Trouble Tomorrow

by Terry Whitebeach

  After another delay, a squat man, face shiny with sweat, waddles over and hands a folder of notes up through the window to an official beside the driver.

  Finally, just before the sun hits the horizon and dusk falls, the truck roars into life.

  They are on their way.

  As they bounce along the pot-holed dusty road, Obulejo stares into the deepening shadows. His thoughts tumble about with the jolting truck’s rhythm. Kenya. Refuge. Foreign country. Not home. Smells odd. New country. New life. Refugee.

  He starts to count his losses. Son of a respected man, member of a large and loving family, hard-working student, destined for college or university and a good job. Now a displaced person. A ragged boy, hunted and hounded, imprisoned and beaten. The winds of war have blown away everything familiar. Scattered his family. Snatched him from the life he knew. What lies ahead? Will he be safe?

  When the truck finally grinds to a halt among a maze of buildings, the first thing that meets Obulejo’s eye is a blue and white logo – a pair of large hands cupping the silhouette of a very small person. That’s how he feels. Shrunken and insubstantial.

  The security guards at Kakuma are irritable and impatient. They herd the passengers towards a big building. Obulejo’s heart skips a beat. What if the UNHCR officials don’t believe him? Accuse him of deserting his country and his people? Decide to send him back?

  The wide verandah and the forecourt are crowded with new arrivals. Some slouch or squat in attitudes of resigned patience. A few pace agitatedly, voicing their impatience and frustration in shrill tones. Staff members hustle in and out. A few of the staff are white. Their flushed pink faces stand out among the black ones.

  People are ushered inside in groups of three and four.

  Finally, as darkness sets in, an official comes out and tells those still waiting that there will be no more interviews that day. People may sleep in the huge marquee behind the building and the office will open at seven-thirty the next morning.

  Next day, it is several hours before Obulejo and his friends are called. Inside the building they are left in a passage with closed doors. More waiting. They stand in the corridor with other strangers. There are no chairs. Phones ring. Fans stir the hot air. Flies buzz.

  When Obulejo is summoned into an office he stands by the door in silence, again waiting. The woman behind the desk is busy with a sheaf of papers. When she has finished reading, she looks up and fixes her eyes on him. An almost inaudible sigh escapes her lips. She looks hot and tired.

  Speaking loudly and clearly, she asks him in English to confirm his name, approximate age, country of origin and whether he is on his own or accompanied by family members. When Obulejo hesitates, she repeats the questions in Swahili.

  Obulejo replies in a low voice that he understands and speaks English. He tells his story, eyes downcast and hands clenched behind his back. The woman listens quietly. She does not speak. Perhaps she does not believe him. Perhaps she thinks he has deserted his country for no good reason. He points to the scars and wounds on his legs. Tears wash his cheeks.

  The woman nods. He falls silent. His fate is in this woman’s hands. There is nothing more he can do now but wait.

  She gives no indication of what she has decided, just hands him a single sheet of paper and tells him to give it to the staff member in the front office by the main entrance. Then she scribbles something in her files and indicates with a wave of her hand that the interview is over.

  A woman in a tiny booth by the door takes the paper from Obulejo’s outstretched hand and tells him brusquely, ‘Wait outside.’

  Obulejo pushes open the door and steps out into the blinding heat. He searches the crowd for his companions. He can see no familiar Dinka face towering over the rest of the crowd. Deng might still be inside, he thinks. Ochan is nowhere to be seen, either. Perhaps he is still being processed, or he and Deng might already have been sent on to the camp.

  Once again Obulejo’s friends are being torn away from him.

  At last he spots Loding, squatting, head in hands, on the edge of the waiting crowd. The day before yesterday he and Loding were comrades, fiercely united in their desire to escape from the Rebels, holding each other up against the roiling river waters. Brothers for each other. Yet now they are just boys from different tribes – Ma’di and Acholi – with different stories to tell the UNHCR officials.

  Obulejo makes no move to approach Loding. We no longer stand together as family, he thinks. In front of these officials we are separate and alone.

  The day drags on. More people enter and leave the reception centre. A drum of water is unloaded from a truck and set up in a corner of the yard. Thirsty people surge towards it.

