‘What is your problem?’ he asked with authority.
‘I came with my wife, now he says she is his. It is my sweat that gave her to me,’ the tall one explained to the chief.
‘No! Last time I gave him the wife that I got in the Gabale village. I had three. We agreed that the next time he got a wife, she would be mine for one week. Now he refuses to give me the girl he got today,’ said the shorter one.
‘Where is the girl?’ asked the chief.
‘In my hut,’ said the taller soldier.
‘Bring her here.’
Two of the chief’s men went to fetch the girl.
‘Do you have a wife?’ the chief asked the taller man.
‘Yes, I do. But last time, when I came with three, I gave him one.’
‘No! The one he gave me didn’t come back when she went to fetch water.’
‘Okay, what you have to do is this: as your friend doesn’t have a wife, you give him this one. He has to pay you. Next time, he has to do his best to find you one.’
The tall soldier left muttering to himself. The two soldiers who had gone to fetch the girl came back with her.
It was Néné. She was to be exchanged like a cheap piece of goods.
Risto’s heart began beating louder than a tam-tam. He felt like jumping up and tearing the chief and his men apart, but he knew he was powerless before such cruel people. Out of fear, he swallowed his tears.
Néné was barefoot. She wore a short skirt and a vest that showed her young breasts visibly pointed in front. They looked like her sleeping clothes. She was weeping, and kept wiping her tears with her hands. She stood in front of the group of soldiers like a little chick in front of elephants. She was still a little chick, a very small girl.
‘I don’t want to hear your noise anymore. Take!’ The chief pushed Néné towards the shorter soldier as if he was handing out a toy. And the soldier left with her.
‘Eh, Kadogo!’ the chief turned to the boys huddling on the ground, addressing them with the dreaded word for child soldiers. A Swahili word, meaning ‘small’, it held a more frightening meaning in the rebel movements and in the militias. Kadogo were child soldiers trained for one thing: killing. And their killing was brutal and heartless.
‘Don’t dream of going back to your villages; we will enjoy the work together here. We have a lot of things to do. You will have food for free; if you want women, you will have them for free. Life is great this side. We will train you and very soon you will be young lions. We have some of your friends here, who came from other villages, and now they have become commanders of great missions. They have found the life they dreamed of. Don’t worry, you will enjoy this place.’
He stared at the boys, trying to look each one in the eyes. There were eight of them, six who were younger than eighteen, and another two who looked older, maybe in their twenties.
‘Dare to run away from this place, we will cut off your running legs and your ears. Never ever try that!’ he emphasised. ‘No one has ever escaped; if you try, you will be killed. You follow the rules of your commanders here. This is a military command; there will be no objections.’ He looked at the boys with fierce eyes.
‘Who among you knows how to use a gun? Who knows?’ No one’s hand went up.
‘Right, you will be trained. Give them meat to cook,’ and he left.
Risto was in pieces; his heart was consumed by a volcano. Why didn’t he stand up to the chief? Why didn’t he speak or fight for Néné? He had promised to fight for her, whatever it took; now she was in the captivity of lions. He had betrayed her. He felt he was a worthless coward. He wept inside. Why didn’t I speak? Was I afraid for a life that will not be worth living? The life of a child soldier? Terrorising people like myself every day? Risto kept asking silent, agonising questions. He felt that he should do something, but what?
His cousin Benny was nearby. They hadn’t exchanged a word since they had been kidnapped. Risto looked over at Benny; his tears had drawn a highway down his cheeks, running one behind the other and disappearing in his half-open mouth. His pain was written on his face. He must have been thinking about his parents. Maybe asking himself why he had gone to spend the night in Risto’s hut; if he had stayed home, maybe he would be sitting in the village at that moment, telling people what he had heard.
Risto’s thoughts went back to Néné, the men fighting for her like wolves fighting for prey, her body and soul in the hands of a devil who was happy to take pleasure from the anguish of a small girl. He pictured her face, he knew she was crying. He could not stop himself imagining what she was enduring. Had she asked for forgiveness for sins she had never committed, begging the man to free her? Had she fought until she had no power left? Had she cried to heaven and earth, and cursed them when there was no answer?
He thought about her big, dark-brown eyes, her shyness with men, how shy she would be in front of that cruel man who had declared her his wife. Her vivid smile would be gone now, along with her virginity. Naked in a small hut in front of a naked man almost three times her age. A man who had barely washed for months, a man without a heart or a soul that could feel the misery of a young girl who had never before known a man.
Risto knew Néné would be asking herself which cursed wind had blown her to Bugobe. He knew that she had chosen to come to Bugobe because of him. If she had stayed in town, or gone to her other grandparents, even if she had been taken by the rebels, her parents would have gone to see the governor or the commanders, paid money to ransom her. But here, there was no such option. There was a chief, but everyone did what they wanted; and if a man quarrelled with his comrades, he would go off and start his own militia group, taking more children from the villages and making them his disciples. So Néné was in the hands of an evil man who didn’t have to report to anyone, not even to God. He was a devil, and in his small hut he had made his own hell for Néné. And it was all Risto’s fault.
