Trouble Tomorrow

by Terry Whitebeach

  What they cannot tell him, he knows, is how to feed himself when he has no ration card. They have pressed on him some maize porridge, but will they continue to do so?

  What have I done? Obulejo begins to wonder. How am I to survive here if I cannot get food and water?

  Like a bird in a snare, he feels the noose of starvation tightening around his neck.

  There are no Rebel soldiers here, but, to Obulejo’s dismay, in its own way Dadaab is proving to be just as dangerous as Kakuma. On his first night there, looters succeed in breaking down a section of the fence surrounding the Sudanese compound and several shelters are robbed. Seven people are injured; two are killed.

  The next day Obulejo witnesses a shooting. Thieves smash in the metal door of a nearby shelter and open fire. A bullet hits one of the occupants. He goes down. Panicked people scatter like the wind.

  Is there nowhere without guns and fighting?

  It seems not.

  At night, boys and men patrol the fence in the Sudanese compound, standing guard against thieves and rioters. The biggest threat, Obulejo is warned, comes from the shiftas, ruthless Somali warlords who strike terror into people’s hearts, just as the Rebel soldiers had in Kakuma. The shiftas attack and kill with impunity.

  And just as in Kakuma, there is never enough water to go round and never enough to eat. Those with ration cards, who get to stand in line, are the lucky ones, no matter how long they have to wait. Obulejo envies them. He is grateful to the Ma’di who share their food with him, but he quickly realises that having one extra person to feed is fast depleting their supplies. They are probably wondering when he will start to contribute to the group, rather then being a drain on their resources. He is not close kin; their own families are having to go short to feed him.

  By the start of his second week, Obulejo becomes aware of a change of attitude in his Ma’di hosts: there is now a coolness, verging on hostility. He no longer feels welcome. His suspicions are confirmed when he approaches the shelter one afternoon and hears raised voices from within.

  ‘For how long will we keep supporting him without him giving to us?’

  And a second voice: ‘Once our food gets finished —’

  The voices break off abruptly as he enters, but he knows his days as their guest are coming to an end.

  What then? He has no idea.

  That evening, before the men go out on patrol, the older Ma’dis call Obulejo to meet with them. There is something they need to discuss, they tell him. His heart sinks. This is it. His marching orders.

  ‘We are all Ma’dis,’ the oldest man begins.

  ‘We have all come from far away,’ another interjects, ‘from different counties.’

  ‘And all of us are in need,’ a third adds.

  Obulejo glances around the faces in the group. They seem closed, antagonistic. He readies himself for further unwelcome news.

  The elder waves the others to be silent. He has more to add. ‘We have been supporting you.’

  Heads waggle in agreement. Then why has no one gone to the UNHCR to plead for me? Obulejo thinks.

  ‘And now it has become too difficult for us to continue supporting you.’

  Obulejo receives the news with downcast eyes. He knows what will come next.

  ‘If you can get money,’ the elder continues, ‘then we can give you dry maize in return. We must have money to pay for the grinding of our maize.’

  ‘We must buy salt and oil as well,’ his wife adds. ‘If you can help pay for them, we can share food with you as before.’

  ‘But if you cannot contribute,’ the elder concludes, ‘you will not be able to continue eating with us. That is how it is.’

  Obulejo signals dumbly that he has heard and understood. He does not trust himself to speak. Terror clutches his stomach. Why was he so foolish as to come here? At least in Kakuma he was certain of food every day – or almost every day. He knew how everything worked and he was among thousands of his own countrymen, not a mere handful. It’s true there are no Rebel soldiers in Dadaab, but he could just as easily be murdered here. How could he have imagined outrunning the danger?

  As if to confirm his fear, the evening call to prayer begins to ring out over the camp: ‘Allahu Akba – God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.’

  The call of those who hate us, Obulejo thinks. There will be no mercy for me. All night long his thoughts whirl and pitch and swirl, around and around, always reaching the same conclusion.