  Pushing through the throng, Obulejo suddenly spots a familiar figure.

  ‘Ochan, my friend,’ he shouts.

  Ochan turns, with a big grin on his face.

  Together they scramble through the jostling crowd till they each get hold of a cup of water.

  ‘Have you seen Deng?’ Ochan says as they fight their way back out.

  Obulejo shakes his head.

  ‘Loding was among the last to be processed,’ Ochan tells Obulejo. ‘I saw him in the corridor when I was leaving. He must be here somewhere.’

  Obulejo’s face grows hot with shame. He has not spared the other boy a thought for hours. Just then, Ochan points to a wildly waving hand. It’s Loding, grinning like a monkey! Obulejo and Ochan grin and wave back as Loding pushes his way through the crowd to reach them.

  Not long afterwards, a sudden hush falls. Everyone is looking towards one end of the verandah where a UN official now stands, a clipboard and sheaf of papers in her hand. Names are read out. Obulejo’s, Ochan’s and Loding’s are among them. Obulejo is sweating with relief. He clasps Ochan’s and Loding’s hands.

  ‘We’re in,’ he says.

  ‘Truly, we are,’ Ochan grins.

  The boys wring each other’s hands.

  ‘Saved!’ Loding shouts exuberantly.

  ‘But what about Deng?’ Obulejo says. ‘His name was not called.’

  The boys look at one another.

  ‘Deng must have been refused,’ Obulejo says.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Loding protests.

  ‘We don’t know the full story yet,’ Ochan reminds them, ‘so for now let us just be grateful that we have been granted residence in Kakuma.’

  A bitter prize is theirs – exile from their own country. More bitter, though, is the fate of those who are denied it. Obulejo listens to the angry cries from around the forecourt. People whose claims have been judged false or unfounded are being sent back, to certain death, they shout angrily. Scuffles break out. Security guards appear and hustle the protesting groups away. Obulejo looks on, numb with shock, relieved that he is not among the doomed group, but thinking wistfully that at least they are going home.

  In due course he and Ochan and Loding and other successful applicants are taken to the holding centre in the main camp, half a mile away. As he gets nearer, Obulejo glimpses a bewildering array of tents and makeshift shelters built of grass and nylon and coconut palm leaves.

  Native people – the Turkana – cross the road in front of the UN trucks with their cattle, and thread their way among the dwellings. They are bare-chested, half naked. The men carry sticks or rifles. Obulejo has never before seen such people. The women have long, beaded earrings and an immense number of strings of beads around their necks. Their skin is oiled and ochred and their shiny breasts are streaked with red dust. Tribesmen carry five-litre jerrycans, which they pause to drink from, before moving on.

  At the camp, Obulejo stares about him. Everywhere are crowds of people; black, brown, lighter- and darker-skinned, tall, short, fat, thin, muscly, puny, handsome, ugly. A cacophony of languages, many of which he has never heard before, assaults his ears. A thousand conversations happening all at once, some shouted, as if in rage or argument, others in softer tones. His head begins to spin. He wonders how he will be
able to make his way in such a throng. Where will he sleep? How will he live?

  His eyes ache from squinting into the sun; his nostrils are choked with dust. There is no familiar, soft, cool grass underfoot, just this endless, gritty, dry earth and a biting hot wind blowing clouds of dust. Red dust coats everything.

  They are to remain in the holding camp until a place can be found for them in the main camp, the boys learn. No one is sure when this will be.

  Ochan finds out from a Kuku man that Deng has been taken to one of the Dinka areas housing former boy soldiers, and hurries to tell Obulejo and Loding the news. Obulejo is relieved that their rescuer has not been turned away.

  The camp is a bewildering and dispiriting place. Buildings and flimsy shelters are jammed together in a parched landscape with scarcely a bush or a tree or a blade of grass to be seen. Dust pools in eddies over the boys’ feet. Endless flies land in the corners of their eyes. A lean, hungry-looking dog slinks past and yelps half-heartedly as a missile hurled by a small boy thuds into its loose flank.

  Worse, Obulejo senses a constant simmering threat of violence. He glances apprehensively at one hostile, sullen face after another. Whenever a vehicle pulls up and UNHCR workers step down from it, people clamour from all directions, hurling requests and demands.

