. ‘You know I don’t. Of course I don’t think what they did is okay! And yes, they need to be stopped. But by armies. By adults.’ I pause. ‘We’re kids, Chieng. We should be playing football, not going to war.’
For a moment it seems my words have resonated, but then he shakes his head.
‘Majok and I are going to do it. There are two others coming with us. You think we should leave this to the adults, but what have they done so far? Built this camp where they’re keeping all of us, that’s what they’ve done. We’re going to do something real.’
I can’t meet his eyes. But I force myself to, and when I do I see there will be no talking him out of this. His mind is made up.
‘Our country needs us, Juba,’ he says. ‘Come with us. Make a difference. We’ll join the Sudan People’s Liberation Army and be rebels together.’
‘My mother and sister need me too. And you’re going to get killed if you do this, Chieng.’
‘Do what?’ says Thiko.
Where has she come from?
‘Chieng is going off to join the rebels!’ I tell her.
He stands up and moves towards me. He has a dark look on his face. ‘Come with us, Juba. You know it’s the right thing to do. I’m challenging you to do what’s right!’
Thiko steps between us. ‘Are you out of your mind?’ she asks Chieng. ‘Do you want to become a killer and a rapist? Do you want to loot and burn? Didn’t we talk about this the other day? You’ll never go back to school. You’ll never be anything more than one of them until you’re dead. Which won’t take long, because what do you know about fighting?’ Her voice is calm but her eyes are blazing.
‘Don’t act like you know everything, Miss Smarty,’ Chieng says with a sneer. ‘Are we in school now?’
‘No, but nor are we smoking and drinking blood and swearing oaths to have no mercy on any soul, like those insane rebels. We’re staying alive and keeping together until we can rebuild a village. That’s something worth fighting for! If you want to die, go ahead and join the rebels, but leave Juba out of it.’ Her hand closes around mine.
Chieng laughs bitterly. ‘You two should get married and set up house in this camp for the rest of your lives. I’m sure you’d be very happy.’
He looks pointedly at Thiko and says, ‘You stay out of this, little girl.’ Then he turns back to me. ‘When the Ugandans come next time, they’ll take you away. Better to join our rebels voluntarily. Unless you’re afraid. Are you afraid?’
This boy standing in front of me now is not the boy I’ve known my whole life. Part of me wants to jump on him and pummel him. But a part of me also wonders if he’s right. Maybe it is better to march into the lion’s den than to be dragged there like a man already dead?
But those rebels kill people. They killed my dog. I don’t want to become one of them.
‘Well?’ Chieng says impatiently. ‘Are you afraid?’
He has lost his family. He has seen horrible things that will never leave his memory. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.
‘I won’t be the person who takes away someone’s father or brother,’ I tell him, and he spits again.
‘You’re a coward. A little girl all along, like the rebel said.’
This is not your friend, I tell myself. This is not the real Chieng talking, this is a boy who’s become twisted by having lost too much.
‘You can only die once and it’s better to die doing what’s right,’ he says.
Where has he been hearing this stuff?
‘I don’t see how killing more innocent people is going to make anything right. And what you’re saying isn’t right either, Chieng. I don’t know what the answer is but it’s not that.’
He looks at me with scorn. ‘Those are the words of a boy who once wore a skirt. Who should still be wearing a skirt. Waahh!’ Chieng howls like a baby, rubbing his fists into his eyes. ‘Your little sister would make a better man than you.’
He walks away, then turns around. ‘As for your grandpa,’ he calls, ‘he died for nothing.’
I reach him in a flash. ‘Take that back!’ I shout.
Thiko rushes after me and tries to intervene but it’s too late, I’m on top of Chieng, hitting and punching. He lashes out at me but I feel nothing. I clutch his head, imprisoning it under my arm, but he pulls himself free and manages to get on top of me. He grabs my neck and squeezes it, making it hard to breathe.
Other boys have gathered to watch now, and Thiko is screaming at us to stop. I throw punches at Chieng’s chest and face, making contact with his temple. He jerks his head into my chin and I let out a low cry as the pain spreads across my jaw and up my face. I feel dizzy and I’m sweating.
At last he lets go and rolls off me. We’re both panting like dogs. I get up and gasp, ‘My grandfather saved my life. I’d be dead many times over if it hadn’t been for him. My mother and sister would have no one. Don’t ever dare say he died for nothing again!’
Blood trickles from Chieng’s nose, and one eye is already swelling. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘There’s a lot more you shouldn’t have said, Chieng.’ Thiko’s voice is cold.
He glances at her as he brushes himself off and then looks at me. ‘You’re stronger than I thought.’ He holds his hand out to shake, which I do, cautiously.
‘Chieng,’ I say, ‘I know how hard it is here, especially for you. You don’t know where your mother is . . . But what’s the point of causing more hurt and pain?’
He looks miserable. ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘I know you’re right. It’s just so frustrating being trapped here doing nothing, being powerless.’
I search his face. ‘Does my being right mean you’ll stay?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘I’ll stay.’ Then, after a moment, ‘For now at least.’
