Trouble Tomorrow

by Terry Whitebeach

  ‘Welcome, brother!’ he calls.

  Two other Acholis are with him, Longoya and Ochaya, who were choir members in Dadaab. They too are grinning and reaching out to shake Obulejo’s hand. Then he spots Maku in the crowd as well.

  ‘What took you so long, stubborn boy?’ Maku asks him.

  Obulejo has no answer.

  Maku laughs and claps Obulejo on the back. ‘Well, now you are among friends at least.’

  ‘We can help each other,’ the others assert.

  Obulejo’s spirits lift at this unexpected welcome.

  It is not possible to survive alone in the refugee life, he knows. Friends are more precious than gold or diamonds.

  19

  THE NEXT FEW WEEKS pass slowly. Obulejo and his friends are eventually assigned a small plot of land on which to build a shelter. The first thing they decide is to pool their rations and endeavour to make their food last the full fortnight between distributions. They also decide to share income from any jobs they are able to secure.

  Another housemate, a few years older than Maku, joins them: Santino, a Ma’di man. So now they are six: three Ma’dis, Obulejo, Maku and Santino, and three Acholis, Ochan, Longoya and Ochaya. ‘The Six Musketeers,’ Ochan dubs them. ‘All for one and one for all!’ For Obulejo, as for them all, this group will be ‘family’ in Kakuma.

  The new household functions well, in the beginning. The Six Musketeers look out for each other and take turns to stand guard at night. They draw up a roster for cooking and housework, for collecting rations and standing in line for water. Maku and Ochan, both of whom hope to become priests, quickly become absorbed in church activities. Obulejo often joins them. Not only is he glad to see Father Angelo again, but the open-air church services also provide a familiar, safe setting, and music and dancing bring memories of home.

  Back home he was known as a quiet and considerate boy, so he makes sure he is polite and accommodating to those he is sharing the shelter with. He fulfils his duties quietly and unobtrusively and tries not to get in the way. Most of the others are older than Obulejo and when they are all together he feels a bit shy. It is only in the daily prayer and choir sessions that he feels confident to stand up and teach a song or to lead the singing, when invited.

  At night, the Musketeers chew over camp rumours, discuss hopes and fears and plans – for getting a job, for resettlement, for going home when all this is over. Sometimes they talk about home and their families, but not often, because then sadness descends too rapidly. Ochan and Maku sometimes talk about church matters. Obulejo says little; he has always been more of a listener than a talker. But he drinks in the conversation eagerly, in spite of his worries.

  Even when there is no paraffin for the lamp, the Musketeers sit in the stuffy darkness for hours, talking. Obulejo listens to the occasional shout of laughter from Maku and the Acholi twang of Ochan, Longoya and Ochaya’s speech, distinct from the familiar Ma’di rhythms of Maku and Santino. Ensconced in these gatherings Obulejo feels reassured and supported. It’s an echo of home. A time in which they can forget the forces arrayed against them.

  Sand and dust are big enemies, sifting in swathes through clothes and food and piling up against the walls of the shelters during the windstorms, blowing into faces. Everyone in Kakuma has red, inflamed eyes: children with gummed-up eyes play in the dust, babies stare through sticky lashes and elders sit in doorways with their backs to the whirling grit.

  With only the nylon sheeting of their shelter with its bush poles and palm fronds tied over the roof as protection against the unceasing desert winds, Obulejo suffers from itchy eyes like everyone else. Then a night comes when he reaches for his share of the kidney beans and finds he cannot see where the dish is.

  Finally his hand knocks against it and he manages to ladle out a portion. He is alarmed and embarrassed. Later that night when he tries to find his way out of the tent he bangs into one of the poles. He cannot see at all.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Ochan asks him.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Obulejo can feel panic rising. ‘I could see perfectly well during the day, but now I see nothing.’

  The others cluster round, trying to reassure him.

  ‘What is to become of me?’ he cries. ‘Ai-eeh!’

  The boys lead him back into the tent. ‘You must wait here. Stay still. And in the morning go and seek help in the clinic.’

