He is a boy alone, without family, once again.
7
ALL THAT LONG night the fugitives walk and scramble in virtual silence through dense jungle.
Heavy-hearted, Obulejo plods on. The urgency of his need to find refuge still thrums in his chest as insistently as ever, but as each step forward takes him further from Auntie and her children he wonders if Auntie was right, whether he should have gone back with her. At least she knows the territory. But in spite of these thoughts, his feet keep moving steadily eastward.
Being in the forest in the dark is perilous. So many predators hunt by night. But Obulejo is glad of the cover of darkness. When he trips over roots, gets caught up in unseen branches and tangled among barbed vines, he extricates himself as quickly as possible, sucks his torn fingers and presses on.
The trekkers stop twice, and only briefly, to gather gourds, bulrushes and tufted wild grasses. Obulejo eats only when prompted, impatiently gnawing the pulpy end of a bulrush stem, then wrapping the rest in his shirt for later. His legs twitch to be underway and when the leaders head off he strides after them immediately, intent on putting as much distance between himself and the Rebels as he can, as quickly as possible. He tries to banish thoughts of Mama and Baba as they arise. His survival depends on not looking backwards, not thinking about what he has lost, but pressing on, and staying close to these strangers he is with, people facing the same peril.
It is because of people like Lege, like Auntie, that he has got this far. He prays that Auntie will find her way home and that she and her children will be safe. He thinks of poor little Keji, lying alone in the forest, and hopes she is now safe in heaven.
Thanks to God for those who know this forest. On them his safety depends. On his own there is no way he could find a way through the bewildering proliferation of rivers and thickets, criss-crossed with animal tracks, sharp grasses, barbed leaves, tangled branches and a thousand traps for the unwary, not to mention leopards, hyenas, lore and venomous creatures like mambas. Alone, he would have been forced to turn back and surrender himself to the Rebels. Every time he momentarily loses the sound and sight of those in front, the darkness seems deeper and unseen dangers press more closely. He cannot breathe easily until he catches up.
He trusts their knowledge as Auntie had trusted him to take care of Kiden. It is the way of his people; the young belong to the whole tribe and the responsibility of caring for them and for each other rests on everyone.
How then has hatred and killing come about, among the people? What makes tribe turn against tribe? Will there ever be an end to it?
All of a sudden the thick darkness is torn apart by a blood-curdling scream. Obulejo stops dead in his tracks. The jungle explodes into a cacophony of panicked scurries and shrieks as terrified birds and creatures flee. A sobbing scream rises higher and higher in pitch.
Someone crashes into him and he is tumbled to the ground and soon buried in a press of bodies. He pushes and struggles beneath a pile of arms and legs until he is able to get to his feet.
‘Leopard!’ someone shouts, and the jungle is full of the thunder of running feet.
The terrified scream continues, then trails off to a dreadful silence.
Obulejo charges along with the others, back the way they came, stumbling, slipping, falling as he scrambles to escape this new horror that has come upon them.
‘Who has been taken?’ he shouts.
A babble of answers. Nobody knows for sure.
What is certain is that the victim is no longer alive. Obulejo’s ears catch the sound of hyenas barking; already the scavengers must be moving in close to the kill, waiting for a chance to feast on the prey.
The unsuspecting victim must have made his way along, not knowing the danger he was in, while on a branch above his head a leopard crouched, ready to spring.
Obulejo must not think of that now. Just go!
Almost blind with terror, he crashes through the jungle with the rest of the fleeing people.
When they finally regather, hundreds of yards from the scene of the attack, more people decide they too will try to make their way back home. For them, this latest disaster is the last straw. For Obulejo the choice seems impossible. To go on is to risk death from wild animals. To go back carries the same risk from soldiers.
The man taken by the leopard is Obale. A swift, strong, young man.
‘If he has fallen prey, then how can others, weaker, slower, hope to survive?’ an old man says.
Lege speaks then. ‘The leopard will be busy with its kill. We must take a wide path around him and move on quickly.’