As Thiko and I leave she says, ‘I’m so glad you talked him out of it. Could you imagine him and Majok with the rebels?’
‘Majok told me you and Chieng have been hanging out,’ I blurt. I had planned to give this more thought, to decide exactly what to say when I brought it up, but the words are out of my mouth before I know it. My face burns.
Thiko stares at me. ‘Majok said that?’ She sounds like she’s about to laugh. ‘Boys like to gossip as much as women do!’
‘So you’re . . . you’re not hanging out?’
‘No. We’ve spent time together because I’ve been trying to talk him out of his stupid ideas. He seems to believe he can single-handedly bring peace to Sudan. But Juba, I wish it could’ve been the two of us talking to him. I think he would have seen reason a lot sooner if you’d been around.’
That makes me feel a bit guilty. ‘Well, I’ve been busy at the clinic.’
‘I know. And I’m glad you have a job there but I do miss getting to see you.’
She slips her warm hand in mine and I’m so relieved she isn’t lost to me.
Next morning the clinic is full when I get there, mostly with children. The lack of clean water in the camp is causing sickness. Joanna is giving a boy malaria tablets when the door opens and a woman runs in screaming.
‘Come! Come with me!’ she cries, grabbing Joanna by the arm. ‘Hurry, please, my daughter is dying.’
The doctors have their hands full, so Joanna grabs her bag and rushes out. I stop what I’m doing and race after her.
A crowd has gathered around a tent. People
step aside to let Joanna and the woman pass and I follow behind them. Inside, a child, perhaps a year old, is lying motionless on the ground.
‘Help her!’ begs the man beside her, and Joanna kneels down and makes a quick assessment. Then she tilts the little head back and pinches the nose and puts her mouth over the girl’s mouth, pushing air into the tiny body. She places both hands on the girl’s sternum, one on top of the other, and pumps her chest. This seems to go on for a lifetime. I can hear people outside the tent praying. I’m wondering how long Joanna will continue to do this when suddenly the girl’s arm twitches. Her eyes flutter and she coughs and sputters. She starts to cry and her mother is right there, reaching for her, tears rolling down.
Joanna rocks back on her heels and wipes her forehead. I can only stare in awe. At last she picks up the baby and stands.
‘Juba, you bring my bag. I need to take her to the clinic to see a doctor.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’ I ask as we walk back.
‘I’m not entirely sure,’ she says. ‘That’s why I want a doctor to have a look at her.’
‘Well, that was just amazing,’ I tell her, but she only smiles and brushes off the praise.
I’m still in awe when we return to the clinic, where our day does not slow down. Just after lunch, a pregnant woman bursts in, a pained expression on her sweating face.
‘I’m in labour early,’ she gasps. ‘I didn’t think the baby would be here for another few weeks. I was hoping we wouldn’t be in the camp by then but it looks like this baby has other plans.’
Joanna jumps up. ‘Come on, Juba. Here’s your first lesson in obstetrics.’
I’m not sure what that is but I follow Joanna as she helps the woman onto a cot.
The woman doesn’t want to lie down for long. ‘Here comes another one,’ she says, gritting her teeth. She pushes herself off the cot and paces back and forth, pulling at her threadbare dress. She finally pulls it off completely. Her body is both startling and beautiful, her belly huge and round and tight as a drum.
‘Her contractions are getting closer and closer together,’ Joanna tells me. ‘The baby will be here soon.’
When there’s a break between contractions, Joanna has the woman lie back on the cot. She puts on a glove and slides her hand into the woman. It looks painful but the woman doesn’t appear to even notice. Her eyes are closed.
‘Oh yes,’ Joanna says, sliding her hand back out. ‘Get ready to push, Mama, because this baby is on the way.’
She turns to me. ‘Juba, will you go and get some extra blankets and towels, please.’
I fetch what she wants and rush back to find the woman on her hands and knees on the cot, rocking back and forth. She’s moaning, and it sounds a little like singing, but then the moan ends in an anguished cry. She’s quiet for a moment, until it all starts over.
Joanna talks to her softly, though I can tell by the look on the woman’s face she’s not listening. It’s like she’s in trance, aware only of the feelings in her body.
I think about this baby who is about to be born here, in a refugee camp. This is not what the mother would have envisioned when she fell pregnant. Yet it is happening.
‘You’re doing great,’ Joanna says. ‘Wait for a contraction before you push again, okay? And remember to breathe. Look, Juba, the baby’s about to crown.’
I stand there watching, feeling helpless and awestruck. The top of the baby’s head appears and then disappears several times before it finally slips out far enough that it doesn’t go back at the end of the contraction. The skin at the top of the skull is puckered, smeared with blood and something white. The woman howls. She sounds like an animal. She pushes twice more and then the head is all the way out. Another two pushes and the body slips out easily in a rush of fluid. The umbilical cord is like a thick, pulsing serpent.
The woman gives a shout of relief. The baby is quiet for a second, its mouth open, eyes squeezed shut. Then it wails.
‘It’s a girl!’ Joanna says. The woman turns over and Joanna places the baby on her chest. She drapes a blanket over the baby, and the mother can’t stop smiling down at her new daughter, who is wrinkly and funny-looking, but it’s unmistakable how much love the woman has for her.
