Trouble Tomorrow

by Terry Whitebeach

  This place is so different from home, Obulejo thinks, gazing around him as daylight begins to tint the sky. No palm-leaf caves cleverly constructed by cwa, weaver birds, no flooding rivers, no waving savannah grasses; the dun-coloured grass is short and sparse. Termite mounds stand like sentinels in the dusty landscape.

  ‘Toposa territory,’ Otim tells Obulejo. ‘We must take care they don’t see us.’

  ‘They guard their cattle with rifles,’ Opio says.

  Laku mimes being shot. Otim and Opio giggle; Obulejo flinches.

  He takes in the buzz of insects, the acrid smell of dust in the nostrils, the dry immensity of sun-baked earth and the straggle of low thornbush and clumps of acacia. He thinks of his lush mountain village and does not envy the Toposa their pitiless land. But he must count his blessings as the holy fathers have taught him. God has spared him. He is still free.

  Obulejo has only the vaguest idea of where he is. Close to the Kenyan border, he hopes. All he knows to do – all any of them know – is to keep moving in the direction of the rising sun, for that way lies the border and safety. How far they have come or how far they still have to go is uncertain.

  Here in this dry land, death stalks the boys at every turn. Obulejo feels its hot breath on his neck, its bite at his heels, senses its presence in the circling vultures overhead and hears its banshee shrieks in the dust-filled winds that flay the broken plains.

  It is here they must outrun death.

  But right now the sun is swinging higher in the sky, and they must find safe hiding places for the day.

  Opio, Otim and Laku set off at a run towards a grove of acacia bushes. Too obvious, Obulejo thinks. He looks around frantically. Where to hide? He spots a group of termite hills a little way off, and rushes towards them. It’s his flimsiest hiding place yet, but it will have to do. No time to look for a more secure place. He scoops out a hollow in the shade of the biggest mound and flings himself into it, scrabbling dusty earth over himself as fast as he can.

  The north–south alignment of the termite hill will save him from the worst of the midday sun, but will his shelter hide him from the sharp eyes of the Toposa herders, or from the guns of the Rebels?

  He envies the termites, secure inside their fortress. If only he were like them, safe in his home, and surrounded by family.

  9

  ALL DAY LONG Obulejo’s muscles brace themselves for flight. His lips are parched and in his mouth is the acrid anticipation of imminent capture.

  Late in the afternoon he falls into a restless sleep, waking abruptly a short while later. The sun is almost below the horizon, and the heat is diminishing. Obulejo cautiously emerges from his hiding place and heads off in the direction of his companions. He reaches the clump of acacia bushes and scouts around for a while, but can find no sign of Opio, Otim or Laku. The ground is brushed smooth: perhaps they have concealed their tracks. He dare not call out to them, in case someone less welcome answers his shout. They must have set off earlier, expecting him to catch them up. He turns his back to the setting sun and sets off to the east.

  For the first few hours he assumes they are ahead of him, just out of sight, and that soon he will come upon them slinking along in the shadows. He quickens his pace to a swift, smooth stride. Fights down the thought that older, stronger, taller than he, they may have outpaced him.

  What if they have just left him behind? He’ll never catch up.

  Panic grabs him. Then blinding rage. Why didn’t they wake him?

  Perhaps they’ve been captured.

  Why must it be like this? Why must he find companions only to have them snatched away again? Is this to be his new life – new friends made one moment and snatched away the next?

  All he knows for certain is that he is on Toposa lands and that the Toposa do not welcome intruders. If they discover him, the whole terrifying journey will have been for nothing. To have come all this way from the guns and soldiers and nearly perish from hunger and thirst and then to be captured and turned over to the Rebels – it’s too horrible to contemplate. But at any moment it may happen.

  Like a bird caught in a snare, frantically beating its wings, twisting and turning, Obulejo struggles against the possibility of failure, of defeat, of capture, even as he cannot imagine how to avoid them.

  All night long he walks alone, with never a glimpse of Opio, Otim or Laku. He listens for sounds of cattle lowing, for the sight of campfires, and carefully skirts any areas where he spots movement or evidence of tribesmen.