  He is lost.

  There is nowhere to turn.

  Nothing he can do.

  Then his terror turns to blind rage. If John Garang had not started this war, Obulejo would still be at home with his family. It’s all the Dinkas’ fault. He wishes they would disappear off the face of the earth!

  All night the storm in him rages.

  Dawn breaks, bleak and hopeless. Then he remembers the morning prayers of his childhood, led by his father, and a hymn they sang together.

  Father, our praise and prayers a-scending.

  Sing hallelu-jah, hallelu-jah, oh King of Cre-a-a-tion.

  Over and over, the words repeat themselves in his aching head, and with them comes a renewed conviction that there must be a way to survive, if only he can find it. He will pray to the Heavenly Father and trust that his prayers will be answered.

  As the day begins to get underway, Obulejo approaches the elders. ‘I thank you for supporting me,’ he tells them. ‘But I must go now.’

  He observes the relief with which his announcement is met, a relief they try politely to conceal. No one invites him to stay longer, nor is he asked where he will go or how he will live. Numbly, Obulejo gathers his few possessions. As he turns to go, a woman hands him a tiny bundle of maize. He nods his thanks and steps out of the shelter.

  He has no idea what to do next.

  All that day he trails along rutted laneways, behind groups of Sudanese men, close enough for protection, not so close they will turn on him and chase him away. When darkness falls he huddles against the side of a nylon tent. At least no one rushes out to chase him away.

  All night he hears the screams of people being beaten, and of those who cry out in their sleep. He watches the flickering shadows of the men on patrol, as they keep guard.

  He makes the small quantity of maize last two days. When he has been without food for a further three days and without sleep for the same number of nights, he realises he will die soon if he does not find a way to get food and a safe place to rest. So he hatches a desperate plan. He singles out a boy as unkempt and starved-looking as himself and approaches him with the plan. The other boy agrees readily.

  Together they cruise the laneways, looking for people carrying bags or bundles. Eventually they spot an old man hurrying along with a bulging brown bag clasped to his chest. Instinct tells Obulejo that there is something valuable in that bag. He signals to his accomplice to hang back.

  ‘Hey you!’ he shouts at the man. ‘We met yesterday and you insulted me!’

  The man starts to back away. ‘No, it was never me. I have never seen you before.’

  ‘Are you saying I am lying?’ Obulejo demands, fiercely. ‘It was you, I say!’

  He slaps the man. The man slaps him back. In the ensuing fight the man drops the bag. Obulejo’s accomplice grabs it and runs off. Other people join the fight. When Obulejo manages to extricate himself and catch up with the boy they triumphantly share their spoils. Bread, and two shirts and also a watch they can probably trade for food.

  They rush deeper into the laneways of Dadaab, to a stall far away from the scene of the attack, and buy cups of hot sweet tea and a vegetable curry which they mop up with the stolen bread. Delicious!

  ‘My name is Muloko Lorok,’ the boy tells Obulejo, as they are eating. ‘In Bari it means “bad spirit”.’

  Obulejo grins, and wonders if Muloko Lorok’s parents named him that, or whether the boy has taken the name himself, to give him the courage to fight and steal.

  That n
ight Muloko Lorok leads Obulejo to the shelter he shares with nine others. Hunkered down in a tiny space by the door, Obulejo manages to snatch a few hours of fitful sleep.

  Next morning the ravenous beast of hunger begins to tear at him once again. He confers with Muloko Lorok and they head towards the market area to trade the shirts for money. They buy a small parcel of grain, and with the watch they head towards a butcher’s stall at the periphery of the Somali sector. They crave meat.

  The area around the butcher’s stall is seething with hungry customers, all shouting to gain the stallholder’s attention. At last the boys reach the front of the queue. They hold up the watch, and the Somali nods. He hands them a hunk of meat. Obulejo clutches it tightly as they start to push their way through the crowd. Now they must buy wood with their few remaining shillings, so they can cook the meat. Obulejo savours the prospect of the feast – until the meat is snatched abruptly from his hands. Muloko Lorok sets up such a howl of protest that people rush to see what’s happening. Accusations are shouted and denied, then fists begin to fly.

