Turning the poison arrows of bitterness against others will kill his Ma’di spirit and make enemies of his own people. No, that isn’t the answer.
Exhausted, Obulejo finally drifts back into a restless sleep.
The next day, in the chill of early morning he rises swiftly and stumbles out of the shelter. A wisp of the dream that visited him just before waking lingers for a tantalising second, and with it a sense of familiar presences.
Baba!
The elder brothers.
Mama Natalina and Mama Josephina.
The sisters, aunties and uncles.
Grandfather.
The images falter and dissipate, but in their wake comes an afterglow, a faint aroma of cooking fires, of henna, of the rich, warm smell of his father’s skin, the good damp soil of gardens and of green and growing things, and the sounds of singing, feasting and dancing. Home. Perhaps he is hallucinating. He doesn’t care. It’s just so wonderful to see them all again, even in a dream.
None of the boys in the shelter is stirring. Obulejo is grateful for this quiet moment alone with his family. He savours it for a few moments then sets out to find water to wash with. He cannot bear to be dusty and dishevelled a moment longer. Perhaps it’s the brief glimpse of his mothers, the memory of the steadying presence of his father and the companionship and protective camaraderie of his older brothers that have challenged him to take heart and try again – and not to despair.
This afternoon he will go to the open-air church service and sing hymns with the other Christians and afterwards join in the dancing and lose his troubles for a while. Try to think of those among whom he lives as brothers, not enemies. Open himself to another way.
It takes him almost till noon to get hold of a small quantity of brackish water, in return for carrying heavy jerrycans for a number of people. Careful not to waste a drop, he rinses the dust from his hair and face and swabs his arms and legs and body.
When he has finished washing, he tears a wide strip from the bottom of each leg of his trousers, and rolls the cloth into a bundle. I will sell this for a handful of maize, or whatever I can get for it, he determines. Then what? He pushes the thought away. Just get through today, he tells himself.
As he walks back through the Sudanese sector of the camp, keeping close to fellow countrymen for safety, he ponders his situation. There are some things he cannot change. He cannot go home. Cannot find his family, except in dreams and visions. Cannot continue his interrupted schooling. He must stay here in the camp until the chance to make a new life comes. And while he is here, his first needs are food, shelter and water.
The choices are clear. He can continue risking capture by sneaking into the bush for firewood, birds and other game, but there is no certainty that he will not come back to camp empty-handed, if he makes it back at all. He can become a predator, looting and stealing and matching violence with violence. Or he can find some other solution.
The stakes are high. His future may depend on what he decides today.
He has watched his parents and older brothers work tirelessly to improve the family’s fortunes. They have served God and always shown compassion and courtesy to others. He ponders the example of his elders and the notions of work and service and right action.
Finally a solution presents itself. Why doesn’t he try to set up a small business? He should have thought of this before. For the time being he will continue the dangerous practice of going into the bush to collect firewood to sell in the camp but also he can offer small services in return for food or water or a few shillings, as he had this morning – fetching and carrying for others, standing in the line to get water for them, queuing at the butcher’s, doing whatever people require.
His step quickens. There might be hope, after all, and he may be able to take his place with pride as a Ma’di once again.
Eager now to greet his countrymen, to pray with them under the scanty shade of the tree they have chosen to mark their place of worship, and then to lose himself in the singing and dancing, Obulejo hurries towards the square.
17
DUST RISES IN the shimmering heat of early afternoon. Feet stamp and shuffle as the dancers pick up the beat of the music. Obulejo joins in eagerly. Like most Sudanese, he has always loved to sing and dance, to feel the music take hold of him and fill his being. When he sings, when he dances, he is in his right place.
The adungu players are tireless and the dancing goes on for a long time. The harsh desert air rings with the sound of songs shouted rapturously and the dusty earth echoes the beat of stamping feet.
Afterwards, panting and sweating, people shake hands, grateful for being together in celebration. Obulejo passes from person to person, greeting each member of the makeshift congregation.