He does not speak of Obale, and Obulejo understands why. To dwell on the horror will weaken their resolve to move on.
Sombrely, the group splits into two. Some turn back, while the others, Obulejo among them, file after Lege.
The nightmare continues.
The first signs of dawn begin to lighten the night sky before those in the lead come to a halt.
Obulejo is both relieved and alarmed when they stop. His eyes sting and his breath labours in his chest, but despite his aching legs and leaden feet he continues to pace restlessly.
‘Hurry!’ he feels like shouting at the leaders. ‘While we stand here talking, another leopard may be stalking us.’
Others in the group voice the same urgency. ‘We should not stop yet,’ many contend. ‘We must go on until the sun is high.’
Some younger men decide to press on, and quickly disappear into the surrounding forest. Others, especially older people and those with children, begin to search for hiding places.
Obulejo steers clear of the riverbank this time and finds refuge in among the roots of a gigantic spreading tree, covering himself with its broad fallen leaves. Once or twice he imagines he hears the rumbly purr of a leopard overhead but he dares not risk prising a gap in his canopy of leaves to find out. He just hunkers down lower and tries to still his breath to an imperceptible ripple. A long, hot, lonely day passes. It is hard to sit still and do nothing. He recalls Auntie explaining to the impatient ones, ‘A day in hiding is both a day lost and a day gained.’ He wishes she were still with them. And little Kiden, how can she walk all the way home, perhaps into even worse danger?
At the end of the day, a few more people announce they are turning back.
‘The trek has taxed my mother’s strength too greatly,’ one woman says, her eyes downcast. ‘I am afraid she will die if we continue.’
‘I am at breaking point,’ her mother adds.
A murmur of sympathy comes from some in the group.
‘To die in the jungle is a foolish thing,’ an older man agrees. ‘I’ll take my chance with the Rebels.’
Others chime in.
‘A known peril is preferable to an unknown fate.’
‘Better punishment at home, even death, than being mauled by jungle beasts.’
Obulejo shivers. Perhaps it was a leopard he heard from his hiding place, or a cheetah. Maybe a lion that had wandered into the undergrowth. There are terrible animals in the jungle; look what they are capable of !
‘Foolish people,’ Lege says, ‘have you forgotten already how many have been killed in this war and the last? If you return, do you think the Rebels will spare you?’
But the deserters cannot be persuaded. They turn their faces homeward and begin to retrace their steps.
Obulejo stares after them, torn between the urge to rush onwards with the bold young men and the longing to head back home with the deserters. By now, his father may be looking for him. And if the others get back and he is not with them, Baba will think the worst. But when the last homeward-bound person disappears into the shadows, Obulejo readies himself to march on, further away from home. Hasn’t he always followed the bidding of the elders? However much his panic tells him, ‘Run back!’ he will abide by the decisions of the leaders.
Obulejo mentally counts the absentees. Auntie and her children and those who went back with her, those who turned back a
fter the leopard attack, and today five more. But that still doesn’t account for everyone. Some of the younger men seem to be missing. And a few senior men and women. Some have gone on ahead. Others may have taken a wrong turn and got lost. Or been eaten. Obulejo dares not dwell on this possibility. He must focus on the next step, the next stream to be forded, the next thicket to get through, the next hill to climb. Each step will bring him closer to Kenya; if only he can get through the jungle and avoid capture.
The group continues to pick its wary way through the forest. They stop only to scoop up handfuls of water from streams. Everyone is mosquito-bitten, scratched and torn, but no one complains. They have been lucky so far. Except for poor little Keji, and for Obale’s dreadful end. Obulejo shudders at the memory. When will they ever get through this jungle?
When hyenas bark and whine, Obulejo is filled with rage and disgust. He loathes these opportunistic scavengers. The smaller children shiver and shrink against their parents’ legs, their eyes big and round, but they utter no cries. They hurry to keep step with the adults; to be left behind is the most terrifying prospect of all.