  The brawl quickly escalates into a battle, tribe against tribe. More and more people join in. They scream and yell and tear at each other, punching and kicking. Some people fall in the dust and are trampled on; others limp away, blood flowing from their mouths and noses.

  Obulejo and Muloko Lorok flee when they see security guards coming to disperse the crowd.

  ‘Aii-eeh,’ Muloko Lorok wails, ‘our feast is lost.’

  Then Obulejo discovers that in the scuffle he lost hold of their parcel of grain.

  Muloko Lorok spits into the dust. ‘Why didn’t you guard it properly?’

  Obulejo has no answer.

  ‘That’s it, then,’ Muloko Lorok says. ‘You have no skill as a thief.’ He turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd.

  Obulejo is flooded with despair. He’s had one decent meal, but now the future is as uncertain as ever.

  His chances of survival look bleak.

  16

  ‘OBULEJO!’ SOMEONE IS calling his name.

  He spins round, ready to fight, but sees three young Ma’di men beckoning to him. They are going into the bush, they tell him, to collect firewood and look for food. He is welcome to come with them if he wishes.

  Limp with relief, Obulejo agrees. He could sell firewood and thus fill his empty belly.

  Then his relief turns to doubt.

  ‘Do you have permission to leave the camp?’

  The young men laugh uproariously.

  ‘Do you have permission to starve?’ they counter.

  Obulejo hangs his head. He is still the same good law-abiding boy at heart, in spite of the crimes he has perpetrated, and he knows both the UNHCR and the chairman of the Ma’di sector have forbidden people to go beyond the camp’s perimeters.

  ‘But it’s dangerous out there!’ he protests.

  The native people collect firewood and bring it on horseback to sell in the camp. They are quick to attack people venturing out to collect wood for themselves. Many have been killed.

  The young men show Obulejo the bows and arrows they have concealed in their clothes.

  ‘We can protect you with these,’ they tell him.

  This assurance and Obulejo’s growling stomach decide the matter for him.

  As they approach the thornbush perimeter fence, an elder stops them, concern written clearly on his face.

  ‘Where are you boys going?’

  The boys cross their legs, mimicking an urgent need to relieve themselves.

  ‘To help ourselves.’

  ‘Airport.’

  Obulejo knows that the area surrounding the camp where people go to relieve themselves has been dubbed ‘airport’ because it is so flat and open. People go in families or groups, to ‘help themselves’, squatting to gain what little privacy they can, while others stand guard.

  The elder nods. ‘Be careful. Make sure you stay together.’

  Once outside the fence, Obulejo and his new friends search for wood, glancing around them constantly. They also look for edible leaves and roots.

  ‘What about making snares?’ Obulejo suggests. ‘We might get a bird.’

  The others are keen. They search for cow hairs to plait into a loop. In his old life, now a fast-fading dream, Obulejo’s skills were considered excellent. His older brothers taught him well. It is time to see if he still has the knack.

  He ties the first snare with a small length of nylon thread he has in his pocket. For the next, he uses the cattle hairs. One of the boys offers a few scraps of maize, which Obulejo places inside the loops. From behind a tree, he watches and waits silently, till an unsuspecting wood dove stretches its beak towards the grain. In the blink of an eye it is trapped. Success!

  The bird that approaches his second snare is more wary. It snatches the grain and escapes before the snare can do its work. Obulejo reloads the snare and waits an agonisingly long time before catching a second dove.

  The boys are jubilant.

  ‘Make sure we save some of our firewood, so we can grill the birds when we get back,’ one boy says.

  ‘If we make it back,’ another of the hunters laughs.

  ‘So far so good,’ the third boy adds.