Suddenly he hears his name called. He turns and squints into the blinding sunshine. Who is summoning him? The voice is familiar. So is the tall figure approaching: a loping gait he knows well.
His face splits into a wide grin and he holds out his hand in greeting. ‘Maku!’
‘Obulejo!’
The two shake hands cordially.
‘It is so good to see you, my friend,’ Maku says.
‘You too,’ Obulejo replies. ‘But how did you come to be here?’
Maku describes the arduous route from his seminary in the north, through Ethiopia, to northern Kenya and Dadaab.
‘And yourself?’ Maku says.
Obulejo quickly recounts his journey from Torit, his capture by the Rebels, his escape, then finally arriving in Kakuma, and his fear, given the constant Rebel presence in the camp, of being recognised by them and recaptured. He explains how Father Angelo helped him obtain a transfer to Dadaab.
‘I see,’ Maku says slowly.
Obulejo hangs his head. ‘But they have refused to register me at this camp. Dadaab is not for the Sudanese, they told me.’
Maku nods. ‘That’s right. The UNHCR has made an agreement with the government of Kenya, and all the Sudanese in Dadaab are being relocated to Kakuma.’
Obulejo considers this information silently. So his foolhardy trip has been for nothing. Before long he will be back where he started.
Obulejo and Maku talk together for over an hour.
‘It is so good to be with you, my friend,’ Obulejo says, finally, ‘but now I must go. I have to sell this cloth so I can buy sugar.’
He points to his small bundle of cut-off trouser legs. ‘When I sell that sugar to others, a spoonful at a time, I’ll buy grain.’
‘Me too,’ Maku grins and indicates a pile of firewood by his feet. ‘I use this to buy seri. I keep a portion of it for myself and sell the rest.’
Obulejo grins back.
‘We can be partners if you wish,’ Maku says.
Obulejo nods. And it’s settled, just like that. He will go into business with Maku. They will sell food.
They’ll work hard to collect firewood and hunt birds and sell these to people in the camp who have money. There are various ways of getting money in the camp: some earn it through their own labours, others trade their possessions, and the lucky ones receive gifts of cash from their relatives, through the UNHCR.
They will not be short of customers. Hunger is a constant presence in the life of refugees. And gradually, as they earn more money and build up their stocks, they’ll be able to offer a range of foodstuffs for sale. It might not work, but they’ll give it a try. And Maku will make a trustworthy business partner, Obulejo knows. Their families have been close friends for years.
When Maku discovers that Obulejo has nowhere to live he invites him to join his own household. Two other Ma’dis share his tent, he tells Obulejo, and there is enough room for a fourth. Obulejo accepts gratefully. He can hardly believe his fortunes have turned, just like that. Yesterday he was looking forward only to starvation and a violent death and now he has gained a good and honest friend and partner and been given a less crowded place to live and a way to support himself – three inestimable gifts. He strug
gles to find words to express his thanks, but Maku just claps him on the shoulder and says, ‘Come, now we must go and sell our wares.’
With the shillings they receive, they purchase tea leaves and sugar. Together they carefully sort the goods into tiny bundles, to offer for sale. A teaspoon of sugar, another of tea leaves. They also buy three packets of cigarettes; these they will sell as single cigarettes or as bundles of two and three, whatever their customers can afford.
While they work, they discuss their plans, and talk about life in the camp.
‘Now we are living as brothers – one family,’ Maku says, ‘we must try to live peacefully together and always respect each other.’
Obulejo nods eagerly, relieved that Maku is taking on the role of older brother.
‘You can always share with me any difficulties you are having and I will help you work them out. And remember never to go out alone,’ he adds. ‘I want my younger brother to stay safe.’
‘Thank you, my brother,’ Obulejo replies.
‘You must take particular care on Salat Jumu’ah, the Muslim Friday prayers,’ Maku cautions, and for a few sober moments both ponder the discord that exists between Muslims and Christians.