Benny still sat near his cousin. His tears had dried. It was obvious he had been crying since they were taken from the village; his swollen eyes showed as much. Risto guessed at what was on Benny’s mind. He knew the forest very well, so he was probably thinking about running away. It was a crazy idea. These people were cruel, as careless as wild animals. To them killing was simply a game. He saw how they had killed the young boy who had said he was tired. The soldier had killed him and no one among the group had even asked why. It was as though nothing had happened, as though the man who had executed the boy had no feelings of regret.
If Benny were caught, he would be tortured; the soldiers had promised to cut the ears and legs off anyone who tried running away.
Long ago, Risto’s father had considered this. One night before the usual family prayers, he had told his children that if at school, the rebels kidnapped them and forced them to join their army, they shouldn’t refuse or run away. They should rather first agree and show willingness to join. Then after they had built up some trust with the rebels, they should start plotting to flee. It was good advice for Benny, Risto thought.
Risto’s mind was diving into deep thoughts when he felt Benny nudging him. A group of soldiers, young and old, were coming out of the forest. They stank with a rotten smell; they had not washed for months. ‘Ah, Kadogo!’ they cheered as they passed.
The boys still waited for the meat that had been promised by the chief, when more soldiers arrived. They seemed maddened by an unknown drug. This group of soldiers carried heavy sticks, guns, machetes and other dangerous and unusual weapons; they sang in a frenzy, and danced with rage.
‘Stand up! Stand up, Kadogo! Stand up, sons of bitches!’ a few soldiers shouted as they hit the captives with their sticks. The beating intensified as the soldiers kept on screaming at the boys.
‘Two lines quickly, two lines, I say!’ one of the soldiers shouted as he beat Benny’s back with his stick. The boys quickly formed themselves into two lines, while the soldiers began singing and jumping about. As the boys did not know the songs, they clap
ped their hands and danced uncertainly, following the soldiers’ movements. The songs had little meaning, and were mostly full of swearing, except for a few that spoke about fighting hard, till their last drop of blood, until the country is freed, until their country is given back to them.
Now and then, one of the soldiers would jump forward and brandish his gun in the air. He would shout words in a foreign language, then crawl on the ground like a soldier on the battlefield; he would make as if shooting an enemy, and then his fellows would shout with joy, and the man would start jerking around and then dance with his gun pointing in the air before going back to the others. Their dancing and singing made them drunk with power, especially those who were hallucinating from the cannabis they had taken.
Suddenly, with a shout from the soldier who had called for two lines, every soldier stood still, firearm upright, silent and listening.
‘Lieutenant!’ the man screamed.
‘Yes, my commander!’ A man rushed forward and stood at attention in front of him, firearm still held upright.
‘You will train these Kadogo.’
‘Yes, commander.’
‘It’s your duty to give them the hearts of lions.’
‘Yes, commander!’
‘At ease.’ The commander, whom the boys came to know as General, left with two men on either side of him.
The soldiers told the boys to take off their shirts; they were given to one soldier to keep. Before they would be given food, they were told to start jogging. They were taken to an open space that had been created by hacking down the forest trees and bushes. The boys were told that they were receiving REI training, the same as for the feared French Foreign Legion, and that they had to imitate the leg movements of their trainers. They went left and right, they did the half-turn, they learned how to stand to attention and salute, and to shout fiercely at a person standing an inch from them.
Hours passed, and still the meat promised by the chief was not yet there; meanwhile the running and singing intensified. As the boys ran, those who could no longer run fast were beaten. One of the boys could no longer stand it; his body had weakened, his hunger was unbearable, he fell on the ground. One of the trainers beat him, but not even this could raise him to his feet. This was seen as a sign of disobedience.
‘You are a young lion!’ the trainer screamed. ‘You should prove this to everyone. Boy, military service is never sweet, it is always bitter. Son of a bitch, your mother is not here.’ He kept screaming at the exhausted boy as he tried to force himself to stand.
‘I close my eyes, I open them, you should be running with your peers!’
But still the boy could not rise. And so, an order was given to each boy to go find a stick in the forest and come back within five minutes.
‘I mean a stick that can correct a disobedient boy,’ the trainer stressed.
When they returned, the boys were ordered to strike their friend on the ground twenty-five times each. Risto wanted to plead for mercy for this boy, but he imagined what his own fate would be if he did so. Instead, he did as he was commanded. As the boy lay on his stomach, Risto gave him twenty-five blows, this village boy, his countryman. He was the sixth to do so. By then the boy had no strength to scream; he hardly moved as the blows fell. Risto imagined his pain, his suffering, and felt the guilt of beating a brother, an innocent boy. The eighth boy in line said the victim was dying, and refused to beat him further. The fierce eyes of the lieutenant shone, and like thunder coming with no announcement, he punched the refusing boy, felling him to the ground. Then he took a gun from one of his soldiers, and bayoneted the refuser in his back where he lay. He called for a machete, and commanded each of the boys to cut off one of their friend’s body parts.
‘Do as I say, or your friends will do it on your body,’ he said, laughing, as if torture and death brought him a lot of joy.