  All night long the wind blows hard, and the boop boop boop of the tent fabric as it billows out and flaps back, over and over, keeps pace with the anxious bumping of Obulejo’s heart.

  Next morning, he can see again, although his eyes are still sore. After waiting in line at the clinic for several hours, he is examined by a doctor.

  ‘Night blindness,’ the doctor says, matter-of-factly. ‘Caused by lack of Vitamin A.’

  He hands Obulejo a paper twist of vitamin pills. ‘Take these and in a few days your sight will be restored.’

  Obulejo is hugely relieved.

  ‘And try to eat yellow and orange vegetables. That will stop the problem returning.’ The doctor sighs. Getting hold of fruit and vegetables in Kakuma is well nigh impossible, as he and Obulejo both know.

  When his sight is restored, worry still plagues Obulejo’s mind. How can I make sure of getting the right foods, to stop the blindness coming back? he wonders, anxiously. And what if I catch something even worse?

  If I don’t stay healthy I’ll never survive.

  Obulejo decides to try to revive the Hotel Bombay in Kakuma. He approaches the others in his shelter, one by one, to partner with him, but they all say no. Longoya has a bicycle which he uses to transport people, or lends out for a small fee, Ochaya collects parcels and supplies and stands in the ration queues for others in return for a small percentage and Ochan helps him when he is not involved with church activities. Maku and Santino are also busy: Santino is attending a camp school and Maku is teaching at the same school and assisting the priests.

  Obulejo is in the grip of the old dilemma. Be a compliant camp inmate, resigned to being simply one among the hundred and seventy thousand inmates of Kakuma who must queue for hours for poor food and dirty water that cause illness, or grasp whatever means he can to improve his lot. It’s obvious what he must do. Stealing is wrong – yes. Bullying people is wrong – of course. But without them he might not survive.

  The next day he singles out a target. A youth, not much older than himself, dressed in reasonably clean clothes, walking along a laneway, carrying a package. He must be one of the better-off inmates of Kakuma. The opportunity is too good to pass up. Obulejo quickens his step, till he is level with the young man, then reaches out and snatches the package.

  Before the young man can attempt to grab it back, Obulejo turns his face into a threatening mask. ‘Try it and I will beat you!’ he hisses.

  Then he turns tail and runs.

  Too easy, he thinks, as he examines the contents of the package and strides off to a distant marketplace to exchange the clothing in the parcel for meat and bread.

  Next, he repeats the old trick of causing a disturbance in the ration queue, so as to move himself further up the line, though he is careful not to recklessly draw the fire of the guards.

  Each day presents new opportunities: food stored in flimsy shelters, just waiting to be filched, articles of clothing and household utensils left unguarded for a second, jerrycans over-burdened women have stashed at the water station to collect later.

  Some things he sells, some he takes for his own use.

  Despite his fear of kidnappers he takes care to range widely through the camp on his looting forays, lest he be recognised by those nearest to his shelter. But no one enquires too closely into his activities. Everyone in Kakuma has learned not to ask too many questions, and the others in Obulejo’s household are busy with their own concerns.

  How else is a boy on his own to survive? he asks himself. And he’s not the only one using force, that’s for sure. The Kenyan guards the UNHCR employ to s
afeguard the inmates can be brutal and threatening at times. Plus they allow the Rebels free rein in the camp.

  It’s all very well for the Kenyans, Obulejo thinks angrily. They go back to their compounds at the end of each day and leave us at the mercy of marauders every night.

  Danger lurks in the most mundane tasks and situations. Violence simmers constantly. People are short-tempered, moody and irritable. Those who chew miraa or khat to block out reality in a narcotic dream are particularly prone to violent outbursts. Chewing the leaves is supposed to calm people, to take the edge off the nightmare of refugee life, but Obulejo can nearly always spot the users by their volatility and nervous excitability. They can swing from maundering passivity to screaming violence in the space of a few minutes.