Their conversation then turns back to their new business venture.
Obulejo can hardly wait to get started. Both he and Maku are prepared to work hard. Obulejo is young and strong, Maku older and steadier and more experienced in the ways of Dadaab. They’ll make a good team. It will be honest work.
‘By helping others, we can help ourselves,’ Maku says.
Obulejo savours the prospect like a silver fish, gasping on the bank under a relentless sun, suddenly finding itself back in the embrace of the life-giving waters of the Nile.
Obulejo and Maku set to with a will. For the next three weeks they take the daily risk of going out of the camp to gather firewood and catch birds, then they sell these things and buy food to hawk to fellow inmates. And when they have amassed a small but useful sum of money, they buy wheat flour to begin baking bread.
They use a large, empty oil tin to construct a bread oven, prying one end off and making an opening through which to insert the loaf. Then they set the tin on the ground lengthwise and build a fire on top. It works like a dream. People are eager to buy the bread. Obulejo is kept on the go, gathering wood for the bread oven, preparing the dough and baking the loaves. Even when his brief hours of sleep are interrupted by nightmares or disturbances in the camp he is still keen to get started again early each morning. The work, though physically taxing, soothes him.
And it brings its rewards. After feeding themselves and seeing to their own needs, Maku and Obulejo are able to set aside a few shillings from time to time. Slowly their savings grow. They no longer have to look for work washing or carrying things for other people. They are meeting a strong need in providing relief from the monotonous refugee diet of maize porridge day after endless day.
Obulejo’s restless anxiety begins to recede as the rhythm of regular work orders his days, and regular meals help ease his hunger and resentment. Rage flares up in him less violently and less often.
Perhaps the Dinka are not to blame for all his troubles. Perhaps the Somalis are suffering just as he is.
Best of all he can face the other Ma’dis unashamed when he sees them in the laneways or meets them at prayers or in the choir sessions that Maku leads. No longer does he feel separated from his own people by shame.
Obulejo and Maku decide that their next venture will be to set up a café.
‘We’ll call it the Hotel Bombay,’ Maku says. ‘I had a friend who travelled to Bombay once. We will name our café in honour of my friend.’
Obulejo agrees happily. Hotel Bombay is a great name.
They count out their savings. Not really enough to get them started. So Obulejo sells his one remaining possession, the camera the priest gave him, and he and Maku pool their money to buy the materials for their café.
They choose a spot on the main pathway among the tangle of makeshift dwellings: people come and go along this lane all day and word of the new café will quickly spread.
The Hotel Bombay is a tent, where customers may eat under cover, protected from burning sun, desert winds and constantly blowing sand. Six poles support a roof of nylon sheeting, which Maku and Obulejo cover with grass. Nylon twine secures the tent walls, and at the entrance they place a painted sign: HOTEL BOMBAY – WELCOME.
‘Two shillings for bread and a cup of sweet tea,’ they tell people passing by. ‘And if you can afford it, beans or meat stew with bread.’ The special wheat bread Obulejo bakes is popular; people are sick of beans and maize flatbread. They yearn for soft wheat bread and for meat.
Every day the Hotel Bombay is filled with customers who come to rest, to eat, to chat and to sip sweet tea and forget their troubles for a while.
Obulejo and Maku are very pleased with its success.
Life is hard, but cooking and serving lunch together each day and singing and dancing in the afternoons several days each week gives Obulejo a measure of steadiness and order – and provides a small oasis from the violence and despair that surround them.
Sometimes Obulejo is even able to hope that one day the war will be over, this refugee nightmare will end and he will be able to go back home to his family.
18
BUT THERE ARE still days when nothing can lift his spirits. These are the days when sandstorms blot out the landscape and smother the whole camp in grit, or when hours of trying to get hold of some clean water yield no results and Obulejo is forced to buy filthy water from local tribesmen; days when tribal hatreds flare up over trifles and acts of violence disrupt life in the camp for the hundredth or the thousandth time. Then the old fears rise and despair threatens to overwhelm him.