Risto was the unlucky one to be given the machete first; his peers looked at him with pleading eyes. He knew the lieutenant was not playing games, that he would be the one to be cut in pieces if he didn’t do as he was commanded. The bayoneted boy was screaming, begging for mercy, when Risto took the machete.
That night, the boys were praised by the soldiers and called by their new name, young lions. But they could not shake the shame, guilt and self-hatred they felt. The first boy to be beaten also died in the night, and the helpless killers were left to mourn and bury their dead. In just one day in the forest, they had become demons, killers of the most gruesome kind.
Stomachs were still empty the following day but this didn’t stop the soldiers from waking the boys at 5am. The promised meat had never arrived. Instead, each of the boys had been given three large cooked bananas alongside a few beans on a plate. They had built their own sleeping shelters with sticks and wild thatch from the forest.
As the whistle blew, each boy forgot his empty stomach and tired body, and went running at his wildest speed. Two lines formed quickly, songs and dances followed. The boys were still without their shirts. Razorblades were given to a lucky few, pieces of broken glass to others; these were to be used for haircuts. A bit of soap foam was used on the head to speed up the process. The cutting was done by the trainees, one on one. There was blood, pain, but no crying; punishment awaited whomever shed tears.
As they stumbled around their makeshift camp, being taken through different training activities and duties, the rest of the soldiers enjoyed a kind of festival. Cows were being slaughtered at a fast rate, Congolese rumba and Ndombolo music could be heard from every corner, men were playing cards, bottles of Primus and Amstel beer and stereo players at their feet; others giggled as they related their killing and raping exploits to their friends.
The boys had gathered that their training was to be swift and intense, as there was a high risk of attacks by rival militias and other rebel movements. So they had little rest, little food and little water; they went shirtless and barefoot in a damp tropical forest populated by mosquitos of every kind. Escaping fatal punishment was no guarantee of survival in a forest where malaria or typhus could knock one down at any time.
And indeed they experienced fatal punishments. One could be beaten to death for a mere mistake. Risto had been beaten for accidentally pointing his stick, which represented a firearm, at one soldier.
‘Son of bitch, you want to kill me!’ the soldier screamed as he released his blow in Risto’s face.
‘Sorry, sorry, I wasn’t—’ Before he could finish, another blow followed.
Risto did not cry. They had been told that they were not children, therefore no tear should ever be seen on their faces. Instead, Risto saluted the soldier and left, blood weeping from his arm.
Another rookie received fifty lashes for calling a captain a lieutenant. He was first harangued before being beaten by the captain himself.
For each slight mistake, there were punishments: punishment for not standing straight in line, punishment for still chewing after hearing the whistle, punishment for a weak saluting position, punishment for this and that – and all these could lead to serious injury or death. But Risto endured and lived through them day by day.
There were harsher punishments the day of shooting training. Fortunately for the rookie boys, they were not the guinea pigs used for the exercise that day. Instead, to their horror and repugnance, the chief commander brought them three captured poachers.
But first, they had learned the five critical positions for shooting. It was the first day they had been allowed to touch a firearm. They looked at it scrupulously, as they knew only too well that it was a deadly machine. At that point, the training shifted to French, as the trainers said they had also been taught in French.
‘This is the best inheritance we got from our Belgian colonisers; thank their bloody asses for this toy. Without them, we would never have learned how to use this toy!’ One trainer screamed these words as if he was drunk.
‘Kadogo, you will thank us for teaching you this skill,’ said the other trainer.
‘The skill of killing,’ the one who spoke like a drunkard added with laughter.
There were many beatings that day as nervousness shook the boys’ bodies. They knew the damage a gun could cause, and the vicious and eternal stamp that comes from using one in their culture, so they trembled as they touched it, as they learned how to manoeuvre and master it. The roaring of the trainers made them tremble even more.
‘ONE. Position du corps!’ The trainer would scream these words, and a trainee boy would kneel down or take one step forward.
‘TWO. Tenue de l’arme!’ The boy would grip the gun tightly.
‘THREE. Viser et épauler!’ The boy would pick his target, looking through the sight.
‘FOUR. Couper la respiration!’ The boy would stop breathing as he focused on his target.
‘FIVE. Action du doigt sur la détente. Tirer!’ And the boy would shoot at a wooden figure.
It was while they were still learning the possible positions in which they could hold the gun that the chief commander, the General as they called him, arrived with a group of soldiers who were dragging three bleeding men. The three men were naked, and one was still holding a trap. These men were villagers who, because of the increased insecurity and militia looting of farms in the surrounding areas, had gone into poaching as a means of surviving. And indeed one of the three men confirmed this in his testimony when he was interrogated by the General. He said they had been setting traps for mountain gorillas when the soldiers had seized them.
The speaker, who looked to be in his late forties, cried like a little child as he swore he was innocent of any spying. He poached for the survival of his family, he said. He confessed that he had foreign buyers who requested live baby gorillas and even dead gorillas, and this had brought them to this part of the forest.
The Great Agony & Pure Laughter of the Gods Page 7