  Obulejo’s empty stomach almost knocks against his ribs in anticipation of the feast. Memories of the rich smell of the meals the women used to prepare at home come back to tantalise him.

  ‘Next time I’ll try and take the bird alive,’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ the boys agree, ‘then we can sell it to buy bread or some sugar for hot tea.’

  They have to search far and wide to make up their bundles of wood. Most of the twigs and branches closer in have already been scavenged.

  ‘The longer we stay out and the further we go, the greater the risk,’ the boys tell Obulejo, ‘but it is worth it.’

  Late in the afternoon they straggle back to camp dusty and tired, each with a bundle of sticks and knobby branches on their shoulders. Eagerly they discuss what they might purchase with the money they will get. Beans, they decide unanimously, as a change from maize porridge, plus oil and salt of course, and if they are lucky, tea leaves and perhaps even a spoonful of sugar. And there is still the prospect of those delicious birds.

  Obulejo walks back with the other boys, glad he has proved himself among them, grateful that he will soon have something in his stomach.

  Night is falling as the boys suck every last morsel of juice from their fingers, savouring their feast, longing for more.

  Now the problem of where to spend the night raises its head again. Obulejo pictures another night spent cringing in the shadows while Somali warlords and their henchmen rampage through the camp, beating and killing anybody they find. Will he never be safe?

  He is so absorbed in his forebodings he does not notice the looks that pass between the boys.

  ‘You come with us,’ one says abruptly.

  Obulejo is startled. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Tonight you come to our shelter,’ the boy repeats.

  Such relief! Obulejo quickly accepts.

  He follows the boys back to their shelter, and eases his body down into the sliver of space he has been allocated. There is just room to stretch his legs out, but he must keep his arms folded across his chest so as not to jab those sleeping either side of him. Despite the discomfort, the presence of others wedged close lulls him to sleep.

  Deep in the night a blood-curdling scream hurls him awake. He hears the sound of running feet, coming closer, then thankfully retreating, followed by the measured footsteps of their guard pacing to and fro outside the shelter.

  That is the end of sleep for Obulejo. He spends the next few hours trying to decide whether he dare approach the UNHCR office again, to plead his case. Back and forth the argument in his head goes.

  But getting food is more urgent. In the morning he must leave the camp again, hunt more birds, gather firewood and whatever else he can find. What else is he to do? Co
ntinue to attack unwary people and rob other shelters? Or, as a final resort, throw himself in front of the guards’ rifles, like those boy soldiers in Kakuma? Then at least his troubles would be at an end.

  For a few moments he savours the prospect – no more struggling. But what if his parents found out? How could they bear the shame of their son’s cowardice? No, he must struggle to stay alive at all costs. For his family’s sake. And to show the Dinka that a Ma’di boy can be equal in strength and courage to the most ferocious of the Rebels. He grinds his teeth, wishing a Dinka would appear before him right now: if only he had a sharp-bladed panga in his hand, what wouldn’t he show those war-crazy people!

  His fantasies grow: he’ll not only teach the Dinka a lesson, but also the Somalis who call names and attack the Christians and throw great stones to kill them! All he needs is a panga and a clutch of barbed Ma’di arrows to fire off in a volley and inflict deadly wounds that will fester and poison the blood of his enemies. And as his victims drop to the ground, crying out in agony, he’ll finish them off with his panga and count the dead bodies with glee.

  And the Ma’dis, his own people, who have refused to continue to shelter and protect him according to Ma’di customary lore, they will be punished too. He pictures himself striding back to camp, a string of doves slung over his shoulder, enough to buy beans and oil and bread and even meat for many – and tea and sugar. The eager imploring glances of those who have turned him out to fend for himself will meet him and he will return them with scorn and disdain. Off he will stride to the markets, command a front position for himself before the Somali butcher’s stall, and call out for meat for soup.

  Suddenly his fantasy dissolves and he is overcome by shame and bitter despair. Why is he railing against his own people? Did they not feed him when he was starving? It is not their fault they could not continue to do so.