  One morning, as Obulejo is on his way to fetch water he sees five boys standing talking, their jerrycans lined up across the path. Suddenly a bicycle comes hurtling along carrying two Somali boys, one steering and the other balanced on the handlebars. The bicycle swerves and collides with the chattering boys, sending their jerrycans flying. The Somali boys giggle, their laughter high-pitched and drug-shrill.

  ‘You useless dogs,’ the boys yell at the riders. ‘Why don’t you look where you’re going?’

  ‘Out of our way, scum!’ one of the Somali boys yells back. ‘Why are you blocking the path anyway?’ And he pushes the bike forward.

  ‘Get back!’ the Sudanese boys yell. One of them steps forward and grabs the handlebars. The other rider jumps off the bike and pulls out a knife. He lunges forward and plunges the knife into the boy’s thigh. The rest of the boys rush to their friend’s defence. The knife wielder strikes again. His victim falls to the ground. The screaming starts in earnest then.

  Obulejo stands by, clutching his empty jerrycans, not knowing what to do. People come running, then. Knives flash, pangas are wielded, spears thrown and clubs and fists brandished. Obulejo turns tail and runs. There will be no extra water for their household today.

  That afternoon, after prayers, people in the church square are talking about the incident. Fifty people were wounded and two killed. The main aggressors, it seems, were boy soldiers. No surprise there.

  ‘They’re a disgrace,’ someone murmurs.

  ‘They’re animals,’ another adds.

  ‘No one is safe around them.’

  ‘Especially our women and girls.’

  Father Angelo interrupts. ‘What else can you expect?’ he says. ‘They have been brought up without justice, under the rule of the gun. Their childhood has been stolen from them, their identity taken. Who has taught them culture or respect, or initiated them into manhood? What hope do they have for the future? They will never be able to raise a bride price.’

  There is a moment’s silence, before the debate starts up again. It rages furiously for several minutes. Father Angelo reminds them that all men are brothers, all the sons of God, and while no one openly contradicts the priest, Obulejo sees mutinous looks exchanged and hears sullen mutters. No one has a good word to say for the boy soldiers. When Father Angelo delivers the final blessing that day the response is somewhat muted.

  It’s all so hard to make sense of, Obulejo thinks as he settles down to sleep that night. Father Angelo’s words repeat themselves in his mind. ‘They have been brought up without justice and under the rule of the gun.’

  I have been brought up by a wise father, good uncles and caring older brothers, Obulejo admits, and yet I am turning to violence. Is this what war does to people?

  20

  OBULEJO STILL LOVES the times when he can join others to sing and dance and praise God. When he loses himself in the shared rhythms of the adungu dance, his inner conflicts are set aside and for long minutes he is once more the honest, upright obedient son his father taught him to be, and no longer the violent thief Kakuma has turned him into.

  But his favourite part of the day is when darkness falls and the members of his household sit together to talk, almost like real family. He feels closest to them at such times, and can almost forget the bad things he’s done during the day.

  One evening, Maku tells Obulejo about a course advertised at his school – an eight-week agricultural course run by the International Rescue Committee. It will be held after classes finish for the day, and is due to commence the following week.

  ‘I think it would be good for you to enrol,’ Maku says.

  ‘Maybe,’ Obulejo replies.

  Maku expresses surprise at Obulejo’s lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘If you complete that course you might be able to get a job in one of the GTZ plant nurseries,’ he says. ‘It would be something to be part of the seedling distribution project.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Obulejo replies again.

  He is not going to let his hopes rise unduly. In this refugee life he has learned that hope can be a dangerous drug. Anyway, it’s not agriculture he wants to learn about; it’s his intermediate certificate he wants to complete, then senior high. But with no money to buy paraffin for the lamp so he can read and study at night, and no money to buy books, any serious schooling is out of the question – just a dream – no longer real. The war has spoiled everything.

  He must trim his dreams to fit his circumstances.

  Stop wishing and face reality.

  ‘There is no cost for the course,’ Maku says, as if divining Obulejo’s thoughts.

  In spite of himself, Obulejo feels a small flame of hope begin to flicker. He savours the thought of being a student again. Perhaps he can even become a teacher himself one day! Then he pulls himself up short. The course is only two months long: what can he learn in eight weeks that will qualify him for anything, much less a teaching job?