  At last the new day dawns and once again he must set about the task of finding a hiding place. He selects a tussock of grass and slumps down into it.

  Sitting in his skimpy hiding place, he clasps his dusty arms around his chest, feeling the beat of his wildly racing heart. His legs tremble. Now the tribesmen will come rushing out of the bush, brandishing spears or rifles. Now!

  Dried grass stems rasp and clatter, then fall silent. Are they waiting, hiding, ready to strike? He jerks around, ready to meet a barrage of spears, or the barrel of a rifle, only to see nothing but heat waves shimmering across the bone-dry plains.

  But still, he cannot rid himself of the feeling that he is being held in the glare of unseen eyes. He tries to ignore the feeling, but it persists, till he is shaking with tension, consumed by the desire to get away – not just crouch here and become a hunter’s target.

  He can bear it no longer. He must break cover. Hurl himself at the guns, if necessary. Anything but lie here and wait to be picked off like a foolish dove.

  When barely discernible snappings and rustlings approach Obulejo’s hiding place he readies himself for the end. Dry stalks part and a face – not a gun – thrusts itself through. Obulejo jerks backwards. His heart thuds faster than the dance drums.

  ‘Ai-eeeeh!’

  ‘Ai-eeeeh!’ comes the equally startled response, the other face as shocked as his own.

  ‘Ai-eeh! Ochan!’

  ‘Obulejo, my friend!’

  The tall, gawky Acholi steps forward and clasps Obulejo’s arm. Obulejo has suffered such desperate loneliness, and now God has sent him a friend. Someone from his old life; from St Xavier’s and the mountain village.

  Obulejo and Ochan dance around one another like puppies, slapping each other’s shoulders, giddy with relief.

  A second boy steps forward, then another and another: three more Acholi boys.

  Ochan quickly introduces him, and from that moment Obulejo is part of a group again.

  This time he determines he will not let his companions out of his sight for a moment. There are risks in travelling in a group, but the advantages are far greater. A silent song of thanks rises to his lips – for his new companions and for all who have helped him on the journey.

  So, now they are five. Akere and Ayella, who are brothers, Loding, Ochan and Obulejo. Four Acholi boys and one Ma’di, but with a shared single goal: to reach Kenya and safety. They will do it together, God willing. The boys will stay together from now on, they promise each other. They’ll share food and water, hunt together and help each other, as they make their way through Toposa territory, past the endless clumps of thornbush and umbrella trees, and onwards to shimmering horizons.

  The going is tough. They find very little to eat, and their searches for water most often end in disappointment. But one evening Obulejo spots a familiar-looking tree amid the slanted shadows. As he gets closer he sees that there are still a few lemon-shaped oba suspended from its thorny branches. He carefully plucks the fruit and hurries to rejoin his companions.

  They greet him happily.

  ‘The hunter returns!’ Loding says.

  ‘Bearing big game,’ Ayella teases.

  Ochan smiles his thanks as Obulejo tips his share of the oba into his friend’s hands. On their next rest stop the boys suck eagerly on the sour fruit, their faces contorting in grimaces. Refreshed, they are able to continue.

  Then Akere has an opportunity to provide for the group. He points to a milling c
loud of tiny flying creatures, which they follow to a dry hollow where sweet crusted sugar is stored. Quickly they rob the cache and stuff themselves with sweetness as the agitated owners swarm angrily about their heads.

  ‘Lucky these ones don’t sting,’ Akere says.

  ‘Not like bees and hornets,’ Ayella says, ruefully.

  His brother laughs. ‘Remember that time when you were small and you poked a hornets’ nest?’

  ‘Ai-eeh, I couldn’t sit down for a week!’

  The boys grin.

  The sugar is not enough to satisfy their growling stomachs, but all are grateful to Akere. By now they are used to being hungry. What Obulejo finds more unsettling than the feeling of emptiness in his belly is the gnawing rodent of terror eating away at his vitals, day and night, awake or asleep. It won’t let him rest; it keeps him constantly vigilant. He can see it’s the same for the others. They are all alert, watchful, at the slightest disturbance ready to leap up and run.