The walkers make the most of the cover that darkness offers. Cold as it is once the sun goes down, footsore, thirsty and increasingly hungry as they become, their feet torn and blistered, their arms and faces scratched and scarred from encounters with thorns and rough bushes, they nevertheless welcome the dark, particularly when the moon hides its face and they can press on more quickly in greater safety.
As soon as birds wake and before the sun rises, hot and stupefying, the daily scramble begins for thickets and hollows to hide in.
One time, Obulejo parts the branches of a thick bush to discover a worried mother with two terrified children crouching beside her. Another time he unearths a student of his own age buried under leaves in a hollow he had marked out as a possible hideout.
Those who can, snatch some sleep during the heat of the day, using soft leaves as a bed and a shirt or cloth for coverings, or leaves and grass if they have nothing else. They sleep silently; no snores or coughs or even a whimper from an infant betray their presence.
Day follows day of silent, breathless waiting. Night follows night of limping progress eastwards. Towards capture or freedom? Obulejo wonders. But he cannot afford to think too hard.
There is no turning back now.
8
THE RISKS OF travelling in another tribe’s territory without permission are great. Obulejo shudders to think of the possible consequences if they are discovered. Will they be shot on sight? Turned over to the Rebels and forced to join the war? He has heard many stories of boy soldiers trained to slaughter even their own families. There is no way he could ever harm his family. And yet, others like him have been forced to commit these terrible deeds.
He keeps a close eye on the aunties’ skirts brushing through the tall undergrowth ahead and the men clawing back vines, and he wills himself to take heart and keep his courage high.
The familiar certainties that once sustained him – home, family, school – have been swept away, just as the driving rains regularly used to crash down at home, sweep anything in their paths before them and transform placid rivers into foaming torrents.
He is beset by questions with no answers: is freedom ever to be his? Where is safety? Is the life he knew lost to him forever? He thrusts the questions aside. His attention must remain on the next step, the next rest stop, the next hiding place, the next day’s shelter.
His whole body aches, but there is no time or place for rest. For a few seconds he fantasises that he will lie down in peace, sleep the night through and wake to find all this has been just a nightmare; that the new day that greets him holds maths and geography, grammar and games and spelling, cooking the evening meal, homework, reciting prayers and falling once more into peaceful sleep. A dangerous fantasy. It makes him weak with longing. Tears push at his eyelids.
One question torments Obulejo. Had his father not been an educated man, with a high-up job that took the family far from the Ma’di lands, would this desperate situation have come upon him? Could a different life, a kinder fate, have been his, with no armies or guns or fear?
He knows such thoughts are not helpful but like the tongue worrying a sore tooth his mind forever returns to them.
How many days have they been walking? Obulejo loses track.
He is moving like an automaton now, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other. Relentlessly going forward, step by step, ignoring the pain from his many gashes.
Darkness or light, heat or cold, storm or sun barely register with him.
But what does register is that the group is breaking up, bit by bit. People are beginning to walk in smaller groups. The strong and whole move on ahead, while those with desperate injuries lag behind. The children are becoming gaunt and grey-skinned.
‘Leaves and wild fruit are not enough to nourish them,’ Lege admits to their anxious mothers. ‘They need milk and good maize porridge.’
One night, another baby dies in its mother’s arms. For the second time a grave is dug, and prayers are chanted.
Just after nightfall the next evening Obulejo emerges from his hiding place ready for the night’s trek only to find that he is alone. His heart clutches in panic. Surely the others have not left him to die? Tears run down his face as he searches frantically for their tracks. Which way to run? He can’t figure it out. The moon has not yet risen. The dark trees press close. He is alone in the whispering, clattering, swishing, shrieking, clamouring jungle.
Then a thought comes to him. He drops to the peaty forest floor and presses his ear against the earth, straining to catch the sound of a footfall. Nothing. Disappointment knocks the breath out of him. Despair whispers to him to just bury his face in the mud, stop up his mouth and nostrils and his ordeal will be over. He will rest with the ancestors.