  ‘No. It is impossible,’ he responds abruptly.

  He sees the surprised look on Maku’s face and feels ashamed. Is this how a good Ma’di boy should behave? Maku is offering advice as any older brother would and Obulejo is rudely refusing it. His father would be angry at this lack of respect.

  ‘Very well,’ Maku says quietly, ‘but you might give it some thought.’

  Obulejo spends that night in mental turmoil. It’s Maku’s fault, Obulejo tells himself. If Maku had reprimanded him, called him an ungrateful dog, a stupid boy, insisted he take his older brother’s advice, Obulejo might not have turned his face away from the opportunity and wouldn’t be lying here sleepless, with his stomach churning. He knows Maku is right. But why should he have to abandon his big dreams and settle for unwanted scraps?

  Is there any point? His feet are already on the slippery path he has chosen. Around and around the argument circles in his mind. The course might lead nowhere. There’s no guarantee it will gain him a job. Better to settle for the life he has. Anyway, how can I attend a course unwashed and in rags? he fumes. I’ve got more chance of surviving as a thief!

  It’s all very well for Maku, Obulejo thinks. The church will take care of him. Obulejo knows it’s not that simple, nor is it even true, but it doesn’t make him feel any less resentful. As I have been robbed, so I will continue to rob others, he concludes. It is the only way open to me now.

  Surprisingly, Maku does not mention the course again but from that evening Obulejo feels that Maku is cooler to him. Perhaps he imagines it, but it seems as if a drop of poison as fatal as that traditionally smeared on Ma’di arrows is now infecting their household. And it is all his fault.

  Uneasy months pass. Obulejo becomes an adept thief, more watchful, swift and devious, and much more aggressive. More like the boy soldiers, he realises with dismay. He understands better now how they feel – having their families and childhood stolen from them and being forced to kill others and then dumped into this worthless ragtag refugee existence. No wonder they stop at nothing – even the guards’ Kalashnikovs. Not that he can waste pity on those boys; they would kill him without a second thought.

  He tries not to think about what he has become, but even as he enjoys the extra rations his thieving gains him and is able to replace his
threadbare T-shirt with one of better quality after a particularly successful raid, his disquiet grows. The camp, with its nightmare version of everyday life, is turning him into someone he no longer recognises.

  His household is beginning to change too. At first the six of them shared everything and would spend long hours together each night. But now they all seem to be going their separate ways. The Musketeers’ bonds are loosening.

  Santino has a girlfriend and spends most of his time with her. Obulejo is jealous, although he knows that most of the Ma’di girls who gather for prayers and hymn-singing would not look twice at a ragged boy like himself. Besides, Santino is older and a man. And it is not so much Santino’s girlfriend that makes Obulejo envious – Longoya and Ochaya have girlfriends too, laughing silly girls who peep coyly up at their Acholi beaus from under lowered lashes – it is because Santino is able to go to school. His family located him through the Red Cross and managed to transfer money to him so he can finish high school.

  It’s not fair. Santino has his family to help him and a girlfriend to look after him but Obulejo has nothing. His thieving might get him extra food but it doesn’t get him the family he longs for or the education he craves. He tries to talk to Ochan about how desperately he wants to go back to school, but Ochan just tells him to trust God. What good will that do, Obulejo thinks sourly. God has forgotten him. Nothing will ever change.

  Then suddenly it does.

  Obulejo spots a notice advertising a second course in agriculture. The notice is attached to the perimeter wall of the school compound, which he often passes on his way to fetch water. He reads the notice and goes to turn away, but his legs seem to move of their own will into the school compound. They carry him straight to the admin office and within minutes he has filled out an application form.

  As he retraces his steps, he begins to question his impetuous action. Eight weeks of farm studies will get him nowhere, and going to class every day will leave him less time to search for food. What’s more, he will have to get up before dawn to collect water for showering and washing his clothes for class. And what about the chores at home? There are already arguments about those.