  The search for food is constant. Ayella proves himself adept with a snare. From time to time he manages to capture small birds. These he shares with the other boys. The bones of each bird are soon stripped of flesh and sucked dry.

  But it is Loding who has the biggest triumph. He finds a soak. For the first time since they left the jungle, the boys are able to drink their fill. When their thirst is sated, they rest a while under the spreading branches of a shady tree.

  Akere groans in relief.

  The others turn to Loding and salute him. Loding swells with pride.

  ‘My friend, you have saved our lives,’ Ochan says. ‘Thanks to God.’

  Ochan’s only contribution so far has been a handful of wild fruits, but the others know he will contribute as he can. They are all in this together.

  So far they have been lucky, lucky, lucky. They have pushed through jungle and grassland, and so far not come upon Toposa or Rebel. And thanks to God they have strong legs to keep walking, keen ears to listen for danger and friendly companions to share the journey with.

  Strive harder, remain strong and stay with Ochan and the other Acholi boys, that is Obulejo’s resolve. He refuses to give in to pain or exhaustion. He heeds the voice inside that tells him, Move! Now! Go! And somehow, his body is able to keep obeying what his mind and heart demand of it.

  On the third day of their travels together, Ochan says, ‘For two days we have seen no dust from cattle herds. I believe we are coming closer to the border.’

  Obulejo begins to allow himself a small portion of hope that they may get through to safety after all.

  10

  OCHAN IS IN the lead when, high above them, they hear planes roar and dip. Lokichogio air base! They are getting near the border! They must proceed with great caution now. The troops in this area will be alert and dangerous and will show no mercy.

  The boys take a wide detour, keeping away from roads and any sound of military activity. They strain to catch any sign of human habitation – barking dogs, smoke rising, meandering cattle with a keen-eyed herder in tow.

  Suddenly, as they are skirting a patch of thornbushes, Ochan stops dead, turns, signals urgently to the others. Before they can react, they are surrounded by a scowling bunch of men, scantily clad, with rifles slung across their shoulders. Toposa! All gabbling, shouting in a menacing way. There is nowhere to hide, no time to run. Trained from childhood to herd and chase cattle, the Toposa are legendary runners. What the boys have dreaded has come to pass. Now they will be delivered into the hands of the Rebels by these herders.

  Obulejo stares in horror as a torrent of angry questions is flung at them; accusations, threats, demands. The boys turn their palms upward, plead their innocence in Arabic, Acholi and Ma’di.

  ‘Anama adu,’ Ochan says in Arabic. ‘I’m not an enemy.’

  The men’s faces glower threateningly.

  Akere swaps to Acholi. ‘An latin kwan. I’m a student.’

  ‘Ma bara sukutodri,’ Obulejo echoes, in Ma’di.

  But no glimmer of understanding appears on the scowling faces of the herders.

  The boys catch each other’s eyes. They are outnumbered. And they stand no chance against full-grown men with rifles. The fastest runner cannot outpace a bullet.

  The herders signal the boys to move, and jostle their captives forward in a rapid forced march across the baking plains.

  As they approach a more wooded area, built-up structures become visible among the trees. A Toposa cattle camp? A Rebel outpost? Obulejo tries not to think of the possible fate that awaits them. Execution. Enforced military service. Death, at the hands of the Rebels.

  But then a small, insistent voice rises inside him, like a bird piping shrilly over and over through the mist of fear, ‘I want to live. I want to live.’

  ‘Stop!’

  The sudden shout halts them in their tracks. They glance wildly at each other. A row of rifles is pointed at their chests.

  Rebel soldiers.

  ‘Who goes?’ The challenge comes in guttural Arabic.

  The boys stand transfixed. Struck dumb. Unable to respond. The Toposa herders step aside. Their work is done. The soldiers will deal with the trespassers.

  ‘Adis!’ The Arabic word for lentil.

  Silence.