Joanna can’t stop smiling either, and I think I even catch her wiping a tear from her eye. It is truly wonderful, I think, the way life goes on. No matter where you are.
Joanna looks at me. She must have read my thoughts because she says, ‘I’ve helped a lot of labouring women and it never fails to amaze me how miraculous life is.’
The day has made me think of what Nathan Waterman used to say about how important education is. I might not be going to school anymore but I’m still learning, and I’m getting a lot of hands-on experience, which is maybe even better than school. I think Nathan would be happy for me.
One day follows the next at the clinic. I can change bandages by myself now, which gives me great confidence. When a young girl comes in after a fall with a long laceration on her upper arm and a sprained ankle, Joanna explains to me exactly what she’s doing as she stitches her arm and then has me feel the ligament in the ankle. She gets me to gently run my fingers over it to see whether it’s torn.
‘I don’t think it is,’ I say. ‘It feels swollen and tender to me, but not torn.’
‘You’re right,’ says Joanna. ‘It’s stretched but it hasn’t torn.’ She smiles at the girl. ‘So that’s good. We’re going to keep you here with your ankle elevated and iced for now, and then Juba will show you how to bandage it properly for support. It should start to feel better in a few days.’
I wrap ice packs around the ankle and then bandage it, explaining as I go. When I’m done the girl looks at me and says, ‘Thank you, Doctor.’
It’s hard not to smile at that, both at the idea and from the pride I feel. ‘I’m not a doctor,’ I tell her.
‘He’s not a doctor yet,’ Joanna says. ‘But I bet he will be one day.’
So I’ve gone from potential nurse to potential doctor? My head spins.
At the end of the day, when the girl’s brother has accompanied her back to their tent, Joanna asks me to restock the supply shelves. I organise the latex gloves, the antiseptic swabs, the gauze. I’m carrying a box of Mercurochrome when I slip. I don’t know if there was a wet spot on the floor or what, but my legs go right out from under me and the box flies out of my hands. I make a grab for it but it crashes to the ground. The bottles of Mercurochrome shatter.
Joanna comes running. ‘What was —?’ Her voice cuts off when she sees the broken bottles all over the floor. ‘Oh no.’
She drops to her hands and knees, even though there’s no way she’ll be able to salvage any of it. ‘Juba, that was our entire supply!’
I’m speechless with horror at what I’ve done. ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry, Joanna,’ I manage to say. ‘It was an accident. I’m sorry.’
She rocks back on her heels. ‘I know,’ she says. I can hear how upset she is. ‘But Juba, you need to be more careful with things like this. It’ll be weeks before I’m able to get any more. This is not good. Not good.’ She looks around and sighs. ‘Please get a broom and dustpan and start cleaning this up. I don’t want anyone getting hurt on the broken glass.’
My hip smarts from where I landed on it but I figure I deserve this pain. I blink back hot tears of shame. I’ve let Joanna down and I hate it. I hate having her upset with me. I should have been more careful. Or I should at least have caught the box. Saved at least one or two of the bottles. But every one of them is smashed, and that medicine is so important.
All I can think of as I sweep up the glass is what a waste it is. Maybe I won’t make such a good doctor.
Joanna says everyone has accidents and I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. This makes me feel a little better, but three days later the girl with the sprained ankle is back because the stitches in her arm have become infected. The skin around them is swollen and oozing pus. She has a fever.
What we’ve got are antiseptic wipes and no Mercurochrome. By noon the girl’s temperature is close to 104 degrees. We’ve given her paracetamol and plenty of water but this hasn’t reduced her fever. I put cool cloths on her forehead. I gently swab at her arm again, even though the infection has moved well beyond the surface where the wipes can reach. Joanna says there’s nothing more we can do and goes to tend others waiting for treatment. Even the clinic doctors say they can do nothing further.
The girl is delirious. ‘Mama?’ she says. She told us the first day we treated her that her mother had been killed. Is her mother’s spirit here at the clinic? Is that what she’s seeing?
‘I want to go home,’ she whispers. ‘Can I please go home now?’ She looks right at me, her face flushed, and I swallow the lump in my throat and nod.
‘You can go home,’ I tell her.
‘I don’t think I know how to get there.’
‘I bet you can find your way.’
‘No, I can’t remember.’ She’s beginning to writhe on the cot.
‘I think the way home is down past the river,’ I tell her. ‘You follow the river for a little while and then there’s a path you take, through the grasslands.’
The girl’s eyes close. ‘Grasslands,’ she repeats.
‘Yes. And you follow that path up a hill. When you reach the top, you’ll be able to see your whole village. Nestled among the hills that lie like pillows on the land, with the grass flattened under the wind, shimmering in waves. If you look hard enough, you’ll be able to see your hut.’
‘I can see it,’ she says. ‘I can see the flowers. And the butterflies.’
‘You’re almost there. Follow the butterflies. They will lead you to your family and friends. They’re all there, waiting for you.’
A faint smile touches the corners of her mouth. Her face relaxes into a vision of calm. ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ she whispers.