Almost, he gives in to the idea. Almost, but not quite. He suddenly sees himself from the outside. His father’s son, lying in the mud, a snivelling child. Preparing to throw away the gift of life given by God as if it were worthless. Bringing shame to his parents, to the older brothers, the uncles, the whole clan. Never!
Obulejo rises to his knees, struggles upright and brushes off the clinging mud. Not knowing which direction to take, he starts to walk anyway. Perhaps he could find a river and follow its course. Or climb a hill – no, he will see nothing from its summit in the black night, and unseen watchers may spot him.
He blunders along blindly. More than once he is caught in the vicious tendrils of the lawyer vine. As he tears himself loose, bleeding, he is certain that invisible predators are padding silently towards him, ready to spring. But he must keep going, and he does, hour after desperate hour.
Then he notices that the jungle is beginning to thin out. Tall trees still form dense canopies overhead but there don’t seem to be so many entangling vines and hanging creepers now. Obulejo has no idea where he is but at least the going is easier. Almost as soon as he has that thought, he realises that the danger of being seen will be much greater in more open bush.
He hesitates on the edge of a clearing. Dare he risk crossing it? He glances up at the sky. The gibbous moon swims bright and gloating, ready to give him away. He waits and listens. About to take a chance to flit silently to the cover of the nearby trees, he fancies he sees a flicker of movement. Beast? Soldier? Tribesman? He shrinks back into the shadows. Stands as still as a boulder. His breath comes in shallow bursts. He clamps his mouth shut, to muffle the sound. Listens. Waits.
Nothing. He must have imagined it. Slowly and soundlessly he skirts the edges of the clearing, melts into the shadows – and stiffens as a hand covers his mouth, his arms are pinned back and a tall, strong body clamps itself to his.
Obulejo struggles soundlessly.
‘Hey, Ma’di boy, hey,’ hisses a voice in his ear.
‘Ita wadru wen?’ another voice taunts, in Sudanese Arabic. ‘Where did you get lost?’
Obulejo’s
knees buckle. Tears prick at his eyelids. He is finished!
Next minute Obulejo is swung round to face his attackers. Two young men stand under the moon, grinning. They are older and taller than Obulejo, but he recognises them immediately. Opio and Otim – Acholi lads. And the one holding him is Laku, a tall Kuku boy. They’d been part of the group fleeing through the jungle.
‘What’s the idea of ambushing me, baboons?’ he demands, his insulting words covering tears of relief.
Several wide grins flash; several sets of white teeth shine in the moonlight.
‘You’re easy prey,’ Laku says.
‘Easier than tracking game,’ Otim adds.
‘Little monkey can’t see past its tail,’ Opio teases.
Annoyed, Obulejo strains furiously in his captor’s grip.
‘Easy, little orogu,’ Laku chuckles. ‘I’ll set you free if you promise not to bite.’
‘Or spit,’ Otim adds, and a hissing laugh whistles from between his front teeth.
Obulejo’s rage cools quickly in the joy of finding himself no longer alone. And when the boys invite him to join their group he is overcome with relief. The night ahead may prove as long and arduous as the ones before, but it will seem far easier in the company of these three.
How quickly the time passes, with companions. The going is easier now they have emerged from the thick bush. Run, Obulejo, run! is the drum-beat of his every in-breath and out-breath, and of each step he takes. As he runs he remembers his childhood – the times he’s raced to obey Moini’s call, or dashed to the river to bathe before the day’s lessons so he does not arrive late at school.
Now he is running to save his skin.
All night the four boys lope across scrubby plains full of spindly bushes and clumped grasses. The jungle is behind them, its dense undergrowth and tangled vines no longer impeding their progress. But without its trickling streams and moist and dripping leaves they can run all night without finding water. They search for soaks, but find none. Their next drinking water is wrung drop by reluctant drop from early-morning dew.
Trouble Tomorrow Page 4