How long will he have to inhabit this overcrowded camp, struggling for food, water, firewood, shelter and living space? Where too many people are crammed together without enough latrines and are forced to foul the surrounding land. Disease is rife.
One morning Obulejo wakes with a fever. His body is on fire, his bones ache and his head throbs. He has a burning thirst. When he tries to get up, he cannot make his arms and legs obey. He falls back on his mat with a moan. The tent is empty, except for him. A beat of fear begins to drum in his head. He has no family in Dadaab. Will he be left alone to die?
Maku returns a few hours later, and approaches cautiously. Obulejo understands his caution. Everyone in Dadaab has a fear of illness. There are few doctors to treat the hordes of sick people.
‘What is wrong?’ Maku enquires.
Obulejo cannot answer. His tongue is thick and dry. To his dismay his eyes swim with tears he cannot hold back. He cannot tell Maku that it is his mother and brothers and sisters he longs for, Mama Natalina’s porridge to build his strength, and Mama Josephina’s tender nursing.
For days all he can manage is a few sips of water at a time. When the shivering and the aching finally stop, Obulejo has become so weak he can do nothing more than crawl to the tent door and rest there, gasping at the effort.
Another day passes before he is strong enough to bathe and two more days before he can shakily rejoin Maku at the Hotel Bombay.
Soon after this, word comes through that all Sudanese must return to Kakuma. UNHCR staff are adamant. Any Sudanese who chooses to remain in Dadaab will not be given rations or protection.
‘Our hands are tied,’ they tell those who protest. ‘Your government has decided this is how it must be.’
Some react with anger. ‘Are we just bundles of maize to be divided up and carted off wherever it pleases them to send us?’
‘Dadaab is for Somalis,’ the officials insist. ‘Kakuma for Sudanese. We cannot support you here. You must go back.’
Some agree to go. Many do not. Obulejo decides to stay on. Business at the Hotel Bombay is brisk, and he and Maku get to eat at least once a day, sometimes twice. Their customers appreciate the meals they are able to purchase in the café
. It’s true he will be eligible for registration in Kakuma if he goes back, and will be given rations. But what use is that if the Rebels who have free entrance to the camp kidnap him and drag him back over the border?
‘Why do you say no?’ the UNHCR officials demand of those who refuse to go. ‘If you choose to stay, don’t come and complain to us. You will be on your own.’
More and more people register, board the buses and are borne away. Then an announcement comes that the buses will stop running in three weeks’ time. A rush of people descends on the office. Staff members work frantically to register them. Obulejo feels a flicker of alarm. Nearly all Ma’di have left. Are Obulejo and Maku to be the only Ma’dis left in Dadaab?
Maku finally decides to go off to be registered for transfer to Kakuma. Obulejo is dismayed. This means the end of Hotel Bombay.
‘Come with me,’ Maku encourages Obulejo. ‘We can still work together. And we will be among our own people. Among Christians.’
He still harbours a dream of completing his training for the priesthood.
When the last bus stands outside the compound, soon to depart, Obulejo finally accepts the inevitable and trudges to the UNHCR office. He registers just in time to get on that last bus.
The journey back is a bitter one for Obulejo. When he left Kakuma, he thought it was forever. Now he is returning in defeat.
The bus rumbles onwards, halting at checkpoints and stopping intermittently for rest stops and to refuel. The passengers jostle together, sometimes silently and sombrely, other times chatting among themselves, speculating on whether life will be less of a struggle in the new camp. Finally the bus trundles through the outskirts of the town of Kakuma and arrives at the camp.
Obulejo knows the drill by now. Temporary shelter, processing, being assigned barracks with yet another group, and then starting camp life all over again.
Suddenly a familiar voice calls his name. Obulejo looks up. A boy is pushing his way through the new arrivals, waving and beckoning excitedly. It’s Ochan.
Trouble Tomorrow Page 10