  ‘Adis!’ This time, the challenge comes with a more aggressive edge.

  The boys glance at each other in desperation. This must be the signal for them to reply with the password.

  ‘Adis!’

  This is it, Obulejo thinks.

  But instead of bullets, questions are fired at them, in heavily accented Arabic.

  ‘Who are you people?’

  ‘What are you doing on Toposa land?’

  ‘Why did you leave your homes?’

  ‘Why have you come here?’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Are you with the government?’

  ‘Are your parents soldiers?’

  ‘Are they with the government?’

  ‘Tell us or we will shoot you, pitiful dogs.’

  There is no time to think, no time to dissemble. Ochan answers for them all.

  ‘We don’t know where we are.’

  ‘We left the war.’

  ‘We ran away from the fighting.’

  ‘We aren’t with the government.’

  ‘We are students, sir.’

  The boys huddle together and stare at the cracked soil.

  Obulejo’s head starts to spin. He tries to unglue his tongue. If he does not speak soon, they will beat him. These men want answers and they want them fast. But he is mute. At first he is grateful that Ochan has the presence of mind to respond promptly. But then he thinks, what if Ochan betrays us to save himself? He could tell the soldiers that Obulejo is the son of an educated man who holds an important position, and secure his own release in return for Obulejo’s life. Everyone knows about the reprisals against educated men in positions of authority. About children forced at gunpoint to betray their families. About the beatings and torture.

  Obulejo’s face grows hot. What would he do, in Ochan’s position? He wants to believe he’d stand by his friends. But would he have the courage? He slides a sideways glance in Ochan’s direction. Ochan is standing passive but unflinching, a blank expression on his face. He does not meet the soldiers’ eyes, but keeps his gaze lowered.

  What will he do?

  Whatever Ochan does and whatever vengeance the soldiers wreak, Obulejo knows he is powerless. The hope that was beginning to take root in his heart is now just a discarded calabash lying in the corner of a compound, waiting for a sweeper to gather its broken shards and cart them to the trash heap to be burned.

  Obulejo finds his voice at last. ‘He is telling the truth, sir. We are students.’

  ‘Very early in the morning,’ Ochan continues, ‘fighting started, so we ran.’

  The boys indicate their scarred legs. Surely the soldiers must see what they are saying is true.

  But the soldiers aren’t convinced.


  ‘Liars! Liars! You are spies! Who sent you to spy on us?’

  Once again, the bitter taste of impending death begins to sour Obulejo’s throat.

  ‘Tell us who you are! Tell us why you are spying on us! Tell us now!’

  Abuse rains down on them. The boys stand helpless.

  Finally the soldiers bind the boys’ hands with thick thongs and herd them towards an unroofed enclosure fenced with interlaced thornbushes. They are handed over to a soldier with two stripes on his sleeves. A corporal. This man is even worse than the sentries.

  ‘You were sent here to spy!’ the corporal shouts.

  And no matter how many times the boys deny it, no matter how they plead and protest that they are only schoolboys, the corporal spits accusations and abuse in their faces with increasing frenzy. All five are soon shaking with terror.

  ‘Lock them up,’ the corporal orders, ‘and make sure they do not escape.’

  A guard wearing a tattered version of the Rebel uniform gestures with his weapon. The boys shuffle forward.

  ‘Understand this,’ the corporal roars behind them, ‘you belong to us now! You will fight with us for the liberation of Sudan or die!’

  The guard grinds a hefty metal door open, hurries the boys inside. They hear the gate clang shut and a latch being fastened.

  Inside are twenty or so men huddled in silent groups around the walls.

  Obulejo crouches in the dirt with his friends.

  Everything good gets smashed, wiped away, he thinks bitterly. Guns and threats and violence rule the world.

  He remembers the Bible story of the man whose house was full of demons that tormented him day and night; the man begs for the demons to be cast out and when Jesus does this the grateful man sweeps and cleans his empty house. But even while he is still rejoicing, a crowd of new demons, a thousand times stronger and more ferocious than the first lot, comes roaring in to recapture the house.