  Inside the holding centre, more questions are asked of the boys, more paperwork is completed, further arguments and discussions take place. They wait and wait. Some people are moved on. Obulejo wonders where a place will be found for them in this makeshift community of the displaced.

  He sees himself as the UNHCR workers must see him, just a number, just another refugee among the thousands crammed into the camp, needing to be documented, housed, fed and moved about. No longer is he Obulejo, a Ma’di with a name and a family and a proud tradition. He is just a boy, any boy, without a country to belong to, a home he can call his own.

  13

  ONE MORNING THREE weeks later a UNHCR official – a grey-haired Kenyan in a rumpled shirt and creased trousers – enters the holding centre carrying a clipboard.

  ‘Perhaps today it will be our turn,’ Obulejo says.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ the others chorus.

  Everyone gathers around the official. He gestures for them to sit down. There is a bit of shuffling and jostling, but finally people are ready to listen.

  The man speaks in portentous tones, first in Swahili, and then in stilted English.

  ‘One hundred and seventy thousand people, Kakuma camp holds. It divides itself into five zones. Each zone divides into groups. You must go to the place you are assigned. Remain there. No exceptions.’

  He pauses, looks around. The onlookers wait patiently.

  ‘Zone one is for Equatorians.’

  Loding nudges Obulejo. ‘That’s us.’

  The man goes on. ‘Each group divides into smaller groups – five or six people in each.’

  Some start to mutter, but the Kenyan waves them to silence and continues to explain.

  ‘Each group, one place, one shelter. Materials for building shelter supplied.’

  Obulejo hopes he and Ochan and Loding will be able to stay together, and is relieved when he and his friends are assigned to group 10D. Two others, Acholi boys Okec and Ulum, are to share a shelter with them.

  The boys are escorted to a tiny area of bare, dusty ground, and issued with blue nylon sheets stamped with the UN logo, a roll of strong twine and some poles. They must construct a shelter for themselves from these materials. Later they will be given palm leaves to place on the roof, for shade, they are told. They also receive ration cards, a small quantity of beans, oil and maize flour, a few cooking utensils and a bowl, cup and spoon each.

  There are so many things to do to secure their survival that Obulejo feels overwhelmed.

  ‘Setting up the shelter is the first and most important task,’ Ochan says.

  ‘And fetching water,’ Ulum adds.

  ‘But we will manage if we work together,’ says Ochan.

  ‘Queuing for rations, too,’ Loding says. ‘I’m told that can take all day.’

  ‘But if we put our rations together they’ll last longer,’ Ochan says.

  The others nod agreement.

  ‘And take turns to cook,’ Okec says.

  Ulum laughs. ‘We will need strong stomachs then, my brother, when it is your turn, for you have always had five sisters to cook for you and I doubt you can tell the difference between maize and sand.’

  Everybody chortles.

  ‘Hunger must spice our food, then,’ Ochan says. ‘Whether it be seri or sand.’

  ‘And we must guard our supplies carefully,’ Ulum says.

  They have already heard the stories of theft and intimidation around the camp.

  ‘It won’t be easy,’ Ulum says.

  ‘But it is the best way,’ Ochan says.

  And so it is settled. They will hold all things in common and take turns at getting water and food, cooking their daily meal and guarding the shelter.

  Already the day is hot, so Okec and Ochan go with empty jerrycans to join the queue for water while the others start building the shelter. Neighbours approach Obulejo; they are Ma’di but from different clans. They warn Obulejo and the Acholi boys never to walk about alone.

  ‘Always go in a group or at least in pairs,’ they say. ‘Nowhere is truly safe, and as newcomers you boys are sure to be targeted.’

  At night, when the armed UNHCR security guards have left and the Kenyan troops are back in barracks, they are told, marauding gangs roam the camp, robbing and beating whoever they can find, sometimes shooting and killing their victims. The darkness will not bring rest, but further danger. The boys must take turns keeping watch.

  That night, Obulejo hears the sound of guns in his dreams, as he has for many nights now. His legs twitch and pedal all night as though he is still running from the guns, or struggling through dense bush. He is not the only one. Everyone suffers from nightmares: he hears people scream and cry out in their sleep.

  He wakes exhausted and depressed.

  Daytime is no better. The camp seems to be at the mercy of the armed Turkana herdsmen who roam through unchecked with their donkeys and camels, demanding food from the refugees, though the inmates have little enough for themselves. The sight of guns makes Obulejo’s skin prickle with dread. He flinches every time he sees a herdsman with a rifle in the camp. He hears people shouting and arguing.

  It’s not long before he witnesses his first brutal confrontation.

  In the food line, a whisper goes round that supplies are running short. People quickly become agitated. They have been standing for hours in the smothering heat and now it seems they are to go hungry. A group of boys starts to jostle its way forward. Tall Dinkas, former boy soldiers, reputed to have no respect for anybody or anything – even guns. People push back, shouting and cursing at the boys. Obulejo becomes increasingly alarmed as the Dinka boys continue to shove their way violently forward until they reach the cattle race that leads to the food-drop depot.

  ‘Simama!’ the guards shout, as the boys push against the barricades. ‘Stop!’

  But the boys rush onwards, deaf to the guards’ warnings.

  ‘Simama wewe murafu!’ the guards yell. ‘Stop, you tall ones there!’

  The empty-eyed boys recklessly defy the commands.

  Obulejo sees the guards cock their rifles and watches in horror as the boys rush into a hail of bullets and pitch forward into the dust.

  The crowd scatters, screaming. Obulejo races for the shelter of his flimsy dwelling and that night he and his companions go hungry.

  The next day, just as he is about to set off for the food queue again, he notices two women entering the laneway, accompanied by a countryman. He sees another man suddenly step out and block their path. This man mutters something to one of the women, and her countryman immediately rushes at him and starts raining blows on his head and shoulders. A couple of bystanders begin to shout abuse and encourage
ment, then others, hearing the ruckus, rush over and join in. Within minutes a full-scale brawl is in progress. The angry people scream and shout, gouge and kick and tear at each other, and by the time the security guards arrive, a dozen people are lying bleeding in the red dust.

  Obulejo looks on, stunned: it’s the second melee he has witnessed in less than twenty-four hours. He has seen fights before, but the speed with which the terrible events of yesterday unfolded and the way the argument today escalated into violence astounds him. It doesn’t seem to take much to set people off.

  His father always taught him to settle disagreements not with his fists, but by talking things out. Could be difficult in a place like Kakuma, he thinks. The Ma’di ways might not stand up here. They belong to the old life, which has been swept away. But he must try to keep them, for Baba’s sake.

  Obulejo and the others soon discover that on ration day, in order to secure a place in the food line, one of them must rise at three a.m. and wait for many hours in the pre-dawn chill and then in the broiling sun before gradually shuffling forward through a cattle race to the distribution point. Sometimes supplies run out and those still in the queue are turned away empty-handed, and must go through the whole weary business again the following day. There are many days when the boys go hungry. Obulejo is desperate. There must be an easier way, he thinks.

  And there is. In his second month in the camp, Obulejo steals food, for the first time in his life.

  The boys’ supplies are all but finished; a handful of maize flour and a spoonful of beans is all they have left. They usually allow themselves a single meal a day, which comes nowhere near satisfying their hunger, but even so, their rations have not stretched far enough. Obulejo knows that many others are faring just as badly, but that knowledge does nothing to fill his empty belly.

  As he scuffs along disconsolately in the gathering heat of the morning, he sniffs the enticing aroma of beans cooking. It seems to be coming from a rickety shelter at the end of the lane. When he reaches the shelter, he pauses and listens carefully. There’s no sound of people inside and the smell of the beans is making his mouth water. The flimsy door to the shelter is held shut by a piece of twine. Obulejo glances over his shoulder. No one is looking, so he slips the twine off in a single movement and reaches inside. His fingers meet the edge of a large bowl, and then the soft texture of bean stew. He grabs a handful and gobbles it down. It tastes wonderful! He expects to feel a hand on his shoulder and a shout in his ear, but so far so good. He reaches back inside and this time retrieves a bag of maize meal, which he thrusts under his shirt, pausing only to hitch the door shut again before hurrying away.